If It Makes You Happy(80)

“That’s not far off from twenty-one,” Emily argues.

“That’s five years,” Cliff counters. “Five years ago, you were eleven.”

Carol sips her own glass of wine. “Yeah, but she’s not asking to drink at eleven.”

Cliff tosses his hands up. “Okay, you two are being difficult to be difficult.”

“Daddy, can I drink?” Brittany asks.

“See what you did?” Cliff says to them.

Emily holds up her index finger and thumb to make the shape of an L on her forehead.

I lay down my fork. “All right, let’s bring the conversation back from the Burke comedy hour.”

“Hey!” Cliff says with a laugh, picking up a piece of broccoli and tossing it at my plate.

“I’m only speaking the truth.”

Sara looks between us, blinking at the quick exchange, and laughs. “If I knew what I was missing, I might have visited sooner,” she says, playfully leaning in to bump her shoulder against Cliff’s.

Cliff being Cliff, he grins at her and nudges back. My spine stiffens. I avert my eyes and shove another forkful of the terrible pot roast into my mouth.

“So, are you excited about taking over the inn?” Cliff asks.

Sara straightens up and nods. “Yeah! Of course. I already have ideas for painting the main hall.”

“Really?” he says, intrigued. “Big reno plans, huh?”

She shrugs, but it’s more to herself. “Nah, probably painting on the weekends or something.”

“I bet the guests would love your paintings throughout the house,” I encourage her.

Sara beams, sipping more of her wine. “Yeah, maybe.”

Over dinner, we talk about Copper Run’s decorations for Thanksgiving. Dad mentions they’re repeating old favorites, and the square is full of orange and brown bunting, cornucopias, and a sheet of poster board under the gazebo with hand turkeys, made from all the palms of the elementary kids in town. Cliff proudly says Brittany’s is front and center, at which Emily grumbles into her fork.

I nudge my elbow against hers. She side-eyes me.

Sara regales us with tales from art school, and Cliff keeps inserting his funny one-liners. Sara cackles at every one, touching his forearm as she does. My molars grind. I think Cliff is funny. But he’s an acquired-taste type of funny. Sara hasn’t had time to acquire it yet. Or maybe I didn’t understand him when we met. Maybe I judged him too harshly.

I swallow uncomfortably and offer to take the dishes, mostly full with food people have sufficiently pretended to like. I push into the kitchen. Rocket follows me, curling into his dog bed and burying his snout into the cushion crease.

I sigh. “Are you upset Britt isn’t saying hi?” I whisper.

He exhales through his nose.

“I’m sorry.”

The door swings in, and Sara stumbles through with her wineglass.

“Got another bottle?” she asks, shaking her glass through giggles.

My sister is cute when she’s tipsy. Her pink cheeks and dimpled smile are the human embodiment of champagne. Bubbly and sweet and always served at fun events.

“This might be the most I’ve seen you drink,” I comment with a smile.

“You should be drinking more.”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” I answer. Fact is, I don’t like being out of control of my own body.

“Art school made me one.”

“How do you have any time to paint?” I ask.

“Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud.” She pouts. “Do we have more wine?”

I reach up to the cabinet, past the row of tattered, used cookbooks and fake hanging vines, to Mom’s collection of wine. I pull one down.

“Whoa, Mom had a stash?” Sara gawks.

“I was as surprised as you.”

Sara raises her empty glass. “To Mom. She would be happy we’re here together.”

Sara pulls me in for a side hug. She smells like raspberries and bubble gum. Up close, I see she added glitter to her cheeks. I haven’t seen Sara in this kitchen yet. The floral wallpaper matches her pastel top. She fits in well.

“Maybe Mom’s here in spirit,” she says.

My stomach twists.

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“You’re so boring,” Sara teases.

I smile, twisting the screw into the cork and tugging.

“By the way,” she says, pulling back and pointing a finger at me, “you were right.”

“About?”

She darts her eyes to the closed door and leans in. “Cliff is so cute.”

My stomach drops right as the cork pops out.

“Yeah,” I quickly agree. “Yeah, he’s … handsome, I guess.”

I set the cork beside the wine, reaching out my hand for her glass. She almost drops the stem through my fingers. I catch it with both hands, and Sara covers her giggle.

I start to pour as she coyly says, “So …”

“So …”

She kicks her cute little boot over at me. “Anything there?”

“Where?”

“Between you and Cliff. I know you said there wasn’t, but something feels like it’s changed or whatever.”

The wine bottle clatters against the glass from my shaking hands. “Us? No. Oh. No. Not at all.”