If It Makes You Happy(10)

I breathe in. I breathe out. But no amount of air will dissipate the tightening in my chest.

I want to be here, I have to remind myself.

I take a seat on the edge of the bed and wind my palms together.

I chose this.

“You really don’t have to do this,” Sara told me before I left, holding my bag close to her chest like a bargaining chip. “I can put off graduation.”

I gently took the bag from her. “Sara, if you argue with me one more time, I’m gonna burn the inn down instead.”

“I promise I’ll move there when I’m done,” she quickly interjected.

“I know you will. But until then, I’ve got it covered.”

I didn’t tell Sara about the extended leave I was taking from work. She didn’t need to know.

Sara grinned. “I’ve got a whole speech prepared. Don’t underestimate me.” She went quiet for a moment before adding, “Really though, you have a super-adult advertising job. And a super-adult life.”

“And I’ve got it figured out.”

I glanced into my living room. Dad sat in the recliner, his sock-covered feet on the extended footrest.

“Take care of him, all right?”

Sara grinned, joking, “He’ll be partying with the college kids in no time.”

I gave a weak smile.

Sara jerked me into a hug, whispering, “Call me once a week. At a minimum.”

Mom gave the inn to Sara, but my little sister has one semester left in art school, and she’s already taken a couple of gap years. Dad can barely get out of bed, let alone run the love of his life’s dream business. So, I’m doing what I always do—whatever needs to be done. Which means running this place until Sara graduates in December.

My company gave me a small leave of absence—probably because they felt bad about both my mom and my untimely divorce, but mostly, they let me leave because they had to. Nobody else knows how to do my job the way I do.

I knew what havoc would ensue if I came here, and I’ve already gotten three pages on my beeper because of it. My company put Mark in charge of my main account. It’s a terrible decision because Mark is about as competent as a wet paper bag, but his golf handicap is thirteen, so that’s all that matters.

I peer out the lace-curtained window to my left.

Great.

My room directly faces my next-door neighbor’s kitchen, where a teenage girl with stringy blond hair bops in front of the sink to the loud music I heard earlier.

I close the curtains and unpack my suitcase, tucking clothes neatly into drawers and hanging my nicer shirts in the closet—stopping short when I see that a lone wooden rod is the only space I have. Slung over a hanger on the end is a plum leather clasp purse. I run my fingers over the long crossbody strap. Mom’s artsy dresses matched Sara’s style, but sometimes Mom’s tastes overlapped with mine. Only sometimes.

I lay the purse on the bed and transfer my makeup and wallet from my large bag to this one. Not like I’ll need the big one anymore anyway.

I go back to the kitchen and brew evening coffee. As the coffee maker gurgles, I peer into the cabinets, spotting chipped mugs and crinkled bags of flour. I’ll have to go shopping.

Once the coffee’s done, I take it upstairs and sort through the guest rooms and the hall closets, then head back down to the parlor and front desk, trying to get the lay of the land. I find a black three-ring binder on the front desk. In the clear front slip is a tan paper with my mom’s loopy cursive.

Bird & Breakfast Information

I carry it into the kitchen with my coffee, looking out the back door, expecting to see Rocket’s bored face, but—

At the edge of the yard, a little girl’s arms poke through the picket fence, wrapping around Rocket’s black-and-white fur. His snout is buried in her neck. And she’s squealing.

Oh God.

I drop the binder and my coffee, barreling through the back door.

“Rocket!” I scream.

My heart races. My nerves kick into my throat. I know he wouldn’t hurt her. He’s stubborn, and he doesn’t listen, but he’s not violent.

He’s not violent.

My chunky loafers kick up crunched leaves and dead grass. I grip his collar and pull him back.

Once they’re separated, I realize the girl isn’t screaming. She’s giggling. Her cute button nose scrunches up in overwhelming laughter. Her curly blond hair, held up high with a scrunchie and little sparkling butterfly clips, bounces with every breath.

“He likes me!” she exclaims.

A car door slams shut, pulling my attention to the red truck idling in my neighbor’s driveway. Heavy boots fall against the pavement, and then someone breaks between the rosebushes separating the inn’s small lot from my neighbor’s house.

“Brittany?!”

Emerging from the other side is the most concerned-looking man I’ve ever seen. Dark, furrowed eyebrows pinch in. The edges of his mouth tug down into a twitchy, exaggerated frown.

I feel like I’ve been caught, but I’m not sure why.

“What’s going on here?” he asks, and his formerly shaking voice is now flustered. His brown hair sticks out where the tree limbs dragged strands back, and even his orange flannel, rolled up at the sleeves, is loose around his veined forearms, like they were pushed up in a rush.