If It Makes You Happy

Prologue

Michelle

July 1997

I prepared for today the best I could—set out my simple black dress, picked up flowers, met with the priest—but telling my family I’m divorced at my mother’s wake wasn’t on my list.

“I’m leaving in five minutes,” Allen whispers sharply in my ear.

“I know.”

“I will tell them if you don’t.”

I grit my teeth. “I know.”

Allen can’t miss his flight. Sure, my ex-husband could have booked it for tomorrow after the vigil, but if you’re no longer legally tied to a family, I guess it’s irrelevant whether you pay respects to your ex-mother-in-law.

I run my pendant along the thin necklace chain, watching the long line of visitors snake through the chapel. I force a smile at someone I don’t recognize.

I inhale sharply and evenly let it out. “We shouldn’t do this today.”

Allen looks away. His lip curls. “Yes, but we should tell them together. Today is our only option. It’s the right thing to do.”

The right thing to do.

Two months ago, a much peppier, younger woman than me called our house to say she didn’t know Allen had a wife. Like him, she also said telling the truth felt like “the right thing to do.”

I don’t point out his moral inconsistencies. There’s no point in arguing if I can’t win.

We should have told my family about our decision to get divorced. His family knew weeks ago. But when my mom’s health suddenly declined, it never felt like the right time. I was dotting the last i in the paperwork when Dad called, telling me she’d passed.

Allen clears his throat, running his palms over the beautifully tailored suit jacket. Most men might nervously fiddle with the buttons of their suit, but Allen isn’t the kind of man to show weakness in public. Not in his white coat at the hospital. Definitely not at a funeral.

A lot of those in attendance are from Mom’s former nursing days, and some are even my employees at work, but there are many more I don’t recognize. These strangers mourn in loose suits and abandoned fashions, like they scrambled to find appropriate garb. An older woman beside the last pew is wearing plum stockings. The man beside her is in glasses from the ’70s that swallow his cheeks.

“Who are these people?” I murmur.

Allen shrugs in response.

A family approaches the coffin—a man, a woman, and two daughters. They’re some of the new faces. The man wraps a large arm around a skinny teenage girl with stringy blonde hair curtaining her blotchy, tear-soaked face. A much younger girl is hiked on his hip, gripping his tie. The woman—I assume his wife—stands behind them with crossed arms and a bouquet of flowers.

I wonder if they’re happy. Allen and I decided—as a unit , like we always did—to not have children. We protected our careers and the nice townhome that couldn’t withstand crayons on the walls. Our rugs were too expensive for spilled milk. Children were too wild, and we were too … not .

I watch the dad set down his reaching little girl. He takes the bouquet from his wife, peering over the bobbing heads traversing their way through the small chapel. I wonder who he’s looking for. He swivels his eyes toward us, and his gaze lands on mine.

It snags , like a stuck zipper in fabric, jerking against my stomach and taking threads with it. My gaze can’t budge. His doesn’t either.

In some ways, he’s traditionally handsome—very much like Allen. His defined jaw is freshly shaved. The high cheekbones cut creases into his cheeks. His Adam’s apple sticks out from a thicker neck, dipping into a protruding collarbone, exposed through his unbuttoned white shirt and the loose tie his daughter tugged earlier. He’s taller than the other men in line. His broad shoulders fill out his suit. Yes, very traditionally good-looking.

But then there are other ways he’s attractive—the non-Allen features. His dark brown hair isn’t trimmed close— loose is the best way to put it, like maybe he tried pomade but ran a stressed hand through the strands too many times. His nose is slightly crooked at the bridge. And even though his lips are pulled in a taut line, there’s a small crease along one side of his mouth. It’s a laugh line that doesn’t know how to disappear, even at a funeral.

His thick eyelashes hood over, like he’s mentally extending a chair for me to join him in our silent, all-seeing space. He’s kicking his feet back. He’s not going anywhere.

I inhale a shaky breath. How can he seem so at ease, staring at a stranger? He lazily flicks his eyes to Allen, then back. I can feel his stare in the pit of my stomach, like maybe he can see what I’m hiding—like he knows about the divorce.

“Psst.”

My heart jumps into my throat at my sister’s voice. Sara’s head pokes out from the side door in the vestibule behind us.

“Shelly, come here.”

Allen rolls his eyes as Sara tugs me backward into the room. I attempt to steal one final look at the other man, but the door shuts in my face before I can.

In better circumstances, this room serves as a bridal suite. An oval cheval mirror is propped in the corner. Padded mahogany chairs circle a small table. I can still picture my three bridesmaids sitting in the corner five years ago—Sara, Allen’s sister, and my old college roommate. I don’t know the last time we spoke.

“You’ve got to talk to Dad,” Sara rushes out.

I blink and nod. “Okay.”

“I’ve tried, but?—”

“It’s fine,” I interject. “Don’t worry.”

The corner of her glossy pink lips tilts up, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you. I don’t know how you stay so”—she waves her palm at my tall posture—“composed. You always seem like you have it together.”

