If It Makes You Happy(83)

“Huh.”

We slowly walk back into the circle of light, and I watch his face come into view. No lines. Not a smile in sight.

“We were talking about you getting back out there,” I quickly explain. “This would be perfect. I know you. I know my sister. You’re both really happy people.”

He snorts. “Is that the recipe for a good date?”

“Maybe. You’re the baker, aren’t you?”

He huffs out a half laugh. His sneakers scratch on the concrete as he lingers in the last bit of darkness before the next lamppost. I stop a few paces ahead of him. My fingers won’t leave my necklace.

I hear him sigh. “Why are you pushing this whole getting out there thing, Michelle?”

My lips part as I think, but I can’t find the proper words. I must take too long because what starts as a pause in the conversation turns into awkward silence, and Cliff isn’t covering it like he usually might. He wants an answer.

“Because you deserve a chance at happiness,” I finally breathe out.

His palms shift in his pockets. His foot scuffs on the concrete.

It’s painfully quiet, so I finally add, “She’s your type.”

Cliff hisses in a breath, and slowly he starts taking steps toward me. One. Then another. I’m breathless as he stalks closer, crossing into the beam of light above us. I can finally see him again. His eyebrows are tilted inward. His chest is suddenly only inches from mine.

“Uh-huh,” he muses, his voice low as his blue eyes flick between mine. “And what is my type, Michelle?”

I straighten my spine. “Blond. Bubbly.”

He tongues his cheek. He looks irritated, but that only makes me stand taller. He’s never been like this with me, and I don’t know what to do with it.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Blond. Bubbly. That pretty perfectly describes the woman I divorced.”

The words ooze with disdain. It’s like getting shot in the chest, puncturing my heart so swiftly that I didn’t see it coming.

“Are you mad at me now?” I ask sharply.

Cliff exhales, some of the tension in his shoulders releasing, as if he just realized he was stressed at all. He threads his fingers through his hair, letting the strands drop back into place. “I don’t think this is a great idea. I barely know her.”

“That’s the point of a date, isn’t it?”

His jaw ticks as he looks off to the side. “I don’t know, Michelle …”

“Don’t you want to finally move on?” I ask.

He blinks, staring at me. Staring through me.

“I’ll think about it,” he murmurs.

“Good.”

“Good.”

Rocket tugs on the leash, pacing ahead like he wants out of this conversation as much as I do.

We continue our walk, and Cliff is only tense for half a block before we’re talking normally again. Sort of laughing. Pretending like the conversation didn’t happen. But there’s a small edge to every word. A sharp cut.

I don’t address his attitude because there’s no point.

I know what I did, and it isn’t worth it to start an argument I know I’d lose.





CHAPTER 26





Cliff




I don’t want to go on a date with Michelle’s sister.

It’s not that Sara isn’t cute. She’s very pretty—perky, I guess would be the best descriptor. Smiley with dimples that I could tuck my thumbs into and blue eyes that would make any man with half a brain, or even none at all, completely obsessed with her.

Unfortunately, I’ve developed this irritating attraction to sour, controlling brunettes. I can’t say no to Michelle. And that is why I’m five minutes away from picking up this woman’s sister for a date.

“I’ll reserve you a table,” Lars says over the phone.

I groan. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

“But it is a big deal.”

“It’s really not.”

“I set out flowers.”

“Lars.”

I hear the dial tone before I can argue more.

I sigh. We’re set to have dinner at Lars’s pizzeria in the square. Inevitably, all of Copper Run will see, gossip, and ask questions for the next three to five business days.

I should have anticipated this, but when I asked Sara on a date, all I thought was, If this will make Michelle happy …

I throw on my best sweater, khakis, and a loose sports coat. I look at myself in the mirror, running a hand through my hair and shaking it out.

“Christ,” I murmur, threading fingers through it again and again but stopping because The Flop? will never go away unless I get a different haircut.

I’ve only been on two first dates in my entire life. The first was at sixteen, when my parents drove me and Tracy to the theater. I paid for popcorn with my birthday money. And then we conceived Emily a couple of weeks later.

The second date was one month after I signed my divorce papers. Carol told me there was passion out there and that I needed to find it. I looked into ads and called a woman who said she loved kids. I drove into Burlington too early, realizing at the hostess stand that I hadn’t made reservations for the restaurant. We went to a sandwich shop down the road instead, talked about our jobs and the future—she wanted three of her “own kids,” then, “no, maybe five”—and then decided not to get dessert. I never called her back, and she never called me either.