17. Cliff
Chapter 17
Cliff
H alloween is the biggest holiday in Copper Run. Sure, we love Christmas, too, with the snowflakes hanging on bare branches and hot chocolate stands, but if you want to get Copper Run hyped up, place a few crusty skeletons in the yards and blast the “Monster Mash.” If you live here, it’s expected that you celebrate ghouls and slasher films like the good resident that you are and you always wear a costume.
I look at myself between the stickers on Emily’s long mirror and sigh.
“Remember when you used to make me a ghost?” I say. “Or Batman. Why not make me Batman again?”
“Because Ghostface is what’s cool right now,” Emily answers nonchalantly.
Emily has been either choosing my outfits or making them since she was little. And this year, she chose the most popular costume of the season from the biggest slasher movie of the past year.
I hold out my arm. Black fabric slithers down and hangs in a large open sleeve, revealing the cuff of my red flannel underneath. Only an inch of skin shows between that and my black gloves.
She bends at the waist to stroke more black nail polish onto her toes. “It was the last one at the mall, Dad. You have to wear it.”
I pick up the white mask from Emily’s dresser and place it over my face. Through the thin black mesh, I can see drooping eye holes and a yawning mouth staring back.
I take it off. “I’m gonna scare your sister.”
“I showed it to her beforehand. I told her it’s from an old kids show,” Emily says. “She thinks it’s funny.”
“Em, that is incredibly irresponsible.” I straighten the black robe on my shoulders. “But also genius. You’re ungrounded.”
Her head jerks up. “Wait, I wasn’t grounded.”
“I was debating it.”
I flip up the lanky hood, then put on the mask again. It’s difficult to breathe under the plastic and mesh.
When I tsk to myself, Emily laughs. “Trust me, you’re gonna be the coolest guy out there.”
“I’m already cool.”
“As if. You could use more coolness.”
“I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
“Not Michelle ?” she taunts under her breath.
A rope lassos around my chest so tight that I almost cough. I rip off my mask and nervously fiddle with my black glove, pulling it farther up my wrist.
“She’s already intimidated by how cool I am,” I joke. “Why make it worse for her?”
Emily blows on her nails. “No, you’re not nearly cool enough for Michelle.”
“Why does it matter?”
She gives me that slack-jawed expression that is normally followed by a duh . Instead, she sighs, silently puts on her cat ears, and rises from the end of her bed.
“Oh, Dad,” she finally says on a pitying sigh.
“I’m considering grounding you again.”
“Dad!” Brittany runs into the room with her unicorn pillowcase gripped in her fist. “Look!”
I look down at her, and my jaw drops. Without hesitation, Emily bursts out laughing.
My six-year-old daughter is wearing a bald cap. It’s not even a well-placed bald cap, or maybe she pulled at it too much. The top of her head looks like an overgrown mushroom. Strands of hair stick out underneath. Scribbled under her nose and along her chin is a black goatee. She’s wearing jeans and a black vest I vaguely recognize as the black bedsheets that were on Bird & Breakfast’s floor last week.
“Wow,” I breathe. “Em, have you seen Brittany? Because I think”—I lower my voice to a guttural tone—“ Steve Austin just entered the room !”
I flex my arms, dip down, and throw her over my shoulder. Brittany screams through uncontrollable giggles as I run to Emily’s bed and toss her onto the mattress.
“Wait, Dad, Steve always wins!” Brittany pouts—or at least she might if she wasn’t laughing so hard.
“Oh, right.” I smack my palm on my forehead. “My bad.” I fall backward on the bed and lie still as Brittany pushes down on my shoulders.
Emily smacks her hand on the sheets. “One, two, three! And Steve Austin wins!”
Brittany raises her arms in victory.
I pick her up again, swinging her in the air as Emily and I chant, “Undefeated champion! Undefeated champion!”
“Oh, wait!” Brittany squirms in my arms until I set her down. She runs out the door. “I forgot something!” Her voice is a distant echo as she scrambles down the hall to her bedroom.
