If It Makes You Happy(11)

The man’s gaze finally meets mine, and suddenly, my shoes feel rooted to the ground. My stomach barrels down to the dirt.

This is the man from Mom’s wake.

That same sensation—the feeling of being seen, our eyes snagging—overtakes me once more. His eyes scan my own before tracing over me—from my cheeks to my lips and farther, to my fist clutching Rocket’s collar.

Closer now, I can see his eyes are a light blue, reminiscent of a summer day devoid of clouds. Bright. Happy. Nothing like today’s overcast sky, a day almost filtered in sepia from all the falling leaves. Faint freckles dot the bridge of his nose while the nose itself sits slightly crooked, like maybe he’s been punched once or twice in his life. A small, faded scar adorns his upper lip, probably confirming my theory. But aside from that, his cheeks are smooth-shaven, and that little crease beside his mouth is just how I remember it. Handsome. Like he’s on the edge of a laugh.

“He’s so soft!”

We both dart our eyes back to the little girl. She pushes her arms through the gate toward Rocket. I pull his collar back right as he jerks forward. The man grips a fistful of the girl’s overalls, pulling her up in the air. She giggles uncontrollably.

He spins her to face him. “What did I say about petting dogs you don’t know?”

“Don’t do it,” she answers through laughter.

His mouth tips into a lazy smile. His full bottom lip crooks up on one side more than the other, exposing a sliver of straight white teeth. That little crease deepens as he chuckles with her.

“Exactly.” Gently, he places her back down and jokingly says, “Stay.”

The man’s eyes find me again, sticking me in place once more.

“You know,” he says, running a free palm through his hair, “I’m not exactly familiar with how to handle someone kidnapping my child.”

“What?” The word comes out sharper than I intended it to.

“Should I call to report you and your”—his eyes trail down to Rocket—“attack dog?”

He smirks.

It’s a joke.

He’s joking.

Dumbfounded by the whole suddenly talking with a neighbor scenario—which was not on my to-do list today—I respond with, “He doesn’t normally like people.”

The man clicks his tongue and squints playfully. “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

I close my eyes, cringing at myself with a nod. “Yep, I just registered that.”

He chuckles as the girl reaches out again.

“Can I pet him?”

Rocket sniffs closer. Can I sniff her?

I finally notice crumbs littering the girl’s overalls pocket. I sigh. “She must have food. That’s why he’s sniffing her.”

“Ah.” The man takes a step closer and closer, one after another, until I mirror his steps backward. Once he’s close enough to touch, I bumble out, “Wait, what are you—”

Then he reaches past me. He bends at the knees and picks up a bright pink plastic lunch box from the ground, which I completely missed in my fumbling to get out here. Smacked on the front is an amalgamation of sparkling colors, bright stars, and a unicorn with a rainbow mane.

He pats the lunch box. “Well, it’s either bread or drugs in here. Which do you reckon?”

My head jerks back. “Why would drugs be in there?”

He shrugs. “Maybe he’s a drug dog.”

“Rocket’s not a drug dog.”

“Hey, you can tell me if he has a drug problem.”

The girl giggles. Maybe she’s used to this weird man’s charades, but I’m far from laughing.

“That’s not—” I clamp my mouth shut in quiet frustration.

“You’re telling me drug dogs don’t have a drug problem?”

He pops open the lunch box. Leftover bread crust topples out. Rocket promptly gobbles it off the grass, sending the girl into another laughing fit.

The man cocks his head to the side, strands of hair falling with the motion.

“I’ve been planning to meet you,” he says. “You’re Sara, right?”

For some reason, that jump-starts my nerves once more.

“No,” I say. “And how do you know—”

“I was told Birdie’s daughter would be here to—”

“I am her other—”

“She was going to take over—”

“I’m here to run the—”

There’s a beat of silence where, finally, neither of us talks over the other.

I exhale. “I’m running the inn now.”

He squints. “But your name isn’t Sara?”

“No, I’m the other daughter.”

He lifts his eyebrows as his lips kick up into a smile. “Right.”

Our staring contest is broken by a loud gasp on his side of the bushes.

“Shut. Up. Are you near a dog?” The teen I saw in the kitchen window crosses the property line, the untied shoelaces on her Converses snapping on the walkway.

“I’m allowed to be near dogs,” the man counters with a laugh. It’s the type of laugh that seems like it’s been on the edge of his teasing lips this whole time. Like it belongs in that little crease beside his mouth.