My little sister is the softer one between us. She’s petite with the type of platinum-blonde hair women pay big bucks to re-create—the opposite of my and Dad’s brown hair. But while I got a double dose of brown with Mom’s woodsy eyes, she inherited Dad’s beautiful blues, which now shimmer with tears hanging on by a thread. She has enough emotions for the both of us. I love that about her.

“How are you?” I ask.

“I’m good.” Sara aimlessly reaches out and fluffs my hair. “Stuck in gross black. How are you ? Allen is acting totally weird. But I guess he always does.”

I hum noncommittally in response as my stomach smarts.

She sighs. “A lot of people out there, huh?”

Sara’s rambling, so I try to soothe it with a casual, “Did you invite some of your art school friends?”

She huffs out a laugh. “As if. They’d give you a heart attack.” Both of us freeze. Her eyes instantly widen as my lips purse together. “That was …”

“Unintentional,” I finish for her. “I know.” I attempt a smile. “It’s fine, Sara.”

She quickly nods to herself, eyebrows tilting in. “Um, anyway … I think those are people from Copper Run. You know Mom was really involved in the town.”

“I know.”

One year ago, our parents retired to a small town in Vermont to open a kitschy bed-and-breakfast. It was technically both of theirs, but it was Mom’s heart and soul. It makes sense that Copper Run residents are here. Mom was the kind of person who could be revered and loved in only a year. Give me two years in a single room with one person, and we’d still be strangers. Maybe that’s where I went wrong in my marriage.

“They drove all the way to Seattle?” I ask. “Across the country? Did the town shut down?”

“Don’t be mean,” Sara says, smiling. “They’re good people.”

“Irresponsible people,” I tease with a small smile. It fades as quickly as it arrived.

I tug at my earlobe, twirling the small pearl earring.

“Where’s Dad?” I ask.

Sara pulls her thumb up to bite on the nail. “In the corner.”

“Hey,” I say, quickly tugging her hand down. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You will be fine.”

Sara nods slowly, then quickly before jerking me into a tight hug. I hold her as long as she needs until she finally pulls away.

I pat her shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

Across the bridal suite, Dad sits in the far corner, looking out the tall window to the city outside. This cathedral is on a corner block, right at an intersection where honking is at its peak and a green light means you should have accelerated five seconds ago.

Dad rests his hand on Rocket’s back, absentmindedly stroking down the dog’s feathery black-and-white fur.

After a couple of pats, the border collie ducks his head out of reach. He traipses to the opposite wall, shooting a look at me, as if to say, There. I comforted him. Happy? before dropping to a sit with more force than necessary.

It was Allen’s job to find a pet-sitter for Rocket today. Of course, he couldn’t be bothered, just like he couldn’t be bothered to tell me until yesterday that I’d inherited his dog in the divorce because he couldn’t take Rocket out of the country.

Rocket doesn’t listen to me. He barely lets me pet him. But what was I supposed to do? Rocket’s fate came down to either staying with me or following Allen into the Humane Society. Rocket’s prima-donna disposition would have been appalled, and I’m not even remotely that heartless. Realistically, Rocket shouldn’t be in the chapel, but he won’t bother anyone—even if he does give me the cold shoulder.

Dad’s hand hangs limply at his side where Rocket once was. I reach out and take his palm into my own.

“Hey, Shellfish,” he murmurs under a frail smile.

“How’re you holding up?”

“Good.” The bags under his eyes say otherwise. “You?”

“Fine,” I answer.

He drops my hand, reaching up to trace over the pendant on my chest. “Is this your mother’s?” He follows the thin chain as it snakes down the divot in my collarbone. “You’re getting too skinny.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

“She was really good at picking out pretty things,” Dad muses more to himself than me. “The necklace. The sheets at the inn. Y’know, there are these doilies she loves. The little linen ones with the—” His voice cracks.

“Dad …”

He winds his hands together and glances at the closed door that leads to the quickly filling chapel. “Who all is out there?”

“Apparently the entire town of Copper Run.”

“Oh,” he says, a hint of a smile at the edge of his lips. “Good people, that bunch.”

“So I hear.”

“How’s Allen taking this?” he asks.

I involuntarily clench my jaw. “He’s fine.”

“Is fine your answer for everything today?”

A huffing laugh reluctantly backfires out of me. “Yes.”

From the corner of my eye, I can see Rocket staring at me through slitted dog eyes. I curl my fists. The dog knows I need to bring up the divorce, just like the strange man outside does.

How do I tell Dad and Sara though? Hello, I’m your almost-thirty-year-old workaholic daughter/sister who can’t hold up a marriage.

Allen is forty-two, moving overseas for medical work and thriving with a woman the same age I was when we met.

Sara will be distraught, but I don’t want someone to feel sorry for me. Allen doesn’t want me anymore, and I won’t make him stay. It was a reasonable decision. A good one. But I don’t want balloons and confetti either.

“How am I supposed to go back?” Dad whispers on a breath.

“Out there?” I ask.

