If It Makes You Happy(2)

“You’ve got to talk to Dad,” Sara rushes out.

I blink and nod. “Okay.”

“I’ve tried, but—”

“It’s fine,” I interject. “Don’t worry.”

The corner of her glossy pink lips tilts up, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you. I don’t know how you stay so”—she waves her palm at my tall posture—“composed. You always seem like you have it together.”

My little sister is the softer one between us. She’s petite with the type of platinum-blond hair women pay big bucks to re-create—the opposite of my and Dad’s brown hair. But while I got a double dose of brown with Mom’s woodsy eyes, she inherited Dad’s beautiful blues, and now they shimmer with tears hanging on by a thread. She has enough emotions for the both of us. I love that about her.

“How are you?” I ask.

“I’m good.” Sara aimlessly reaches out and fluffs my hair. “Stuck in gross black. How are you? Allen is acting totally weird. But I guess he always does.”

I hum noncommittally in response as my stomach smarts.

She sighs. “A lot of people out there, huh?”

Sara’s rambling, so I try to soothe it with a casual “Did you invite some of your art school friends?”

She huffs out a laugh. “As if. They’d give you a heart attack.” Both of us freeze. Her eyes instantly widen as my lips purse together. “That was …”

“Unintentional,” I finish for her. “I know.” I attempt a smile. “It’s fine, Sara.”

She quickly nods to herself, eyebrows tilting in. “Um, anyway … I think those are people from Copper Run. You know Mom was really involved in the town.”

“I know.”

One year ago, our parents retired to a small town in Vermont to open a kitschy bed-and-breakfast. It was technically both of theirs, but it was Mom’s heart and soul. It makes sense that Copper Run residents are here. Mom was the kind of person who could be revered and loved in only a year. Give me two years in a single room with one person, and we’d still be strangers. Maybe that’s where I went wrong in my marriage.

“They drove all the way to Seattle?” I ask. “Across the country? Did the town shut down?”

“Don’t be mean,” Sara says, smiling. “They’re good people.”

“Irresponsible people,” I tease with a small smile. It fades as quickly as it arrived.

I tug at my earlobe, twirling the small pearl earring.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask.

Sara pulls her thumb up to bite on the nail. “In the corner.”

“Hey,” I say, quickly tugging her hand down. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You will be fine.”

Sara nods slowly, then quickly before jerking me into a tight hug. I hold her as long as she needs until she finally pulls away.

I pat her shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

Across the bridal suite, Dad sits in the far corner, looking out the tall window to the city outside. This cathedral is on a corner block, right at an intersection where honking is at its peak and a green light means you should have accelerated five seconds ago.

Dad rests his hand on Rocket’s back, absentmindedly stroking down the dog’s feathery black-and-white fur.

After a couple of pats, the border collie ducks his head out of reach. He traipses to the opposite wall, shooting a look at me, as if to say, There. I comforted him. Happy? before dropping to a sit with more force than necessary.

It was Allen’s job to find a pet sitter for Rocket today. Of course, he couldn’t be bothered, just like he couldn’t be bothered to tell me until yesterday that I’d inherited his dog in the divorce because he couldn’t take Rocket out of the country.

Rocket doesn’t listen to me. He barely lets me pet him. But what was I supposed to do? Rocket’s fate came down to either staying with me or following Allen into the Humane Society. Rocket’s prima donna disposition would have been appalled, and I’m not even remotely that heartless. Realistically, Rocket shouldn’t be in the chapel, but he won’t bother anyone—even if he does give me the cold shoulder.

Dad’s hand hangs limply at his side where Rocket once was. I reach out and take his palm into my own.

“Hey, Shellfish,” he murmurs under a frail smile.

“How’re you holding up?”

“Good.” The bags under his eyes say otherwise. “You?”

“Fine,” I answer.

He drops my hand, reaching up to trace the pendant on my chest. “Is this your mother’s?” He follows the thin chain as it snakes down the divot in my collarbone. “You’re getting too skinny.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

“She was really good at picking out pretty things,” Dad muses more to himself than me. “The necklace. The sheets at the inn. Y’know, there are these doilies she loves. The little linen ones with the—” His voice cracks.

“Dad …”

He winds his hands together and glances at the closed door that leads to the quickly filling chapel. “Who all is out there?”

“Apparently the entire town of Copper Run.”

“Oh,” he says, a hint of a smile at the edge of his lips. “Good people, that bunch.”