If It Makes You Happy(101)

How could he, at any point, think I don’t have feelings for him?

I have feelings.

Happiness.

Longing.

Frustration.

The tightness in my chest is so all-consuming that it feels like I’m getting shoved deeper and deeper into a six-foot grave I dug for myself.

Oh, I have feelings for him all right.

I have—

The next thought makes me freeze.

I think I might be in l—

The whole room shifts, and I’m a little dizzy. My fork clatters to my plate, and the lump in my throat is so heavy that I feel like I might choke.

Sara’s hand touches my forearm. “Shells, you okay?” she whispers.

Beside me, Cliff’s eyebrows tilt inward. His lips part. I jerk my eyes back to my plate with untouched cranberry sauce and potato salad.

“I’m fine,” I murmur.

I grip my skirt in my fists as conversation passes in the blink of an eye. I don’t know when lunch transforms to the late afternoon, but eventually, I rise from the table to put out dessert.

Apple crumble cake, chocolate-filled croissants, and pecan pie. Cinnamon rolls oozing with icing. Pumpkin cheesecake. Only one person could have baked all this.

I find Cliff staring as he crosses the living room with a cup of coffee in his hand. He laughs with my dad, then Lisa and George, and the guests. His blue eyes sparkle when he finds something extra funny, and the smile reaches the little crinkles beside his eyes. Other people laugh with him, like he’s a battery of energy for everyone here.

I grit my teeth and curl my lips in. My chest tightens. My fists clench.

And all at once, I know it as clear as day.

I love him.

I love him.

Sarcastic, floppy-haired Clifford Burke.

I love the man I—damn it—set up with my sister. The man who told me he’s sorting through his feelings for me, and I was too stubborn to address them. The man who called me in a panic when he lost his girls. The man who depended on me, who gave me a bed under his roof, even when we hadn’t talked for days.

I love this man.

I pinch my eyes closed. And instead of feeling elated—I’m in love—I’m angry. I don’t know if it’s with myself or him. For making me fall in love with him so suddenly that I realize it on Thanksgiving, of all times. I figure out I love this stupid man when he packs away the remainder of the turkey into Tupperware containers and slides them into the inn’s fridge, taking none for himself because, damn it, he’s a good guy.

I’m in love with a good guy.

I’m seething in the corner as he hugs my dad and my sister goodbye. I grit my teeth when he walks over, tensing his jaw and reluctantly pulling me into a hug.

He’s warm. He smells like baked bread and vanilla and cinnamon, but underneath all that is the citrus. The real Cliff I know. Me. Not anyone else.

I’m so angry that I could be split from the inside out, and when he lets go quicker than he did for anyone else, it only infuriates me more.

I stare as Cliff leaves through the back door. I watch with narrowed eyes as the chill from outside winds through the kitchen, sending goose bumps over my skin. I focus on the blinds as they snap shut on the glass when he closes the door.

I stand there for too long, focusing on the bare trees outside. The dead grass.

I should probably give Cliff space. Let him heal from my mistakes.

But I’ve never been that kind of woman.

So, I pass by Sara, rip open the back door without a jacket or a care, and storm my way through the setting sun, right over to Cliff’s house.





CHAPTER 33





Michelle




I don’t knock on the door. I haven’t knocked on Cliff’s back door in more than a month, and I’m not starting now.

Cliff isn’t in the kitchen, so I stride past the dining room and into the dark living room, where only a dim lamp illuminates Cliff reading on the couch. He twists around, eyes wide as he takes me in.

I stand there like a statue. Air whirs through vents. The house settles with a low creak. The couch cushions whine as he leans forward and sets his book down on the coffee table.

He checks his watch. That beautiful leather watch on his irritatingly gorgeous wrist.

“Why are you here already, Michelle?”

“I’m talking to you. Like we normally do. Like friends do.”

He blinks. “Okay, and what are we talking about?”

“I’m irritated.” I close my eyes. “I’m so irritated.”

His head jerks back. “Irritated?”

“Yes.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re frustrating.”

His eyebrows furrow, and guilt rolls through me.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

He scoffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Last I checked, you’re the one here, picking a fight.”

I pinch my eyes closed. “I wouldn’t if you weren’t so infuriating.”

“You keep saying that, but you’re not clarifying,” he answers through a tense jaw.

“And now you’re angry with me.”

Cliff slowly stands from the couch, running his tongue over his teeth and shaking his head.

“Yeah,” he confirms, blinking through thoughts again, as if trying to center himself in this new argument. “I guess I am now.”