If It Makes You Happy(60)

“Good?” he asks.

“One of your best.”

I gently place it back in the box, but that only makes him sigh.

I wipe my lips with a spare napkin. “You seem like you’re never satisfied.”

“Because I’m not,” he answers matter-of-factly. “So, how was your day?”

“You’re gonna change the subject like that?”

“I am. Busy day?”

I know there’s no redirecting once Cliff has his mind set, so instead, I nod and follow his lead. “Yeah. I got a call from my sister.”

“Bad news?”

“No. She and my dad will be here for Thanksgiving.”

“Paulie!” Cliff calls out to nobody. “Miss that guy.”

Paulie. Birdie.

I close my eyes. God, that woman called me by my mom’s name.

Why did that feel so … weird?

The radio’s song changes to some other vague popular rock ballad. I cross one of my boots over the other and continue watching him roll dough. I sigh.

Cliff randomly laughs and squints at me. “So, do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

My head jerks up. “Hmm? No.”

He pops his lips. “Fair enough, then.”

“That’s it?”

He pushes the heel of his palm into the dough and shrugs. “Well, if you want to keep it to yourself, that’s your business. Not mine.”

I open my mouth, then shut it, trying to process this new logic.

This is so different from how Allen insisted I talk. Now, when I tell Cliff that I don’t want to, he lets me exist in the way that makes sense for me. I don’t know how to handle that type of understanding. Ironically, it makes me want to talk more. Maybe that’s what Cliff wants. Maybe it’s reverse psychology. But something tells me it isn’t.

“Actually, yes.” I change my answer. “I want to talk about what’s bothering me.”

Cliff stops working and slaps his palms together, sending flour up in a cloud. He smiles. “My attention is all yours, Michelle.”

I roll my head to the side, inhale, and say, “Someone called me Birdie today.”

His face falls. “Oh.”

“It’s fine.”

“How did you feel about it?”

I shrug. “I think it reminded me that I’m managing her inn.”

“Is that a bad thing?” he asks.

“No,” I admit. “I’ve been running on autopilot. I forgot that a world exists outside of this one. I’ve been”—my eyes catch on his forearms and how they pop out from being folded over his broad chest before looking away—“distracted.” Quickly, I add, “It was weird, hearing about her again.”

Even though I bounce my eyes to every place possible, clenching and unclenching my grip on my elbows, Cliff’s eyes remain steady on me.

“I wish I knew more about her life here,” I continue. “That I had more of the memories of her that you have. Maybe more pictures.”

“Don’t tell Brittany that.” He snorts. “I already told her about the camera idea.”

“Now she won’t stop talking about it?” I ask.

“All the time,” he groans. “So, what do you want to know about Birdie?”

The question guts me. It’s like I snuck out of the serious conversation, and now I’m being nudged back in.

I hesitate before asking, “Was she kind?”

“Incredibly.”

“She looked after Brittany?”

“Like she was her own grandkid.”

I smile. “I used to love seeing her with Sara.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” I muse. I rest my hip on the wall beside me. “They’d run around the yard together all the time. Mom always had rosebushes, even at the house we grew up in. Sara would pluck them out, and Mom would get so angry. But it was all pretend, you know? Nobody actually stays angry with Sara,” I admit with a smile.

“And where were you?” Cliff asks.

My eyes jerk to his. “What do you mean?”

“While they were playing outside with roses, where were you?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Inside. Reading maybe.”

“You didn’t want to go outside?”

My face falls, and I swallow. “I never really felt invited.”

“That doesn’t sound like Birdie.”

“It was complicated. She was sad a lot when I was little. But when Sara came, it all seemed to make sense again. She was a breath of life into our family. I can’t explain it.”

“I like how you talk about your sister,” he says.

“She’s my favorite person in the world,” I admit.

The gentle smile that spreads over his lips sends a warmth trailing over me, rising up my neck to my cheeks.

“I think that’s enough feelings talk from me right now,” I murmur.

He nods. “Fair enough.”

“Your turn,” I say, nudging my boot out, as if prompting him. “You have enough feelings for the both of us.”

He barks out a laugh. “Do I?”

“Oh yes. I bet you’d cry at the drop of a hat.”