If It Makes You Happy(33)

My stomach coils, and I force a smile. “She is. But unfortunately, I don’t have Pop-Tarts.” Brittany frowns, but before her bottom lip can start wobbling, I add, “We’ll play outside for an hour first. Then you have to do homework.”

She wiggles in her seat, jumps down, and rips open the back door into the fenced yard.

Rocket looks at me. Since when do you bend the rules?

I roll my eyes. “Hush.”

I close the door behind her and search the cabinets for an apple corer, but instead find myself face-to-face with the mug cabinet. In the back, I find a white one with multiple tiny handprints across the surface in a colorful mess. I swivel it around, and smudged in messy black finger paint are the words THANK YOU, BIRDIE.

I set it down and stare. My fingers drum on the counter.

My mom was so involved here. It’s not that she wasn’t present in my life as I was growing up, but it was different when I was younger. She was detached. She spent a lot of time in bed alone. She was kind but flawed. Copper Run never saw that. Maybe that was for the best.

When Sara was born, things looked up. Mom got out of bed. Dad told me later that she’d started going to a therapist. Mom worked hard to make up my childhood to me, but we never really had the same connection she and Sara did. I was always closer with Dad.

After a couple of moments, I gather myself and cut up the apple, staring blankly at the cutting board. I’m trying not to stew, but I can feel my mind racing as quick as my heart.

I wish she could see me now. I’m running her inn. I’m doing fine with my career in Seattle. People listen to me. I sell dreams and make them happen. No, I’m not just fine—I’m thriving. I’ll make her inn thrive too.

Dear Sara.

I slice the knife down. Pain sparks up my finger in an instant. I yell and jerk my hand close to my chest.

“Shit,” I hiss, a line of blood drooling down my finger. “Shit, shit.”

Striding to the sink, I turn on cool water to soothe it. But right before dipping it under the faucet, I stop.

Cliff said warm water.

I don’t know if it’s only for burns, but I spend a few more seconds letting the water adjust to a warmer temperature, and then I dip my finger underneath. The cut stings as tendrils of red dilute to pink, dribbling down to the steel surface.

Maybe Mom was right, leaving this place to Sara. Or maybe Sara was right about me asking for help. I’ve lived here for one month, and I’ve already gotten injured in this kitchen three times.

I normally know what I’m doing. What the hell is happening to me?

“How’s it going in here?”

Lisa’s voice startles me. I almost hit my palm on the faucet. She stands in the doorway, tiny eyes blinking behind massive glasses. They dart to the cut, then back to me.

“Terribly,” I answer honestly.

Slowly, she nods. Her red lips purse together with little lines pinching under her nose.

“Okay, well, go find a Band-Aid. I’ll finish up the apple.”

I nod stiffly. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

I walk back to the bedroom, sifting through the bathroom medicine cabinet behind the mirror for a Band-Aid. When I close it, I stare at myself. I look like the same Michelle—soft hair with forced volume from a blowout, perfectly plucked eyebrows, wearing my favorite mauve lipliner and a black vest over denim jeans. Professional yet approachable Michelle. Michelle who has everything together.

But there’s a burn on my inner arm and a cut on my finger. And I feel tired.

I pull the Band-Aid over my cut and click off the bathroom light, darkening the pink tiled walls once more. When I walk past my window, I notice someone outside. Emily traipses by with her backpack on, away from their house and hand in hand with a boy her age.

How long has she been at home? School let out within the past hour.

They’re mid-laugh when our gazes catch. She halts. The boy does too. The three of us stare like we’re some weird herd of spooked deer.

The boy looks like he leaped out from the image of Kurt Cobain on Emily’s tee. His shoulder-length dirty-blond hair is partially tucked behind an ear that’s pierced with a single hoop. Brown hairs wisp over his upper lip, and irritated little red dots gather in clusters near his forehead and cheeks. I have to assume this is the fabled Josh. The very-disliked-by-her-father Josh.

Emily’s eyebrows cinch inward. A silent plea.

I consider saying something. But eventually, I turn away from the window and walk back down the hall without a word.

I don’t know what I saw, but I definitely know it isn’t my business.





CHAPTER 10





Cliff




“George, if you place one more last-minute catering order, I’m going to ban you.”

The older man gruffs out something that might have been a curse word as I carry the box full of bear claws, cinnamon pecan Danish, and almond croissants down the sidewalk to his parked car.

“I’m serious,” I continue. “Maybe even death or something. First-degree murder. Premeditated. Same with your bingo group.”

He ignores me, keying open the door. I slide the box into his passenger seat.

“Thanks again, Cliff,” he grunts.

I wave my hand in the air. “Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome.”