If It Makes You Happy(40)

Cliff looks toward me, and I hold his gaze. I know I’m overcompensating with how hard I’m staring because this man cannot know I was watching him work like that.

“Birdie talked about you,” he says. “A lot.”

My heart drops. “She did?”

“You and Sara.”

“Probably more about Sara. She’s more exciting.”

“Mmm,” he muses again, returning to the steadily forming dough. “No. Both of you. You were …”

“The more serious one?”

He chuckles. “The responsible one. She worried about you sometimes.”

I look down at my feet and inhale. But my eyes travel to the binder like they have a mind of their own.

Dear Sara.

Cliff stares at me with his eyebrows stitched in the middle, like he can hear the circles I was running through in my head.

“Everyone here saw pieces of Mom I didn’t,” I murmur on a breath, and one look at Cliff’s attentive face has me adding, “Or … didn’t want to maybe.” I part my lips, in shock that I even said that, and I quickly close them again. “Just … if I’m being honest.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Fair enough.” He clears his throat. “You know, your relationship with Birdie reminds me a lot of Emily and her mom.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Emily and Tracy are … tumultuous together, to say the least. You seem that way with Birdie.”

I swallow and don’t address it. “Emily’s a teenager. Of course they’re tumultuous.”

“It’s more than that. Tracy makes it obvious that Emily was unplanned. That she’s the reason we’re tied together.”

My mouth drops open. “Do you think that?”

“Hell no,” he snaps so quickly that I almost jump back. “Emily was a surprise. And, sure, I’m now tied to Tracy in some way for the rest of our lives. But that’s not Emily’s burden. And it’s unfair that Tracy puts that on her.” He looks into the flour as his smile tugs his mouth to the side, like whatever thoughts are going through his brain soothe him. “For all we’ve put her through, Emily’s such a great kid. I feel like I blinked, and suddenly, she has opinions and interests. And it’s weird that she’s into boys—and not just boys, but … boys with hormones and peach fuzz.” He shakes his head with a breathy laugh.

“Do you miss when she was Brittany’s age?” I ask.

“Yes. And no.” He shrugs with another smile. “Every phase gets better and better. She’s a little bit of a jerk sometimes, but, God, I love that about her. She’ll probably kill Josh if he ever hurts her.” He chuffs out a laugh. “If I don’t get to him first.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, thanks for that.”

“For what?”

“Listening.”

“You talk so much; it’s hard not to.”

He smirks. “I know.”

“And you’re very open about your ex.”

“There’s no point in keeping any of it to myself now. Don’t you feel the same?”

“No,” I admit.

“No?”

“Just because you don’t have anything to be ashamed of from your marriage doesn’t mean I don’t.”

Removing his hands from the dough, he tilts his head to the side with a smile. I can already tell I’ve presented a challenge he can’t resist.

“Tell me one single secret, Michelle.”

“A secret?”

“That’s what I said.”

“No.”

I distract myself by grabbing my turkey sandwich. He eyes it before quickly averting his gaze. When he looks away, I switch it out for the ham.

“Aren’t we friends?” he teases. “I told you about Tracy. Tell me about what’s-his-face.”

“Allen,” I correct.

“Right. The loser.”

“He’s not a loser. He’s … well, he’s a doctor actually.” I give a pointed stare. “Not a loser.”

“He’s a loser,” Cliff repeats, moving back to kneading dough. “Why else would he cheat on you? You’re stunning.”

My heart skips as I stammer, “Wh-what?”

“That’s not an opinion. That’s a fact. You are. Even when you scowl at me.”

Then, slowly, Cliff peers up through hooded eyes, scanning from my lips down to my waist and back up. Goose bumps press into the fabric of my shirt.

“You’re stunning. And he’s a bonehead.”

I click my tongue and nod. “That’s … well … thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

I shift from one foot to the other, eyeing his moving arms … the little popping veins and—

“You mentioned another life,” I say.

“When?”

“Upstairs. Before the bakery. What did you do?”

“Sales.”

“That’s not bad,” I say. “I work in advertising.”

“And do you like it?” he asks.

“I love it.”