If It Makes You Happy(99)

I raise my eyebrows at Michelle. She manages a small smile before turning back to her work. That’s all I get.

It takes me a total of twenty minutes to finish up. I slide the dish across the table to her and save none for myself.

“Weird baker thing?” she teases.

“Sure,” I answer.

These won’t be her favorite—I know her tastes well enough by now—but I remain shameless when she takes a bite. Yes, I’m absolutely tactless as I watch the fork disappear between her gorgeous, plush pink lips. A dab of honey is nestled in the corner of her mouth, and she easily licks it away.

God.

“These are great,” she says.

“Good,” I reply.

She stands to take her plate, but I rise with her, grabbing the opposite side.

“I’ve got it,” I say.

Her eyes meet mine, and we freeze. Still as statues. Breathing in tandem. She’s close. So close. I could be closer if I dared.

I swallow, pulling in a deep breath. The plate pushes against her pajamas and my bare chest. I look down at her lips again, to the necklace resting in the divot of her collarbone, down to the gap in her pajamas with no bra and a peek of cleavage. My tongue flicks out to lick the corner of my lips, and I exhale.

When I look back up, her brown eyes—warm like the autumn leaves—flick between my eyes and my lips. They dip past my chin to my chest, to my checkered boxers, and back up to me. She chews on her bottom lip.

I want to say something. I always want to say something to her. But what is there to talk about now? We’ve gotten in this precarious situation with no real exit. She’s going to leave Copper Run. I’ll stay here. What is there to discuss?

I crane my neck closer. Her eyelashes start to flutter. I can feel her exhale on my chin. I want to reach out and place my thumb on her lips. I want to tilt her head back. I want to kiss her again.

It would be so easy …

But it’s never going to be easy with us. To wish for that would be naive.

I take a step back. Her breath leaves so shakily that it sounds like it hurts.

I walk over to the sink, rinse off the plate, then deposit it in the dishwasher. When I turn back around, she’s staring at me like a deer stuck in headlights.

“Good night, Michelle.”

Her throat bobs in a swallow. “G’night, Cliff.”

With all the strength I have, I cross the threshold out of the kitchen and go back through the dining room and upstairs again.





CHAPTER 32





Michelle




I normally like Thanksgiving. Normally.

“You’re a grinch,” Sara says, waving a floppy piece of ham my way.

I bat it away.

“The Grinch doesn’t like Christmas, Sara. Wrong holiday.”

Dad chuckles from the corner of the kitchen, mixing gravy. “I bet he loves Thanksgiving actually. Because it’s not Christmas.”

“Or,” Sara offers, dangling the ham piece down to Rocket, who jumps to snap it up, “he hates Thanksgiving because it’s the last holiday before Christmas. He knows it’s coming. It’s like the day before school. Nobody likes the day before school.”

My dad and I exchange a look, then both shrug.

“Good point, honey,” he says with a twitching smile.

I didn’t realize I’d missed these conversations with my family. It’s been years since we’ve spent this much time together. I always spent holidays with Allen’s family.

Thanksgiving was Mom’s favorite holiday. There were turkey-themed plates and thick cotton napkins with little autumn leaves. A cornucopia sat in the middle of the dining room table, overflowing with fruit. And the turkey was always burned. I tried many times to make my own. Hours and hours. Years and years. But at a certain point, it was a beloved tradition to have terrible turkey.

Once I was married, my traditions with Allen became quiet Thanksgivings. Dishes with neat garnishes instead of hefty butter. Polite politics and no dessert. It’s like I’ve taken steps back into childhood, like the last five years didn’t exist.

Sara didn’t make it out the last year either. She couldn’t afford the plane ticket across the country. I wish we had now. Dad is smiling again. I wonder if having his daughters close is the thing he’s most thankful for. Everything is different now, yet the same.

“This looks so good,” Sara says, dipping her finger in the gravy.

At that moment, Lisa storms into the kitchen and shoos her away. Sara, Dad, and I aren’t cooks. Lisa, however, is spearheading Thanksgiving almost as well as some project managers at my company. They should consider hiring her.

“Touch nothing, dear,” Lisa snaps.

George pokes his head in, flashing my dad a raised eyebrow.

Dad stiffly nods in understanding. “How can we help?” he offers.

Smart man, my dad.

“Lars is bringing deviled eggs.” Lisa crosses to the oven, pulling out a green bean casserole. “Carol is bringing potato salad. The girls … well, normally, Emily makes a boxed brownie recipe that Cliff hates,” she says with a chuckle.

Cliff.

My palms shake every time I pass the back door. I know he’ll be walking in at any moment, and after last night, I’m even more on edge than I should be. I can’t endure another night at his house.