If It Makes You Happy(132)
January 1, 1997
Dear Shelly,
Happy New Year! Your father told me I shouldn’t write this, but damn it, I’m going to. Life is too short to have regrets.
It’s a new year with new moments. I know you make many new year’s goals, and you probably keep them, too, because you’re the kind of woman I strive to be. But I want all your moments to be special, so consider this resolution too.
A quick story first.
You should know that your father and I spent this new year drinking with our new friends. I’ve never had a best friend before, aside from your father, but Lisa and her husband, George, are spectacular. I told them I’d never stayed up all night. A full twenty-four hours without sleep—can you imagine? So, Lisa suggested we walk around town all night until we saw the sunrise. We ended up in a graveyard, and, Shelly, I was so scared that I almost ran for the hills. But your father said I’d regret it if I didn’t walk through, so I did.
I’m sure you think that’s nothing wild. It’s only a graveyard. But I felt alive. I felt freedom in a silly graveyard. And I don’t even believe in ghosts! Sometimes, you have to do the silly, irrationally scary things.
So, here’s the long and short of it. Allen sucks. He’s terrible. You think we don’t know, but we do. Your father and I see every time you fight because it’s every moment you’re not smiling. And you haven’t smiled in years. We haven’t always seen eye to eye, but you’re more like me than you know. You’re strong. And we strong women deserve better.
It will feel scary, starting new, but it’s that irrational type of fear—the graveyard-at-night-with-no-ghosts fear. You’ll be fine. I promise.
I wish I could see you more. I wish we talked more. We have a lovely neighbor next door who is a total hunk. And newly single! He’s more talkative than you, but something tells me you two would get along swimmingly.
Don’t be too serious, Shells Bells.
And call if you need anything.
Love you forever,
Mom
My teeth start to chatter. My jaw clenches.
Why didn’t she send this? Why am I reading it now, when it’s too late?
I look at the white tiled ceiling, pulling in a heavy breath.
Why did she move to start a new business after she retired? What secret to happiness did she know that I don’t?
“Last call for flight 347 to Seattle, Washington!”
I let out my shaking breath. My nose stings with tears. I stuff the note back in my purse, gripping Brittany’s stuffed unicorn tighter and tighter against my chest.
Why am I about to cry?
Why can’t I get on this plane?
I’ve worked hard for my life in Seattle, but it feels … empty now. Not like Copper Run. Not like the inn.
Mom’s right; this is the silly, irrationally scary thing. This is freedom.
A small town with people who see me.
BARK!
I freeze. I heard a dog bark.
Or what I thought was a bark.
I swivel my head to the gate attendant at the same time she looks at me, as if we’re both checking to make sure we heard the same noise.
And then it happens again.
BARK!
The gate attendant looks behind me, and her eyes widen. I follow her gaze, twisting on my heel to look. The moment I do, my stomach drops.
Two security guards fumble down the hall, past the airport bookstore and convenience store.
They’re barreling straight toward us, yelling words like, “Stop!” and, “The dog can’t be here!”
And in front of them, sprinting with his arms pumping at his sides, is Cliff Burke.
My feet are glued to the floor as I watch him grow bigger. Closer.
It’s him.
He’s here.
And ten feet ahead of him is the dog.
My eyes flick to the rush of black-and-white fur. Rocket is zooming forward so quickly that I can’t see his feet touch the ground. His border collie legs push him faster than anyone can keep up.
He barks again, running faster when our eyes meet. I drop the unicorn toy on the ground and crouch in time for him to leap into my arms.
Rocket whines in my hair, licking my face and wagging his tail so hard that it moves his whole behind. My mind is spinning.
Footsteps thump closer, and when I look up, Cliff is jumping over a bench with one hand and landing so hard on the opposite side that he stumbles. I gasp, covering my mouth with my palm and laughing, watching him break into a sprint toward me again.
God, he’s here.
Cliff is here.
His heavy chest tightens against his flannel with each inhalation. And then, suddenly, he’s standing over me, bending down with his palms on his knees and a grin pulling halfway up his cheeks.
“Miss me?” he asks breathlessly.
“I thought you said—”
“Yeah, I say too much,” he says with a laugh.
He grabs my hand and pulls me to stand. My eyes dash between his. My chest is rising and falling almost as quickly as his. I don’t know how I’m breathing.
All I know is, he’s here.
Through another choked exhale, he says, “Don’t get on the plane.”
“What?”
“Don’t get on the plane, Michelle.”
“I don’t—”
“I love you.”
All the warmth in my chest rises up to my neck, my ears and cheeks. And it’s so overwhelming, so all-consuming, I’m halted in place with my lips parted in disbelief.