If It Makes You Happy(22)

I’m almost at peace, but as Michelle finally grips the key ring and tugs, the sharp ends of the keys trail over me anyway.

I clear my throat and shake my head.

Getting action with my own keys. Pathetic.

“Which one?” she asks.

“The bronze one with the dent on the top,” I say on a strained breath.

She strides to the front door, inserts the correct key, and twists the lock, pushing the door open.

I nudge my shoulder on the light switch, turning the main lights on, then place Brittany on the front counter. Her legs dangle and kick the counter. I observe the back of her calf with the cut, which is very surface level, but probably enough to be shocking for a kid. Can’t blame her for crying.

I turn and find Michelle lingering in the corner of the shop, arms crossed as she observes the cupcake painting on the wall. I wonder if she also sees how crookedly hung it is. I smile to myself. At least she’s not saying it out loud, and thankfully, Carol isn’t here to notice either.

“I’m gonna get the first aid kit,” I say. “Mind watching her?”

“Of course not.”

I journey to my office, grab my kit buried under a stack of paperwork, and walk back. I catch the tail end of a conversation.

“He can sit too,” Michelle says. “Try it.”

“Sit,” Brittany whispers.

“More intention. Rocket, sit.”

“Rocket, sit,” Brittany echoes, and, boy, does that dog drop on the ground quickly.

I grin right as the bell above the door dings. Lars holds the door open, and Emily ducks under his arm, rushing through the threshold with her eyes the size of dinner plates.

She gasps, palms covering her mouth. “Oh my God, Dad, I couldn’t find you.”

“Where were you?”

“I … I was going to be right back. But Josh …”

Yeah, good mood gone.

Lars slowly, awkwardly walks back out the door.

“You were supposed to be watching your sister,” I say to Emily. “And you went off with that boy?”

I pop open the kit and shake my head.

“It was only two seconds,” Emily stammers out.

I crouch in front of Brittany with a cotton ball and antiseptic.

“You don’t leave Brittany like that.” I tip the bottle upside down on the cotton ball. I hold up the soaked cotton to Brittany. “Big-girl time, all right?”

She nods, gripping the counter harder as I press it against the scratch. She wails. Fixing wounds is the worst part of this whole dad thing.

“Dad, I’m so sorry,” Emily pleads again.

“Em—” The phone starts to ring, and I swear it’s like nails on a chalkboard in this moment. “I don’t have time for this right now. Just—” The phone rings again. “Can you get the phone?”

She doesn’t budge.

I know she feels bad. And of course, I was a teenager once. I snuck around with my crush, like she did. But that’s the problem. That crush resulted in a fourteen-year marriage. I won’t allow Emily to get in the same trouble her mom and I did. I can guarantee the last thing she wants is to be tied to freakin’ Josh forever.

Michelle strides to the phone on the wall. “I’ve got it.” She lifts it to her ear. “This is the … uh … local … bakery? How can I help you?”

I hold up a Band-Aid in each hand to Brittany. “Unicorn or dog?” I wave the rainbow-colored bandages back and forth.

Brittany cuts her eyes to Rocket, then back up. “Dog.”

I sigh. If I gotta worry about Emily with boys, then I’ll need to worry about Brittany with dogs.

“Dog it is,” I say, fastening it to her skin and pulling each side to stick it down. “And, hey, next time you wanna play between pumpkins, let me know, and we’ll work it out. And maybe we’ll even throw your sister in there too.”

That gets me both a giggle from her and a slight twitch at the edge of Emily’s mouth.

I reach out for Emily’s hand. “It’s fine, kiddo. We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

“Okay,” she murmurs.

“Nothing a good ol’ yelling match can’t solve,” I tease.

“Can I throw a pillow at your head?”

“Only if I do it first. We’ll put on Metallica.”

Emily grins. “Cool.”

“Cliff?” Michelle asks, covering the phone with her palm. “Someone named Tracy wants to talk to you.”

Almost instantly, it’s like a bucket of cold water empties over my head.

“Mommy!” Brittany calls, swinging her feet back and forth more.

I stand, walking over to the phone. Michelle places the receiver in my hand. Her fingers graze mine, and my chest tightens. Her hand is so soft compared to my calloused ones. But any fire I feel disappears when I raise the phone to my ear.

“Cliff?”

“Hey, Trace.”

“I called the house, and you weren’t there.”

No niceties today. Got it.

“We were at the Harvest Festival,” I explain. Then I turn the corner and murmur, “You’re a week late. Everything okay?”

“I’ve been busy,” she says. Then, with slight hesitation, she adds, “Thanks for asking.”