If It Makes You Happy(42)

“The turkey and ham sandwiches, as usual,” I say.

“Oh, you must try the new secret sauce!”

“No, thank you.”

“You’ll never guess what’s in it, but I promise it’s good.” She spreads the sauce on the bread as if she didn’t hear me.

“Thanks, Betty.”

“Anytime, Shells!”

People in Copper Run love calling me by whatever they like, even though I don’t think I’ve given the impression that I like it even once. But the familiarity—the sweet little smile Betty gives me as she hands me the bag of sandwiches—makes the insult not so bad.

In the square, scarecrows lie abandoned beside the walkway. A giant felt spider is belly up beside stacked cardboard boxes with labels like LIGHTS and GHOULS and … FAKE BLOOD?

Cliff’s friend Lars is across the park, plunging stakes into the soft grass. He tosses me a friendly wave, as does the local florist, Sandra, who walks across the stone steps with her arms full of fall-colored bouquets.

I’m realizing quickly that it’s difficult to be alone in this town. I lived a quiet, efficient life in Seattle. Nothing here works like that.

Cliff stands at the top of a tall ladder beside the gazebo, stringing spiderwebs between the poles. His cheeks are red with exhaustion, even with the cool breeze whipping up. I smile a little at the sight of Cliff flushed.

“They roped you into decorating?” I ask.

He looks down at me, eyeing my white-knuckled fist around the bag of sandwiches. I hold the ladder steady while Cliff takes wobbling steps down.

“Betty call you Shells again?” he asks.

“Yes,” I mumble.

“The nerve!”

I flatten my lips in a line at his subsequent grin, and then I dig in the bag.

“Turkey for you,” I say, handing him the sandwich. “Topped with Betty’s new secret sauce she insists is good.”

“Oh no,” he moans.

We both sit on the bench inside the gazebo—Cliff on my left and a deflated blow-up ghost on my right.

“By the way, your booklet seemed to go over well,” I say.

His eyebrows rise. “Oh yeah? So, you made the pitch about—”

“The yard and decorations and all that,” I finish for him.

“Fantastic. See?” He waves his sandwich around because the man is incapable of not talking with his hands. “You’re getting the hang of things.”

“People smile around me more.”

“You’re a good person to smile around,” Cliff says, taking a bite.

He does things like that—giving casual compliments like they’re Halloween candy. I never know how to react, and I used to think that was his intention. Shock and awe. But now … now, Cliff throws out nice things without any pause for recognition.

“Betty was right,” he says, gesturing with his sandwich. “The sauce is good. Try it.”

I take a bite, and my face must contort because he chuckles.

“What’s wrong?”

I shake my head and wince, barely getting out a muffled, “I think the secret sauce is mustard.”

“You hate mustard?”

I nod, then reluctantly swallow.

Cliff laughs and takes another bite of his own sandwich with an exaggerated “Mmm.”

I point the sandwich toward Rocket. “Want it?”

Even Rocket sniffs at the yellow sauce staining the bread. He turns his head away. Filth.

“Agree.”

Cliff throws a thumb over his shoulder. “I have some leftover croissants from this morning if you want one.”

“Please.”

“Good, and if you’re not gonna eat that …” He reaches out for the sandwich.

“All yours.”

I smack my hands together to dust off the breadcrumbs.

I sigh.

“Yes?” Cliff asks through a smile.

“Well, there’s still no glowing guest book notes.”

“Did you expect someone to call it the Taj Mahal?”

“Maybe.”

He squints with a smirk. “You never fail, do you?”

I straighten my posture and scoff, “Of course I do.”

“When?”

I tilt my head to the side, as if to say, You’re being ridiculous, which happens a lot around Cliff.

“It’ll take time,” he says, leaning in.

The sandwiches in his hands almost touch my shoulder as he waves them around. I bat the bread away. He laughs.

“You’ll get a guest who appreciates all these changes. I’m not worried about it, Michelle.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. I like that he says my full name, mostly because I know it’s intentional. Cliff might lean too close or ask too many personal questions that catch me off guard, but he knows how to make people feel seen. Sometimes too seen.

He’s so different from me. If I’m autumn, he’s spring. He’s all smiles and glowing warmth. His blue eyes are so deep, like the first beautiful clear sky of the season. He likes to rest them on my breeze-blown hair, drift them down to my painted lips or to the cardigan falling off my shoulder.

He looks down at my stack of mail on the bench, then gasps. “Michelle, is this a birthday card?”