If It Makes You Happy(49)

“I think everything you make is delicious.”

“Hmm,” is all he says in return. He taps his finger on the chair’s arm, then finally refocuses on me. “Oh, I like your sweater today. Brings out your eyes.”

My face flushes as I scoff out a laugh. The man loves when his compliments disarm me because his smile always reaches the little wrinkles beside his eyes. I tug at the sleeves, which suddenly feel too tight against my skin.

“You know, I was thinking—” he continues.

“Oh no,” I interrupt with a bubbling laugh, trying to break myself out of my spiraling thoughts about his smile.

He throws me a smirk.

I chew my bottom lip, biting back another laugh. “Okay, what were you thinking, Cliff?”

“What if I got a camera?”

“Like a camcorder?”

“Or maybe even a disposable.”

“Why?” I ask, slicing open an envelope with my finger. I set it in a separate pile for bills.

“So organized,” he observes in awe.

“Finish your previous thought.”

“Oh. Right.” He adjusts in the seat, leaning further into his elbow. “Well, I barely have any home videos of Emily when she was Brittany’s age. I want to make more memories. I’m not good about that.”

“Aw. That’s cute.”

“We couldn’t afford a camera back then. But I can now.”

“Then do it.”

I sort through piece after piece of mail, placing each with bills or junk.

“Yeah, let’s say I get a camera though,” he continues. “What if I don’t use it?”

“Then the girls can.”

He grits his teeth. “Well, then I’d get pictures of Josh though, wouldn’t I?”

He looks at me as if expecting laughter, but I shrug.

His eyes widen. “What? Are we not making fun of the kid anymore?”

“Maybe—”

Cliff gasps. “She got to you. You’re a double agent. You’ve been compromised.”

I tongue my cheek to hold in a laugh. “You know … maybe we should give him a chance. Let him come over for dinner or something. Don’t you trust her?”

He pulls in a breath and sighs. “Yes.”

“At least spend an evening with him.”

Cliff hums for a second, then nods. “Fine. But you have to endure it too.”

“Don’t drag me down with you,” I say with a twitching smile as I sift through another letter.

“Oh, I’m dragging you,” he teases. “You’re coming with me, Michelle.”

My breath catches when I reach an envelope with fancy lettering. Very fancy, barely legible lettering. The type of illegible cursive only a doctor can achieve. My heart sinks.

“Michelle?” Cliff asks.

“Sorry …” I shake my head, closing my eyes and opening them again. But the loopy scrawl hasn’t disappeared. “Another birthday card.”

Cliff’s brow furrows, and for some inexplicable reason, when he holds out his hand, I place the card in his palm. I’m on autopilot now, and apparently, my default is to trust Cliff.

He tucks one long finger into the open gap and slides it through, ripping the envelope open and pulling out the card. He stares for a moment, then opens it. The front illustration faces me. It’s a bunny hopping over a lit cake.

Hopping You Have a Very Good Birthday.

Cliff, with his jaw tightened, flips the card around so I can see the inside too. There’s printed writing that reads a generic Happy Birthday! message, and the only written piece is a signature. The most I can make out is a very familiar A.

That’s all I received from my ex-husband for my thirtieth birthday. A messy signature, similar to every piece of paperwork I’ve seen him sign as a doctor.

I turn my face away. If the man loves anything, he loves cards.

“His secretary has a Rolodex of birthdays and anniversaries,” I murmur. “And she always sends presigned cards to his patients. He must have hired someone new. I guess I haven’t been taken off the list.”

I can’t believe this is what we’ve come to. An impersonal Hallmark card he probably snapped up at a grocery store in the checkout line, unaware it’d go to me. I feel humiliated. And angry.

I sniff back the burning behind my eyes.

“Whoa, hey now.” Cliff slides down from the armchair to the floor. He settles himself with one leg extended behind my back and the other knee bent beside my thigh. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Except I’m not. My hands are shaking.

He peers down at them, and slowly, gently, he takes one hand into his. It’s not intimate. He doesn’t thread his fingers between the grooves of my own. He simply holds it between his palms. But my heart still misses a beat. It does it again when I look at the set-aside birthday card.

“Talk to me,” he insists.

“It’s so frustrating that …” I exhale.

“Breathe.”

I swallow. “That I’m a stupid, impersonal card now. Everything meant … nothing.”

Cliff doesn’t ask me to clarify what “everything” is, which is good because I wouldn’t even know what to say. “Everything” could be our marriage. Our life. Me.