If It Makes You Happy(31)

I return the smile. “Agreed.”

“Agreed.”





OCTOBER 1997





CHAPTER 8





Cliff




“I get to play with Rocky after school?”

“Since when are you on nickname terms with him?” I tease. “And, yes, I told the driver to drop you off at the bus stop instead of at the bakery. Make sure you remember, okay?”

Brittany barely says, “Okay!” before running onto the bus with her backpack jostling back and forth. Metal zippers whack against the Tamagotchi, whose health no longer stands a chance now that Rocket’s in the picture.

I wave as the bus leaves with its groans and whines toward the elementary school. Walking back to the house, I grab my own bag, drop it in the truck, and cross through the bushes in the backyard to Bird & Breakfast’s parking lot.

Through the back-door window, I can see Michelle pacing like a madwoman through the kitchen—clicking a button on the coffeepot, wiping her hands on a small black apron, and tucking on quilted mitts.

I open the back door right as she pulls a pan from the oven.

I wave. “Morning.”

Michelle yelps at my voice, fumbles the pan, and drops it on the open oven door.

My face falls. “Shit.”

With a loud hiss, Michelle backs against the counter, her chest rising and falling as she shakes out her arm and tenses her hand into a fist.

I snatch a hand towel from the counter and pick up the hot, abandoned pan. I plop it onto the stovetop. When I take a look at her arm, there’s a bright red burn line glimmering in the space right above her inner elbow. I join her hissing sound.

“Why didn’t you knock?” she snaps, eyes closed tight.

“I’m sorry. Force of habit,” I quickly say. “Okay, you got a little burn—”

“You think?!”

“Easy fix.” I gently wrap my palm around her forearm and guide her to the sink.

She’s not looking, as if she’s afraid of looking at the burn, should it appear worse than it actually is. Or maybe she doesn’t want to see me because she’d spit fire my way. The thought alone makes a single laugh slip out.

“What is so funny?” she says with a sneer.

“Only my imagination.” I turn on the sink.

“Keep your imagination to yourself, then.”

This time, I fully laugh out loud as I run my fingers under the water until it turns warm.

“All right, dip your arm under.”

I guide her arm under the faucet. She pulls in another breath when the water hits her burn, but nods, as if encouraging herself through it.

“There we go,” I assist, stroking the inside of her arm to calm her. “Good. Hold it there for a moment.”

“Shouldn’t this be cold?”

“From one baker to another, trust me, warm is good.”

“I’m not a baker,” she adds, strained.

“You’re doing great,” I say, ignoring her jab. “Got coffee ready?”

Her eyes finally open, and she narrows them. “Yes …” The word drags.

I take down a chipped mug from the cabinet.

“Make yourself at home,” she says sarcastically.

“Thank you. I’ve been at the bakery since four this morning. I’m beat.”

She watches me tip the coffeepot over the cup. “Are you always this … invasive?”

I lean against the sink with my coffee mug poised at my lips. “Yes.”

I look around the kitchen. The counter—normally stacked with mail or newspapers and countless coffee cups—is spotless. I wonder if they were wiped down with the tea towel folded next to the sink. The only mess—if you can call it that—is a neat stack of papers with hole punches on both sides. A logo on top shows an advertising agency. I wonder if this is work from Seattle.

“Why are you here again?” Michelle asks.

I casually shrug, sipping the coffee. “I wanted to touch base about Brittany.”

“Oh.” She shakes her head, as if trying to eliminate the snappiness from her voice. “Right. That’s today. Sorry.”

“Please.” I wave her away. “If I could count the number of times someone got irritated with me … Anyway, the bus will drop Brittany off at the stop down the road around three. She knows to come here, so you don’t have to wait outside for her, but—”

“I can wait outside,” she interjects. “If that’s what you’re most comfortable with.”

I pause, kick my foot, then nod. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then yeah, actually, I’d like that, if you don’t mind.”

She nods, looking back down at her burn. “Not at all.”

I tongue my cheek. “Sorry about the surprise. And the coffee, I guess.” I run a hand through my hair. “I’m used to walking in whenever. Birdie was—” Her eyebrows turn in, and I laugh awkwardly. “Y’know what?” I hold my palm in the air. “Doesn’t matter.”

“What were you gonna say?”

“Mind if I try one?”

She blinks. “What?”

I throw my thumb over my shoulder toward the jumbled biscuits on the pan. “The biscuits,” I clarify. “Mind if I try one?”