“To the inn,” he clarifies beneath shaking lips. “I have no idea where she put everything. She was in charge of the bills, the calendar—oh God, I can’t call the guests. It’s the busiest season. We’re almost fully booked. I can’t … I can’t …”

I inhale. “Hey. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

“ You always do,” he says. “You got all your mother’s strength.”

“No, Sara has it too. She has that, plus her energy. She’ll do great with the inn.”

He nods over and over, rubbing his temples. “You’re right; you’re right. She’ll be a natural. You’re right.”

We both know Sara possesses Mom’s good traits. Her gentleness. Her positivity. Her excitable, creative side. Those are the traits of someone who inherits a beloved bed-and-breakfast—not the frigid, eldest daughter. Not like I wanted it anyway.

Sara will finally graduate from school in December. She’ll seamlessly step into the role afterward—as long as Dad can handle it until then. He doesn’t look as if he’s in control of anything right now though.

The chapel door creaks open, and the low hum of conversation flows in. My body tenses as Allen smoothly strides into the room, each step of his Valentino oxfords snapping on the linoleum. Rocket runs over, tail beating up a storm. Allen placates him with a pat, then nudges him away.

“Are you ready, Shelly?”

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but my mind is foggy at the request.

My dad starts to rise. “Do we need to go?—”

“No,” I interrupt, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Allen and I are practical people. His rational mind is one of his most attractive features. Yes, he’s a little cold, but so am I. We understood each other once—respected each other. At least until today. His misplaced need to keep up appearances matters more than my family’s mourning.

Sara walks over with her eyebrows tilted in. She carries a bouquet of flowers. “This is from some man outside.”

She holds them out to Dad. I intercept them so it’s one less thing for him to handle.

Sara’s eyes dart between Allen and me. “Everything okay?”

Allen exhales impatiently.

Please, not today, I mouth to him silently.

He shakes his head. “Shell?—”

I pinch my eyes closed. “Give me one second.”

“Let’s not make this difficult,” Allen drawls.

“What’s going on?” Dad asks.

“Dad, it’s nothing. We just?—”

And that’s when Allen announces, “We got a divorce.” The words bounce off the walls and low ceiling.

His eyes widen, and so do mine. I don’t think he expected it to be so loud, and I didn’t expect it would sound so unceremonious.

“I won’t be here tomorrow,” he continues, adjusting his lapels. “I’m leaving for the airport.”

I can feel my pulse in my neck, my hands, and my legs. There’s a cut in my palm from one of the flower’s thorns.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” Allen says in our extended silence, checking his watch. “I need to go. I am very sorry for your loss.” Allen says it like he wasn’t part of our family for five years.

He starts to casually walk away in the same manner. Rocket attempts to follow, but Allen shakes his head.

My blood feels like lava, bubbling up to my throat and cheeks. My chest hurts from the heat. I can’t tell if I’m sad, scared, or angry. Unfortunately, in fight or flight, I’m not proud to say that fight is the default.

I stride after him, emerging from the side room into the main chapel again. The hum of low conversations surrounds me. The cool air from the open chapel door whips through my hair, crinkling the bouquet’s paper.

“We should have waited,” I snap.

Allen turns on his heel, looking side to side as he stalks closer.

“No, we should have told them earlier,” he murmurs under his breath.

“When exactly?” I grit out, my body tense with anger. I’m getting louder, making him fidget more. Good. Be uncomfortable. “At the hospital, after her heart attack? Before the bypass? Or in the waiting room, when your colleague told us it failed?”

Allen’s blond hair, once gelled back, is now fraying. I can see the white streaks coming in along his temples. He attempts to swipe a strand back on a sucked-in breath.

“We should have told them the day we decided,” he says. “You see, this is your problem, Shelly?—”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“I should have known you’d keep this from them for as long as possible. You don’t tell anybody anything. Not me. Not your family. You keep all your emotions bottled up until they explode. Well, congratulations. Here’s your explosion.”

I blink quickly, standing taller, clenching my fists. “I do not?—”

He leans in and hisses, “Why do you think I had to find someone who made me feel like a partner?”

My head jerks back so fast that it feels like someone fisted my hair and yanked.

I can barely whisper out, “What did you just say?”

“You’re so uptight. You’re not fun anymore.” He’s counting my flaws on his fingers now. “You have to take charge of everything. Ever think I didn’t want that? Ever think nobody wants that? And you hold everyone to such impossible standards. God, you couldn’t even forgive your mom for?—”

Crack!

At first, I think that’s the sound of my heart breaking. Then, I realize my palm pitched back and collided with Allen’s cheek.

I gasp. I can’t breathe.

Allen blinks at me as my pink handprint slowly takes shape on his face.

Still as stone, he breathes, “You deserve to be alone.”

The words—definitive and concise—ring in my ears.

I rush past him and out the chapel’s double doors. The wind whistles through my hair. A bead of sweat dribbles down my lower back. The thorns from the bouquet gnaw into my skin. The first fall leaves flit down from the trees.

Honking cars. Loud music down the sidewalk.

He’s right.

I’m bubbling with anger, and here’s my explosion.

My world is out of control.

Everything is out of my control.