If It Makes You Happy(32)

Michelle stares at me for a few seconds in confusion. I know it was a whiplash-like change in conversation, but the last thing she needs is a constant reminder of her mom, especially after I’ve caused enough havoc this morning.

She swallows and nods. “Sure.” Then adds, “Don’t burn yourself on the pan.”

“Ha. Funny.” I wag my finger at her. “You’re funny, Michelle.”

“It’s to ease the pain,” she jokes.

I love it when she has a sense of humor.

I stroll across the kitchen to the abandoned pan. The biscuits are far too put together, which, after a drop like that, likely means they’re hard as rocks. Not to mention, the brown tint is too dark, and the tops are lacking any sort of butter yellow I’d expect.

Michelle watches as I pick one up and take a bite. It cracks against my teeth. There’s no flavor. It crumbles apart over my tongue in jagged little pieces. Brittany could make better biscuits than these. I wince.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Michelle breathes. “Are they that bad?”

“Christ, we’ve got to do something about these,” I say.

“You’re playing it up.”

I hold out the remainder of the cracked monstrosity in my palm. “Do you want to try it?”

“No.” She slouches against the sink, bent over and resting her head on the edge. “No,” she repeats on a dragging groan. “I know they’re bad.”

I laugh. “I’ll see you after work, Michelle. Don’t forget the bus.”

She tosses a weak thumbs-up without looking away from the sink.

“Three o’clock,” I repeat.

She shakes her thumb higher in irritation.

I laugh. “So happy we’re friends now.”

“Don’t make me show you a different finger, Cliff.”





CHAPTER 9





Michelle




I wait outside the inn at two fifty-five with Rocket by my side. A cooler breeze is picking up as each day passes, and while it’s only the first week of October, the Halloween spirit is already in full swing. I saw my neighbor two doors down hoisting up spiderwebs on their front porch this past weekend. The house beside them buried tombstones in their yard.

And both owners said hi to me.

People love saying hi here. I’m accustomed to strangers who generally don’t talk to me unless there’s a coffee in hand or in special circumstances, like if I cut them off in traffic. Apparently, every circumstance is special in Copper Run.

“Spooky, huh?” I ask Rocket, nodding to the bouncing ghosts hanging from tree branches.

He huffs out through his nose. If one of those things moves, I’m going back inside, Shelly.

A yellow school bus lurches around the corner, stopping at a storm drain down the street. When the door creaks open, a slew of kids is released from the bus. One boy grips a skateboard and kicks himself down the sidewalk. Two girls giggle over a magazine with the face of Jonathan Taylor Thomas plastered on the cover. And finally, Brittany emerges with bright pink pants and an oversize Spice Girls tee.

She instantly makes a beeline for Rocket. He perks up, wagging his tail over and over until she finally barrels into him, wrapping his neck in a hug.

“Hi, Brittany,” I say, but she’s too buried in Rocket to notice. I pat her back. “Come on. Let’s get you a snack.”

“Can Rocky come in the house?” she asks.

“Of course. He’s a good dog.”

Rocket peers up at me, as if to say, Since when?

I ignore him.

“Your hair is cute today,” I say to Brittany, trailing my fingers over her zigzag headband.

“Emily did it,” she answers. “She’s really good with hair.”

“Really? What’s your favorite style she does for you?”

“I really like pigtails, and, uh …” She tries to find the words in the way only kids do. “Sometimes, she uses this thing that gives me waves and stuff.”

“That sounds really neat.”

“It is,” she says, tilting her chin up proudly.

When we reach the kitchen, her hand hasn’t left Rocket’s back, and he hasn’t stopped walking loyally beside her.

I open the top cabinet. “I picked up some apples and peanut butter. How’s that sound?”

Brittany hops up onto a breakfast nook chair, swinging her legs back and forth. “Mrs. Birdie used to have Pop-Tarts.”

I turn around, popping my hip and leaning it against the counter. “Pop-Tarts? Really?”

My mother gave her Pop-Tarts?

This was the same woman who said TV dinners weren’t nutritious enough.

Brittany nods affirmatively. I have a pretty good eye for when people are lying, and she’s so distracted by petting Rocket anyway that I bet she’s telling the truth.

“What else did she let you do?” I ask, crossing my arms.

Brittany looks up at the ceiling, thinking, then shrugs. “We’d play outside.”

I blink to myself, opening my mouth, then shutting it. “Did she ever make you do homework?”

She giggles. “No. Daddy would get so mad.”

“She was funny, huh?”

“Mm-hmm. Daddy says she’s in a better place now.”