If It Makes You Happy(64)

I flip up the lanky hood, then put on the mask again. It’s difficult to breathe under the plastic and mesh.

When I tsk to myself, Emily laughs. “Trust me, you’re gonna be the coolest guy out there.”

“I’m already cool.”

“As if. You could use more coolness.”

“I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

“Not Michelle?” she taunts under her breath.

A rope lassos around my chest so tight that I almost cough. I rip off my mask and nervously fiddle with my black glove, pulling it farther up my wrist.

“She’s already intimidated by how cool I am,” I joke. “Why make it worse for her?”

Emily blows on her nails. “No, you’re not nearly cool enough for Michelle.”

“Why does it matter?”

She gives me that slack-jawed expression that is normally followed by a duh. Instead, she sighs, silently puts on her cat ears, and rises from the end of her bed.

“Oh, Dad,” she finally says on a pitying sigh.

“I’m considering grounding you again.”

“Dad!” Brittany runs into the room with her unicorn pillowcase gripped in her fist. “Look!”

I look down at her, and my jaw drops. Without hesitation, Emily bursts out laughing.

My six-year-old daughter is wearing a bald cap. It’s not even a well-placed bald cap, or maybe she pulled at it too much. The top of her head looks like an overgrown mushroom. Strands of hair stick out underneath. Scribbled under her nose and along her chin is a black goatee. She’s wearing jeans and a black vest I vaguely recognize as the black bedsheets that were on Bird & Breakfast’s floor last week.

“Wow,” I breathe. “Em, have you seen Brittany? Because I think”—I lower my voice to a guttural tone—“Steve Austin just entered the room!”

I flex my arms, dip down, and throw her over my shoulder. Brittany screams through uncontrollable giggles as I run to Emily’s bed and toss her onto the mattress.

“Wait, Dad, Steve always wins!” Brittany pouts—or at least she might if she wasn’t laughing so hard.

“Oh, right.” I smack my palm on my forehead. “My bad.” I fall backward on the bed and lie still as Brittany pushes down on my shoulders.

Emily smacks her hand on the sheets. “One, two, three! And Steve Austin wins!”

Brittany raises her arms in victory.

I pick her up again, swinging her in the air as Emily and I chant, “Undefeated champion! Undefeated champion!”

“Oh, wait!” Brittany squirms in my arms until I set her down. She runs out the door. “I forgot something!” Her voice is a distant echo as she scrambles down the hall to her bedroom.

I look back at the mirror and find Emily already staring at me.

I jump. “What?”

“I could talk to Michelle if you want,” Emily says.

My heart does that stuttering thing again. “I can talk to Michelle on my own.”

“Yeah, but what about—”

Brittany runs back into the room. There’s a click and then a flash of light. Black darkens my vision, followed by tiny bubble-like spots. I rub my eyes and blink the room back into sight. That’s when I see the yellow disposable camera in Brittany’s tiny palms.

I laugh. “Where’d you get that?”

“Miss Shell gave it to me!”

If my heart jumps into my throat one more time tonight, I swear I’m gonna pass out. I don’t know the last time I felt this disoriented. It’s so unnerving to be taken off guard by the mention of a single person—a person I have no business getting nervous over.

“That was really nice of her,” I say. “Did you tell her thank you?”

“Oh.” She lowers the camera. “No.”

I pat Brittany on the back. “Let’s make sure we do when we see her. All right, trick-or-treat time. Before it gets crowded out there.”

Emily’s clear purple phone rings on her dresser, and she instantly picks it up.

I groan. “Em—”

“One second,” she whines.

“Make it quick,” I instruct. “We gotta move.”

But I don’t think she hears me past her giddy, “Hi, Josh.”

I grab my Ghostface mask and nudge Brittany along, murmuring, “We’re giving her five minutes, and then we scare her.”

Brittany giggles in agreement.

We take the stairs down to the living room. The front door swings open, bringing in the booming music, screams, and childish laughter from the sidewalks, where kids dressed as ghosts, mummies, and devils run by. Carol crosses over the threshold in a black wig and pointed hat before slamming the door shut behind her. The busy trick-or-treaters are muffled once more.

“You’re a witch again?” I ask.

“It’s the only costume I have,” Carol says, plopping on the couch and clicking the TV remote. “I almost ran over a few kids to get here.” She quickly flicks through channels until she stops on a familiar slasher movie. “I’ve never seen this one.” She settles into the cushions.

I clutch Brittany’s shoulders and rotate her toward the kitchen.

“What is that?” she asks, peering around my legs at the TV, where a man is now raising a revving chain saw.