If It Makes You Happy(79)

“Oh, Cliff,” he says, finally looking over at me with a lopsided smile. “What a character. He’s a good boy though.”

“I’ve told him the same thing. Well, I called Rocket a good boy, and then Cliff thought—” I smile and wave my hands in the air. “You know what? Doesn’t matter.”

I feel so silly with my stories from this town, especially ones with Cliff that never sound quite as funny as they did during the moment.

The little time Dad spent thinking about happy things is slowly replaced with melancholy as he sees the baby angel statue near the porch—the one with tiny wings, thick ankles, and a mischievous smile.

“Your mom loved that guy,” he says. “Did you know his name is Stu?”

“I didn’t. Cliff calls him Chunky Charles.” One of too many inside jokes with Cliff.

Dad snorts out a laugh. It’s half-hearted, but I’ll take anything I can get. He sighs. I place a hand on his forearm.

“Are you okay, being here?” I ask.

He pats my knee. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else for Thanksgiving.”

“I’m sure Lisa and George will be thrilled that you’re in town too.”

“How are they doing?”

“They’re good. Nosy, as always,” I say with a light smile. “But good.”

“And the inn?” he asks, his tone changing with worry. “It’s doing well?”

“It’s doing great,” I say confidently. “In fact, I made cinnamon rolls. They’re fresh. I’ve been told they’re divine.”

Dad nods. “Good, Shells. Good.”

“Let’s head inside, all right?”

But before I get out of the car, Dad reaches out to stop me.

I look to his hand on my forearm and back up. “Are you all right?” I ask.

“I like that you’re smiling again.”

My heart skips a beat, and I choke out a laugh. “Well, it’s hard not to when you and Sara are here.”

“It’s not me,” he says, giving me a pointed stare. “You’ve caught the bug of this town. I can tell.”

For some reason, a lump catches in my throat.

“Come on,” I respond with a weak smile. “Let’s get inside.”



That night, the Bird & Breakfast dining room is more crowded than I’ve ever seen. On one side of the long table are me, Emily, my dad, and George. Across from us are Sara, Cliff, Carol, and Lisa. At the head of the table, far away from Rocket lying at my feet, sits Brittany. She fluctuates between sitting proud and cautiously squirming as she keeps a very suspicious eye on Rocket.

“This pot roast is fantastic,” Cliff says, raising his forkful. “Really good stuff, Michelle.”

It’s objectively not good.

Emily walked me through how to make pot roast earlier that afternoon. It’s painfully dry, but Cliff keeps complimenting it loudly, almost like he’s prompting the cacophony of assent from the rest of the table.

I tear off a piece and bend down to let Rocket sniff it. He turns his head away.

Don’t poison me, Shelly.

I can always count on Rocket’s honesty. But when Cliff reaches under the table with a piece of the bread, Rocket trots closer and nibbles it from his fingers. Since Halloween, I think he might like Cliff a little more.

See? He likes it, Cliff mouths to me, tossing me a wink.

Air catches in my throat, and I start coughing, having to take gulps of water to stop. Emily claps my back as my heart thrums in my chest so hard that I’m worried it will burst out. That wink should be illegal.

“So,” Cliff says, scooting out his plate and steepling his fingers, “how’s California been, Paulie? Catch any rays?”

Dad smiles. “It’s gorgeous every single day out there.” But his words are quick and closed off with no room left for discussion. He tips back his wineglass.

George pats his arm.

“That’s great,” Cliff says slowly, with an unnatural grin.

He flashes me wide eyes, as if to say, What now?

I clear my throat. “Sara, how’s school? Emily has been dying to hear about it.”

Emily nervously laughs. “I haven’t been, like, dying.”

She’s maintaining her cool. I curl my lips in, and Cliff shakes his head with a partial eye roll and smile.

“I saw that, Dad,” Emily shoots over with a snarl.

“You saw nothing,” he counters.

Sara leans in toward Emily. “You would love art school. Drawing at all hours of the night to meet deadlines. Waking up early for critiques.”

Emily scrunches her nose. “That sounds not fun at all.”

Cliff glances at me, and I feel that taut tether between us. The line of rope where I find him and he finds me, and we exchange a knowing look that nobody else notices.

“There’s nothing better than late-night sessions, even if everyone is tired in the morning. There’s always someone in the studio, so it’s constantly buzzing with creative energy. And sometimes we sneak in drinks.”

Emily sits up. “That’s what I’m talking about. Pass the wine, please?”

“Em,” Cliff says, “you’re sixteen.”

“You’re sixteen,” Brittany echoes with a giggle, wanting to be part of the argument.