If It Makes You Happy(73)

My foot shakes on the pedal. I haven’t been more than a block or two away from Michelle this past month, and after what happened between us tonight, I can’t help but feel uncomfortable with the distance. I don’t know what that says about me, but I’m sure it’s not a good thing.

I turn into the driveway, gently unbuckle Brittany’s seat belt, and carry her up to her bedroom. She only whines a little when I take off her shoes before tucking her into bed. She snatches her stuffed unicorn closer and snuggles under the covers without opening an eye.

I pass by Emily’s room. Her door is shut, and the light is off. I lightly knock but hear nothing in response.

The house is abnormally quiet, especially compared to how loud the streets were hours ago. It makes me uneasy.

I walk downstairs. A note by the phone says Lars called, along with George, Betty, and Sandra. I assume the whole town has heard about the incident by now.

I push through the back door, letting the screen snap closed behind me. My boots crunch across the leaf-filled driveway and snap over the cobblestone into Michelle’s yard. Carol and Michelle pause talking. I know I should say something, but I’m too distracted by Michelle’s worried eyebrows and parted lips.

Somewhere in the last month, we’ve become inseparable, and I don’t know when it started. It’s like how, one day, the leaves are bright and green, and then, suddenly, they’re flittering to the ground in dull browns and oranges. The seasons of our relationship changed without my consent. Now I don’t know what to make of us.

We kissed, but what does that mean?

I can imagine the smell of rosemary in her hair and taste the cinnamon on her lips, and I want to relive those kisses over and over. She’s leaving in two months—two months—which adds a wrinkle to everything.

A long-term plan doesn’t seem possible with Michelle’s job waiting for her across the country. It feels too optimistic. Irresponsible.

She loves Seattle. I won’t hold another person to Copper Run. I can’t.

“Well?” Carol asks. “Is Brittany okay?”

“She’s good. Three stitches.” The two words ring in my head again like a gong.

Michelle sighs. “Poor girl.”

I run a palm through my hair. “Yeah, she slept the whole way home.”

Carol pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and snickers. “Did you know you’re still dressed up?”

I look down at the massive black robe clinging to my chest, pooling over my boots, and flowing on the porch steps.

“I didn’t,” I answer, managing a laugh because I can’t imagine how I must have looked, rolling into the emergency room with my daughter in a bald cap and me dressed as 1997’s scariest serial killer. At least I didn’t have my mask. Michelle had knocked it off while we were …

I swallow. “Emily’ll get a kick out of that.”

Michelle and Carol exchange looks. I lean against the porch railing and cross my arms.

“How’s Emily?” I ask. “Is she okay?”

Both women cringe. I might laugh at the twin looks if it were under different circumstances.

“That bad?” I ask.

“She felt like she was being ignored,” Carol explains. “You know how sensitive she is with that.”

I groan and thread fingers through my hair again. Everything feels uncomfortable. This loose robe. My eldest daughter’s loneliness. The terrible truth I’ll have to tell my girls tomorrow, which will only make things worse. And then there’s the memory of kissing Michelle, which hangs over my head like an axe.

Carol slaps her knees. “Well, I should get going. I’m full with candy and drama.” She stands, saying goodbye to Michelle and clapping me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, Cliff.”

I place my palm on her hand and pat it. “Yeah, see you.”

Carol crosses the yard, back to our driveway, revs up her beater, and starts down the few blocks back to her house, leaving me and Michelle on the porch alone.

I scuff my boot on a porch plank and clear my throat. “Hey—”

“I—”

“No, you go first,” I say. I hop onto the railing, leaning forward with my hands clasped between my spread knees.

Michelle sits up straighter, crossing one knee over the other and setting her delicate hands in her lap. Always so pretty and composed.

She exhales. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” I ask.

“What isn’t there to be sorry about?” she says. “Sorry I distracted you from your daughters—”

“I chose that—”

“Sorry that Rocket scared Brittany—”

“He was spooked—”

“Sorry that I kissed you.”

Our overlapping words halt in that moment.

“You’re sorry that we kissed?” I ask.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” she says, not meeting my eyes for once.

“Me too.”

“And”—she twists her skirt between her fingers—“I’m only going to be in Copper Run for two more months. I have a life in Seattle, and you have your life in Vermont.”

“True—”

“And I like you, Cliff.” She lets out a disbelieving laugh.