If It Makes You Happy(119)

I point a finger. “Is that for me?”

“Merry Christmas,” she says.

I sit up and bring the mug into my hands.

A CD case cracks open to the right of me. I find Tracy placing what is most likely the Billboard Greatest Christmas Hits on the open stereo slot and sliding it back in. For sixteen solid years, we’ve listened to it every Christmas morning without fail.

“Dad, do you think Michelle and Rocket can come over?” Brittany asks.

I almost choke on my own air. Tracy’s head jerks to me. Even the beginning of “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby can’t make her expression pleasant.

It’s hard to make out her expression without my glasses, but I think I see a single eyebrow rise in question. When you raise children together for as long as we have, you form a type of unspoken parent language. A few years ago, I might have been able to decipher exactly what she’s thinking. Now it’s a shot in the dark.

The front door slams inward, sending a snow chill into the living room as Carol thumps her boots on the welcome mat. A thick scarf is pulled up to her ears, and her woolly coat is covered in fluffy snow.

“Is that coffee for me?” she asks through chattering teeth, kicking the door closed behind her and snatching the mug from my hands.

I blink to myself, but I’m too sleepy to question it.

“Em, is there any coffee left?” I ask, swinging my legs over the side of the couch.

“Duh,” Emily answers, putting her finger into my ear again.

I swat at her.

“Dad, can Michelle and Rocket come over?” Brittany repeats.

I rub my palm over my face. “Heard you the first time, Britt Britt. Let me get some coffee, and we’ll see.”

I grab my glasses from the side table and blink through the remaining grogginess on my way to the kitchen. I hear Tracy following, the fwick-slap of her house shoes hitting the linoleum behind me.

I look out the kitchen window toward Michelle’s bedroom. There’s a curtain of snow falling between our houses, so it’s difficult to see if her lamp is on. I wonder if she’s already awake, making cinnamon rolls.

I sniff and cross to the cabinet. I pull down a mug, gesturing it toward Tracy, as if to say, Want one too?

She nods. I take down another—the one with the Burke’s Bakery logo—and shuffle over to the full pot gurgling on the counter.

Tracy clicks her tongue and sighs.

“If they want to invite Michelle, that’s fine,” she says stiffly.

I peer over, pouring coffee. “You’re kidding. This feels like a trap.”

Her lips straighten into a thin line, and she crosses her arms. “She’s nice enough.”

I snort. “It’s your holiday,” I say, grabbing the second mug and pouring more. “I’m not here to ruin Christmas with the girls.”

Tracy’s jaw tightens. “And I’m not here to ruin theirs. If they want your neighbor over, I’m fine with it.”

It’s uncomfortable, talking about Michelle with Tracy. The words are all wrong. Neighbor feels too casual. Then again, so do words like best friend or girlfriend.

Tracy clears her throat. “Cliff.”

“Hmm?”

“Call her.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

I don’t believe her, but Tracy’s gaze doesn’t break from mine for a solid few seconds. She’s either convincing me or persuading herself. With a straightened back, she snatches her coffee from my palm—a small splash springing to the counter—and leaves the kitchen.

I cautiously walk to the phone, dial Bird & Breakfast, and lean the receiver between my ear and shoulder.

“Merry Christmas!” Michelle’s customer service voice is enough to wake me from my blurry slumber. I could listen to her talk all morning. “Thank you for calling Bird &—”

“Merry Christmas, Michelle,” I interrupt with a low laugh.

“Cliff.” Her voice goes soft.

I love when her voice goes soft.

“What are you doing this morning?” I ask.

“Dad and Sara are sleeping.”

“And what are you doing?” I repeat.

I hear her smile as she says, “What am I doing, social planner?”

I set my coffee down, lean against the counter, and place one ankle over the other. “You’re invited to our Burke Family Present-Opening Ceremony.”

“Wow, is that a big deal?”

“Huge.”

There’s a beat before she asks, “Is Tracy fine with it?”

I smile to myself. “It was her suggestion.”

Silently, she murmurs, “This feels like a trap.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Well, I’m in pajamas.”

“So are we.”

“Let me—”

“We have coffee,” I say. “So, put on those cute fuzzy slippers of yours and get over here,” I demand with a grin. “Don’t make me come get you. And bring Rocket.”

“He’d get mad if I didn’t.”

We both hang up, and it suddenly hits me that I’m spending Christmas with Michelle. I feel like … well, like a kid on Christmas, I guess. I tuck my feet into house slippers, rip open the kitchen door, and trundle along through the snow.