If It Makes You Happy(61)

“Maybe I would,” he admits. “Let’s see … what do you want to know?”

“How are you?”

“How am I?” he asks back. “Huh. I don’t know. The bakery is exploding. Emily has a boyfriend. And Brittany keeps telling me she wants to be a wrestler. So, you could say I’m a little more stressed than usual. And Trace is …” He pauses. “I don’t know. Concerned, I guess. Typical mom stuff.”

I slide my pendant across the necklace, twisting and trying to think of what to say to that. I never know how to react when he brings up Tracy. They were together for so long that anything I might say feels inappropriate. How could my five years of marriage compare to his fourteen?

“She’s a good person,” he continues. “Things are”—he sighs—“complicated.” Cliff throws me a weak smile. “But, hey”—he huffs a laugh—“I have no room to talk. I’m exhausting.”

My face falls. “No, you’re not.”

He shoots me a look, and I shrug.

“I mean, yes, but … it’s an exhausting that makes you, you. I think most people like it.”

He lets out a heavy exhale. “Listen, I’ve been told most of my life that there’s a lot of me to go around. You don’t need to be nice about it.”

“Well, if you’re exhausting, so am I,” I say. “High-maintenance. Argumentative. Abrasive. According to my ex, boring.” I scoff.

“First off, never call yourself that,” he says sternly with a pointed finger. “And second, what I’m hearing are other words. Classy. Opinionated. And intimidating to people who can’t handle strong women. Which I really like about you.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m closed off.”

“You open up to people you like.”

“I don’t like anyone.”

“Yes, you do. You like me.”

My chest stutters, and I curl my lips in. “Sometimes,” I tease.

“Sometimes is better than not at all.”

The song changes on the radio again. I recognize it this time. It’s not difficult to place Eddie Vedder’s mumbled crooning. I sway to it a little, but I instantly freeze when I catch Cliff gazing at me with the corner of his mouth tilted up.

“What?”

“Want to dance?” he asks.

“To what? Pearl Jam?”

The rest of Cliff’s smile spreads over his face. “Yes.”

I scoff. “We are not going to slow dance to Pearl Jam.”

“Oh, yes, we are.”

He slowly walks over to where I lurk. He tucks a palm into my elbow so that I release my crossed arms, sliding one of my hands into his and wrapping the other around my lower back. I suck in a breath when he tugs me closer and lowers his cheek down to meet the side of mine.

And then we sway.

Eventually, he takes a step forward, and I take one back. He steps to the side, and I follow. I’m being guided through a dance. I hate being guided. But with Cliff, it doesn’t feel like he’s taking control. He’s moving with me in tandem. It’s a dance that takes two—not the overwhelming power of one.

“I remember the first time I heard this song,” he murmurs, his warm breath tickling my ear. I can feel it down to my neck. “I was driving Emily to the doctor. She was coughing up a storm. Poor kid was miserable, and I was at the end of my rope. Hadn’t slept in days. But when this came on the radio, it was like her coughing suddenly stopped. I don’t know how to explain it. She says she remembers that night too. Or maybe I’ve told the story so many times that it feels real to her.”

“I like that story,” I whisper.

“Mmm. It’s a great song and all, but that kind of memory should have been associated with … I don’t know … something other than Eddie Vedder.”

I snicker. “Want to know a secret?”

“A Michelle secret? Finally.”

“I actually love this song.” He chuckles against my neck, and I continue. “Allen hated this song.”

“Who could possibly hate this song?”

“It’s funny; we met when I was twenty-three, and it didn’t matter what it was … if I liked it, it was too young for him. Too childish.”

“You? Childish?”

“He also hated Pretty in Pink. Don’t even get me started on that.”

“How old was this guy?”

“Allen is twelve years older than me.” Cliff remains silent, and a little part of me is embarrassed. “I think I liked that he was … an adult, you know? That I didn’t have to take care of him like I did my mom or my sister. That maybe I could be taken care of.” I breathe out a laugh. “Is that stupid?”

Cliff squeezes me closer to him. “Not even a little bit. You deserve to be taken care of, Michelle.”

I swallow down his words. “And the woman who called me … she couldn’t have been more than twenty-two either. Maybe he didn’t like that I’d gotten older. I don’t know.”

Cliff laughs again, but it doesn’t feel like it’s at my expense. The sound rumbles through me, over my shoulders and down my spine, where it settles into his palm, like he’s holding my nerves close. Protecting them.