If It Makes You Happy(98)

“Why’d you run?”

To talk to you.

“I forgot something,” I lie. I wonder if she can tell.

On her end of the line, I hear a door open and close. There’s a distant clicking on linoleum—maybe Rocket—then a hiss of wind. She must have stepped outside.

“It’s breezy here today,” she says. “Smells kinda like fall, kinda like Christmas.”

I breathe in, the smell of dank bus stop air like a swift, unwelcome kick to my senses.

“Smells like garbage here,” I say through a laugh. “I think there’s sewage nearby. Nothing to phone home about.”

“Well … except you did.”

I can picture the teasing at the edge of her lips. God, I can imagine how beautiful it is.

Home. I smile to myself even though she can’t see me—especially because she can’t see me.

I grin. “I guess I did, huh?”

Michelle sighs. “I’m sorry the girls left, Cliff.”

I shuffle my feet against the concrete. “Yeah … thanks.”

A silence passes between us, at first a little nice and comforting like before, but then it lasts too long, and Michelle makes a small, breathy noise, like she wants to speak but can’t.

“So, I set up the bed for you,” I finally say.

“Oh. Well, I won’t be over until probably late,” she says almost aimlessly. “Working, you know.”

“Right. Well, I’ll be in Emily’s room if you need me.”

I hike my shoulders up to my ears as a gust of wind blows by. I know my unease isn’t from that though.

“Good,” she says.

“Yeah. So, I’ll … see you tonight, I guess.”

“Good,” she repeats. “Sounds like a plan. And thanks again, Cliff.”

“Absolutely,” I answer. “Uh, hey, I should let you go,” I say. “Off the phone.” I don’t know why I felt the need to clarify, but the fact that I did stabs me hard.

“Sure,” she agrees on a breath. “I’ll see you at Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

The implication of not seeing each other before then hangs in the air.

“Yeah. I’ll see you then.”

I hang up and groan in the empty parking lot.

She’s stubborn. I guess so am I. But when you like someone—as a friend or more—you take the good with the bad, and I like Michelle because of her stubbornness and not in spite of it.

I have a feeling I’m the biggest sucker in the world.



I stare up at the starry ceiling in Emily’s bed. Leonardo DiCaprio stares back. I avert my eyes to the clock on the side table. It’s one in the morning. I’ve been awake since Michelle came in at eleven, but I haven’t moved an inch. Just me and Leo.

Inhaling, I throw back the covers and open the door. I need water. Air. Something.

I quietly take the stairs down to the kitchen, but when I reach the tiles, Michelle is already sitting at the nook, papers drawn out in front of her. Rocket lies at her feet.

I halt in the doorway. My entire body heats. She has her legs crossed at the knees, poised in a matching dark gray silk pajama set. Unwrinkled and pristine. Over her chest is the pendant necklace she now winds between her fingers. Her face is bare. Lashes aren’t as long as usual. Her complexion is uneven. Lips are light pink. It’s the first time I’ve seen her without makeup, but even without her armor, she’s stunning.

Her eyes travel down to my chest and back up. I’m in my boxers, and I’m not wearing a shirt. My chest, covered in wisps of brown hair, is on full display.

“I didn’t think you’d be up,” I say stupidly.

“Working.”

An empty coffee cup rests by her hand.

“I see.”

“Sorry if I was making noise.”

“You weren’t. I like your pajamas.”

She looks down at herself. Her chest flushes red. It always does when I compliment her. It’s the best part.

“Do you want some crepes?” I ask.

The corner of her mouth rises. “You don’t have to bake for me whenever you see me.”

I chuckle. “My burden in life is to bake for everyone.”

She eyes the stove, then me. “If you must.”

“I must indeed.”

I click on the stovetop as she goes back to her papers. The silence is weirdly uncomfortable—something that doesn’t make sense for us—but it doesn’t last long. I’m not capable of quiet.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “For the other morning. Not talking about things.”

“It’s all right. I didn’t talk either.”

Then the kitchen is silent once more. I pull down a plate. It gently clatters to the counter. Every cabinet is an echo as I find ingredients. The fridge is a loud whir.

I don’t know what I expect from a midnight encounter with Michelle, but it’s more than this. More than a silent one a.m. session of quietly making crepes while her pen scribbles over paper.

Rocket walks over, nudging his nose against my calf.

I tear off a piece of finished crepe and say, “Sit.”

He drops down.

Well, look at that.

“Good boy.”