If It Makes You Happy(21)

His lips curl in as his cheeks redden.

I sigh again, exhausted by this whole event. “Fantastic. Then why are you here?”

He opens his mouth and closes it.

In the silence, Brittany yells, “He’s mad Steve won!”

Oh. That’s when I finally recognize him. Luke. Steve Austin–hating Luke. Luke, who finally got that mop of his cut. His mom has been pushing for a haircut for months now. I barely recognized him.

Lars snorts and shakes his head. “Oh jeez …”

“He didn’t deserve to win!” Luke snaps back.

I grip my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “Christ almighty.”

“Who is Steve?” Michelle asks.

“Steve Austin,” I clarify, but the little scrunch above her eyebrows says this explanation means nothing. “A wrestler. Eh, never mind.”

This situation must seem ridiculous to her. It’s ridiculous to me. Two elementary-aged children fighting over a grown man’s winning streak.

Sighing, I say, “Go home, Luke.”

“But—”

“And, yes, I’m calling your parents when we get home to let them know you were out while grounded.”

His face is red, but at least the boy has enough sense not to shout back. Surprisingly.

Michelle’s eyes slowly grow wider. “Cliff, she’s bleeding.”

“She’s what?” I roam my hand over Brittany’s legs once more, panic rising. I look at her calf, and sure enough, there’s a small scratch along the back.

How did I miss that?

I gather Brittany in my arms. My daughter is all that matters right now. And potentially killing that other kid, but I’ll leave that for another day.

“I can get Band-Aids at the corner store,” Michelle offers.

“Nah, we’ll go to the shop,” I say. “I’ve got first aid there.”

“But she’s fine!” Luke pleads.

In that moment, Brittany’s bottom lip sticks out, and another tear trickles down one of her flushed cheeks.

I tilt my head toward Luke. “Listen here. If I see my girl on the ground in front of you again, I’ll be having a more serious talk with someone. Your mom. The mayor. Bill Clinton. And next time Steve wins—which he will—and you get upset about it, know that I’m training her to wrestle.”

“You are?” he stammers.

“You are?” Lars asks, an eyebrow raised.

“Uh-huh,” I confirm.

“Oh,” Luke breathes.

“Yeah, oh. Now, go home.”

I don’t stick around to see if he does. I turn on the spot and stride across the street.

“Mind finding Emily for me?” I ask Lars.

He salutes and jogs off, back into the hay-riding, pumpkin-filled fray of the Harvest Festival.

“Are we really gonna wrestle, Daddy?” Brittany whispers through sniffles.

“When you can bicep-curl one hundred pounds, sure.”

“Yes,” she says on a silent celebration.

Behind us, Michelle follows, clenching and unclenching her fists, heavy sighs rushing out of her nose. If she could breathe fire, I might see plumes of smoke.

“You all right back there?” I call to her.

She blinks up at me, as if broken from a trance, shaking out her hands and nodding.

The jangling of a collar alerts me to her dog, now loyally following by my side. Well, not my side. Brittany’s.

Our little crew continues down the block until we reach the bakery door. I jangle the door and exhale. Carol must have closed for the day. I knock on the glass, praying she’s still inside, but after a couple of seconds, with Brittany continuing to sniffle in my arms, my patience wears thin quickly.

I shift on the spot, trying to pat for keys in my pocket, but Brittany is too heavy in my arms. I move to set her down, but she whines pitifully.

“Can you stand for me, Britt?”

She fervently shakes her head and whines, “No.”

I sigh. “Okay, well, can you—”

“What do you need?” Michelle asks, stepping forward.

I blink. “My keys. They’re in my pocket.”

To my surprise, Michelle says, “I don’t have a problem getting them for you.”

My beautiful new neighbor—a woman who seems to roll her eyes at most things I do—is offering to dig around in my pocket. I lean my head back and blink at the sky. The big man upstairs really decided to test me today.

“Front left pocket,” I instruct.

I bounce Brittany higher in my arms to give Michelle room.

Michelle’s shoes snap on the sidewalk as she gets closer. She smells like amber and cloves, like she did the other night. No, it’s not crème br?lée. Maybe a coffee cake.

Slowly, gently, Michelle sneaks her hand into my pocket. I hiss as her cold fingers radiate across my thigh.

“Your hand is like ice.”

She pauses. “Sorry, is my help too inconvenient for you?”

I bite my lip to stifle a laugh. She’s funny. “Worried about your blood flow, is all.”

I can’t see her expression, but she doesn’t respond.

Michelle tucks her fingers closer to the outside, probably making sure to not brush against my inner thigh. Each movement zips through my veins. I haven’t had a hand … well, that close in years. I try to think of anything else. Dennis Rodman kicking that cameraman in the balls. That pig in Toy Story. “Candle in the Wind.”