If It Makes You Happy(122)

We’re too similar. I know because I do the same thing when I’m hurt—I attempt to cover any uncomfortable truth with pride, like a shield.

She darts her eyes to mine with the speed of a hawk.

“Tell me something,” she says like a cracking whip.

“All right,” I agree tentatively.

“Does Emily seem happy?”

I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“And Brittany?”

“She’s a kid,” I answer with a twitch of my mouth. “She could build a house out of sand and live inside without a care in the world.”

“You seem to know kids very well.”

“I don’t. But I know my sister, and she was like Brittany.” I tilt my head side to side. “Still is.”

“How old is she?”

“Old enough to probably not act that way.”

Tracy’s eyes dart between mine. “Are they happy with Cliff?”

I swallow. I don’t feel comfortable discussing Cliff with his ex, but the way her chin trembles, I find myself nodding.

“Yes,” I answer.

Tracy inhales and glances out the window again. She lets out the breath. “She chose him over me,” she says matter-of-factly, as if she were reading about their relationship in an encyclopedia.

I don’t answer.

I peer down at Rocket. He silently stares back at me. We’re at a loss for words today, I suppose.

“They …” Tracy pauses. “They really depend on him, don’t they?” The words start confident, and then with each syllable, she frowns further. All pretenses of confidence drain from her body.

“Yes.”

It’s sad to watch as her jaw tightens, but I don’t pity her. I see myself through her. It’s the same part of me that longed for my mom to want me the most.

“That’s good,” she says quietly. She finally turns to me. Her cheeks are blotchy. Her nose is red. Her jaw tenses. “Well, thank you for coming over.” It’s sharp, like disappointment is burning through as the reality she so carefully constructed in her mind immediately falls apart.

I turn to leave, but my heart suddenly beats so fast at the thought of not standing in this kitchen anymore, of not walking between our houses every afternoon. And not seeing Cliff. I have a couple of more days, but this feels weirdly definitive.

I won’t see his cocky smile burst at the sight of me. I won’t hear his low, husky laugh. I won’t hear his sarcasm and non sequiturs. I won’t hear his terrible jokes that make me laugh despite myself. I won’t feel his palm roam over my knee, onto my waist, and against my cheek. I won’t feel his hair tickle between my fingers.

But most of all, I’ll be across the country, where I won’t be seen. Not really. Not like Cliff does.

“Michelle?” Tracy asks.

I blink out of my reverie and back to her. She’s staring at me again.

My nose feels hot. The area behind my eyes stings.

“I’m heading out,” I say stiffly.

My bottom lip trembles despite myself, and I hate it so much for doing so.





CHAPTER 42





Cliff




“It’s cold out here.”

“Really?” I ask. “Huh. I’m feeling great.”

“Shut up, Dad.”

We sit on the curb outside the house. The street has a thick layer of snow that almost covers the line between the sidewalk and the road. I forgot a coat. I’m in my Bulls T-shirt and thin pajama pants, soaked through from sitting on the ground. I genuinely wonder if my balls will be ice in the next few minutes.

I exhale out a misty fog of warm air.

“So … do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

“No.”

I nod to myself. “All right, then.”

Emily pulls her arms closer to her chest. She isn’t wearing a jacket either. Thankfully, she’s at least in a long-sleeved striped shirt and thicker sleep pants than mine. Her long blond hair is braided down her back, exposing pink ears. When she visibly shivers, I sling my arm around her shoulders. She leans closer.

“Are you gonna sit here until I talk?” she asks through chattering teeth.

“No. I’m gonna sit here until you want to go back inside. Doesn’t matter if you wanna talk or not. You’re not freezing to death alone out here.”

“I won’t freeze to death,” she insists.

“And what if those are your last words?”

“I’m gonna be fine.”

“I won’t even be able to say I told you so.”

“That’s because I’ll be the one saying I told you so,” she counters.

“How? You’ll be dead.”

Emily smirks. I squeeze her shoulder. She buries her head in my chest. I smile to myself.

Muffled against my shirt, I think I hear her murmur, “Sorry for yelling at Mom.”

I hum in acknowledgment.

“Are you angry?” she whispers.

“Yes,” I admit. I rest my chin on her head. “That was inappropriate. You should never say that to someone. Especially not your mother.”

“She thinks she can tell me what to do even if she’s not here anymore. It’s crap.”