If It Makes You Happy(48)

“Yeah, no, sure,” I say quickly, running my palm over my hair. “That makes sense.”

There’s an awkward silence before she asks, “Are you okay? You’re acting weird.”

I chuckle. “I’m always weird.”

Tracy hums in agreement, which I knew she might. My self-deprecating humor is her favorite type of humor.

“I’ll talk to the girls tomorrow,” she says.

I don’t miss the implication of Don’t call me before then.

I nod to myself. “Yeah. Talk then, Trace.”

I don’t get a goodbye, but I don’t care. I set down the phone after the dull dial tone blares, walking back to the window. Michelle’s bedroom is darkened once more.

Good.

I shouldn’t have been looking at anything anyway.





CHAPTER 14





Michelle




One week before Halloween, I meet Brittany at the bus stop—waving to the few other parents I see each day, who love saying hi—and within seconds, she unloads costume ideas onto me like confetti shooting from a cannon. It isn’t until her third utterance of “we” that I ask who she expects to make these over-the-top creations.

“You,” is her answer.

I laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Birdie made my Halloween costume last year. Emily normally makes it, but I liked it better when Birdie did.”

My chest twinges. “Oh really?”

I wasn’t aware I’d signed up for all of my mom’s local duties on top of running the bed-and-breakfast. Yet, two hours later, Brittany’s somehow suckered me into sitting on the floor in the parlor, cutting black bedsheets into pieces to the sound of Backstreet Boys on the stereo.

Emily walks in with her backpack slung over one shoulder, and Cliff trails behind her—a stack of letters in one hand and a box with Burke’s Bakery’s logo in the other. His eyes widen, taking in the fabric spread on the floor and the cut pieces and strings scattered in piles.

“It’ll look better than it does now,” I say.

“Do you sew?” Cliff asks.

“No.”

“Well then …”

“I’m trying my best.”

Emily, finally broken from her stunned state, bursts out laughing. “Oh, it looks bitchin’, Michelle.”

Cliff nudges her elbow with his. “Emily, come on. Language. We’re in her place of business.”

I smile at Emily as she raises her shoulders with a cheeky, “Oops.”

“Can you even tell what it is?” I ask.

“Not even a little,” Emily says.

“Miss Shell, can I get a snack?” Brittany asks, lying on the floor, feet swinging behind her and a crayon poised over punched paper, where she’s drawn a halfway-decent wrestling ring.

I nod. “Pop-Tarts are in the top cabinet.”

“Yay!” she yells.

“Em—” Cliff starts.

“I’ll get it for her,” Emily says, walking through the kitchen door.

I distantly hear the two sisters fighting over which flavor to get, then instantly dropping the argument to play with Rocket. It reminds me of Sara and me. What is a sisterly relationship if not tumultuous with immediate forgetfulness?

I look at the destroyed sheets on the floor, then to Cliff. He’s casually splayed out in the floral armchair near the fireplace. Cliff is the kind of guy who really relaxes into a chair, like he’s getting comfortable for hours to come, even if he’s only going to sit for five minutes. He parts his thighs momentarily before resting one ankle over the other knee and grinning with the box in his lap and mail on top.

While Cliff is cocky to a degree, I think I initially mistook it for arrogance. The lazy, lopsided grin. The raised eyebrows. The cheery lines beside his eyes. The natural confidence.

Allen was arrogant; Cliff doesn’t need to be.

He extends his hand out with the letters. “Mail?”

“It’s a federal crime to grab someone else’s mail.”

“Want me to stop?”

“No.”

I take the stack of envelopes and curl my legs under me on the ruffled floor cushion.

I eye the white pastry box. “Is that also for me?” I ask.

His grin only gets wider. “Why, yes, it is.”

“More weird baker things?”

“Absolutely.” He leans forward to hand it to me.

I open the box, and inside is a square cut of a layered pastry with a single plastic fork nestled beside it. It smells like honey.

I lift an eyebrow. “I’m assuming you want me to try it?”

“If you’d be so kind.”

I slide the fork through and take a small bite.

God, he’s so good at this.

It’s sticky and sweet against my tongue with almost a nutty flavor to it. Light flakes break between my lips, and when I swallow, I’m left with the lingering scent of cinnamon.

“It’s delicious,” I say, setting the box down.

However, Cliff looks disappointed, like he always does when I eat something of his.

“What is it?”

“Baklava,” he answers as if unimpressed with every crumb of it. He leans back in the chair with his chin propped in the palm of his hand. He stares at the box intently. “Too sweet, you think?” he asks.