If It Makes You Happy(3)

“So I hear.”

“How’s Allen taking this?” he asks.

I involuntarily clench my jaw. “He’s fine.”

“Is fine your answer for everything today?”

A huffing laugh reluctantly backfires out of me. “Yes.”

From the corner of my eye, I can see Rocket staring at me through slitted dog eyes. I curl my fists. The dog knows I need to bring up the divorce, just like the strange man outside does.

How do I tell Dad and Sara though? Hello, I’m your almost-thirty-year-old workaholic daughter/sister who can’t hold up a marriage.

Allen is forty-two, moving overseas for medical work, and thriving with a woman the same age I was when we met.

Sara will be distraught, but I don’t want someone to feel sorry for me. Allen doesn’t want me anymore, and I won’t make him stay. It was a reasonable decision. A good one. But I don’t want balloons and confetti either.

“How am I supposed to go back?” Dad whispers on a breath.

“Out there?” I ask.

“To the inn,” he clarifies through shaking lips. “I have no idea where she put everything. She was in charge of the bills, the calendar—oh God, I can’t call the guests. It’s the busiest season. We’re almost fully booked. I can’t … I can’t …”

I inhale. “Hey. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“You always do,” he says. “You got all your mother’s strength.”

“No, Sara has it too. She has that, plus her energy. She’ll do great with the inn.”

He nods over and over, rubbing his temples. “You’re right; you’re right. She’ll be a natural. You’re right.”

We both know Sara possesses Mom’s good traits. Her gentleness. Her positivity. Her excitable, creative side. Those are the traits of someone who inherits a beloved bed-and-breakfast—not the frigid eldest daughter. Not like I wanted it anyway.

Sara will finally graduate from school in December. She’ll seamlessly step into the role afterward—as long as Dad can handle it until then. He doesn’t look as if he’s in control of anything right now though.

The chapel door creaks open, and the low hum of conversation flows in. My body tenses as Allen smoothly strides into the room, each step of his Valentino oxfords snapping on the linoleum. Rocket runs over, tail beating up a storm. Allen placates him with a pat, then nudges him away.

“Are you ready, Shelly?”

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but my mind is foggy at the request.

My dad starts to rise. “Do we need to go—”

“No,” I interrupt, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Allen and I are practical people. His rational mind is one of his most attractive features. Yes, he’s a little cold, but so am I. We understood each other once—respected each other. At least until today. His misplaced need to keep up appearances matters more than my family’s mourning.

Sara walks over with her eyebrows tilted in. She carries a bouquet of flowers. “This is from some man outside.”

She holds them out to Dad. I intercept them so it’s one less thing for him to handle.

Sara’s eyes dart between Allen and me. “Everything okay?”

Allen exhales impatiently.

Please, not today, I mouth to him.

He shakes his head. “Shell—”

I pinch my eyes closed. “Give me one second.”

“Let’s not make this difficult,” Allen drawls.

“What’s going on?” Dad asks.

“Dad, it’s nothing. We just—”

And that’s when Allen announces, “We got a divorce.” The words bounce off the walls and low ceiling.

His eyes widen, and so do mine. I don’t think he expected it to be so loud, and I didn’t expect it would sound so unceremonious.

“I won’t be here tomorrow,” he continues, adjusting his lapels. “I’m leaving for the airport.”

I can feel my pulse in my neck, my hands, and my legs. There’s a cut in my palm from one of the flower’s thorns.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” Allen says in our extended silence, checking his watch. “I need to go. I am very sorry for your loss.” Allen says it like he wasn’t part of our family for five years.

He starts to casually walk away in the same manner. Rocket attempts to follow, but Allen shakes his head.

My blood feels like lava, bubbling up to my throat and cheeks. My chest hurts from the heat. I can’t tell if I’m sad, scared, or angry. Unfortunately, in fight or flight, I’m not proud to say that fight is the default.

I stride after him, emerging from the side room into the main chapel again. The hum of low conversations surrounds me. The cool air from the open chapel door whips through my hair, crinkling the bouquet’s paper.

“We should have waited,” I snap.

Allen turns on his heel, looking side to side as he stalks closer.

“No, we should have told them earlier,” he murmurs under his breath.

“When exactly?” I grit out, my body tense with anger. I’m getting louder, making him fidget more. Good. Be uncomfortable. “At the hospital, after her heart attack? Before the bypass? Or in the waiting room, when your colleague told us it failed?”