If It Makes You Happy(100)

Even in the short time I’ve known Emily and Brittany, it feels wrong that the girls aren’t here for a holiday. It’s only been twenty-four hours since one of them ran through my kitchen and stole a banana or a cup of coffee, but I’m already missing the patter of little shoes and snapping of sneaker shoelaces.

“Who’s bringing the burnt turkey?” Sara asks with a teasing grin.

“Burnt? Lord, no. Cliff is in charge of the turkey,” Lisa says. “And last year, it was the best damn turkey I’d ever eaten. Even your mother didn’t mind sacrificing tradition.”

Leave it to Cliff to conquer the hardest item on the menu. And for my mom to accept it.

I take the last few dishes into the dining room. We installed the table’s center leaf to gain extra room. With the inn guests joining and too many people in Copper Run, we needed as much space as we could get. It’s already crowded and stuffy in the house, but everyone seems too distracted by the TV and Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade to care.

“Oh my God, is that the Backstreet Boys?” Sara says, scrambling to the coffee table and clicking the remote.

The volume grows louder with sounds of the boy band singing. I smile to myself. It’s windy in New York—more than usual—and everyone is bundled in coats and hats. But I know Brittany is jumping with joy to see them anyway.

“Hey now, look at that turkey!”

I turn at the sound of George’s impressed voice. His arms are outstretched as he approaches the dining room threshold. Standing in the doorway with a tinfoil-covered pan is Cliff.

He looks so undeniably Cliff. His jaw is freshly shaven. His hair is a little more windswept, forcing small strands onto his forehead and the little hidden specks of gray along his temple to peep out. His heavy jacket is pulled over a yellow-and-orange sweater, and that ever-familiar grin pulls up one side of his mouth.

Lisa takes the turkey from him, and I stare as Cliff shucks off his coat. His broad baker’s shoulders fill out the sweater so well. He pushes up the sleeves. His strong, veiny forearm leads down to his watch-covered wrist and long fingers with that faded burn on the back of his hand.

I finally look back up, and his blue eyes are already locked on mine. My feet won’t budge, and my heart is only racing faster.

“Hey, Michelle,” he says. It’s stiff. Unfamiliar. His forced smile is even worse.

“How are the girls?”

“They called me this morning. Brittany was very excited about the parade.” Cliff breaks our stare, looking beyond me at the TV. His smile fades.

More people filter in until, eventually, Cliff stands in the corner with Lars, hands tucked in his pockets as they discuss news or maybe the parade or something. I feel so small, so insignificant, being so far away from him.

Lisa claps her hands. “Everyone ready?”

There’s a humming assent and additional claps.

“Shells, mind turning off the TV?” Dad asks.

I do, but I don’t miss Cliff’s face falling when it clicks off. I wonder if he was hoping to see his daughters. I almost turn it on again, but Sara steals the remote and pushes me toward the table. She pulls out a chair and sits me right next to Cliff.

He side-eyes me with a wry smile, shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“Hey.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The fan of wrinkles doesn’t crease even a little. His words are cordial. Nice.

We dig into the food, passing around small dishes between conversation—though none between Cliff and me.

I’m quiet. I’ve always been quieter in crowds, but I watch Cliff carry on seamless discussions about sports or books because that’s the man he is. I wish I were half as approachable.

I stare as his lips press against his water glass. I admire the bob in his throat when he swallows. He laughs at something someone said, and his casual smile shows slivers of his white teeth.

I inhale and exhale.

“Have you ever been to the parade? Shelly?”

I look up at the sound of Lars’s voice. Half the table is staring at me. Heat travels from my chest up to my throat. There’s no way my face isn’t beet red. My dad has his fork half raised to his mouth.

“Oh,” I answer. “No. I live in Seattle, not New York.”

“And are you excited to go back to the city?” George interjects.

I hesitate, and I can’t help but steal another look at Cliff. His jaw is set as he stares down at his forkful of mashed potatoes, as if waiting for my answer. But he won’t look at me.

Irritation spreads through my chest and down to my fingers.

Why the hell won’t he look at me?

I smile with pretend pride. “Yes,” I answer. “Of course.”

“Wow. It must be a great life there,” Lars marvels.

“It is. I love it.”

“You would never know it though,” Sara chimes in. “She’s a natural at running this place.”

George raises his wineglass. “Hear, hear!”

I manage a weak, affirming laugh. But it drifts to nothing when Cliff also politely raises his glass.

My heart stops as he finally looks at me—finally gives me a smile, one that isn’t entirely forced, but maybe sad—before drinking his water, then setting it back down.

And that’s all the acknowledgment I get from him. Of course it is. Because I did what I always do. I tried to hold everyone in my life with a tight, ruling fist. I can do that at work—it’s why I’m great at what I do. It’s why I love it. But I can’t control someone like Cliff. He’s the least influenceable person in the world.