I look back at the mirror and find Emily already staring at me.
I jump. “What?”
“I could talk to Michelle if you want,” Emily says.
My heart does that stuttering thing again. “I can talk to Michelle on my own.”
“Yeah, but what about?—”
Brittany runs back into the room. There’s a click and then a flash of light. Black darkens my vision, followed by tiny bubble-like spots. I rub my eyes and blink the room back into sight. That’s when I see the yellow disposable camera in Brittany’s tiny palms.
I laugh. “Where’d you get that?”
“Miss Shell gave it to me!”
If my heart jumps into my throat one more time tonight, I swear I’m gonna pass out. I don’t know the last time I felt this disoriented. It’s so unnerving to be taken off guard by the mention of a single person—a person I have no business getting nervous over.
“That was really nice of her,” I say. “Did you tell her thank you?”
“Oh.” She lowers the camera. “No.”
I pat Brittany on the back. “Let’s make sure we do when we see her. All right, trick-or-treat time. Before it gets crowded out there.”
Emily’s clear purple phone rings on her dresser, and she instantly picks it up.
I groan. “Em?—”
“One second,” she whines.
“Make it quick,” I instruct. “We gotta move.”
But I don’t think she hears me past her giddy, “Hi, Josh.”
I grab my Ghostface mask and nudge Brittany along, murmuring, “We’re giving her five minutes, and then we scare her.”
Brittany giggles in agreement.
We take the stairs down to the living room. The front door swings open, bringing in the booming music, screams, and childish laughter from the sidewalks, where kids dressed as ghosts, mummies, and devils run by. Carol crosses through the threshold in a black wig and pointed hat before slamming the door shut behind her. The busy trick-or-treaters are muffled once more.
“You’re a witch again?” I ask.
“It’s the only costume I have,” Carol says, plopping on the couch and clicking the TV remote. “I almost ran over a few kids to get here.” She quickly flicks through channels until she stops on a familiar slasher movie. “I’ve never seen this one.” She settles into the cushions.
I clutch Brittany’s shoulders and rotate her toward the kitchen.
“What is that?” she asks, peering around my legs at the TV, where a man is now raising a revving chain saw.
“Something not for little-girl eyes,” I say, nudging her to the other room and covering her ears with my palms.
The kitchen back door swings open the moment our feet hit the tiles. Rocket barrels through, immediately circling around Brittany in a mad rush. Michelle stands in the doorway, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she closes the door behind her.
“Is there no courtesy knocking anymore?” I tease as I attempt to pocket my hands, but my palms slide down my thin, pocketless robe instead. It only makes me uneasy.
God, I’m uneasy around Michelle. And it’s not because she’s in a cute costume—she didn’t dress up, which I’m definitely gonna rag her about. Or because Michelle is any more stunning than usual—impossible. It’s because she’s here and it’s her.
I don’t know what would have happened if Josh hadn’t stopped by the bakery yesterday. The rational part of me knows she would have likely gone back to the inn and I would have continued baking. But there’s another part of me that wonders if we would have crossed an unspoken line.
Michelle, the confident woman from the city, and me, some random small-town baker. My closest friend right now and I … crossing a line.
Her hooded eyes, surrounded by her dark lashes, were staring at me with an intensity I’d never seen before. My hands were threaded through her hair. Her lips were parted, and her warm breath tickled my own. My heart was hammering.
Then, Josh happened.
I’ve plotted at least five different ways to kill him since then.
“I should have dressed up,” Michelle says, her lips in a fine line.
“You definitely should have dressed up,” I agree with a grin. “But I like it. It’s casual. Looks good on you.”
“You didn’t dress up?” Brittany asks Michelle, her face falling.
“I didn’t want to take away from your amazing costume,” Michelle responds, crouching down and tucking a few errant hairs back into Brittany’s haphazard bald cap.
My chest stings. She’s so good with Brittany.
“Too cool for costumes?” I tease under my breath.
Michelle pushes my arm. “Not cool enough .”
We both laugh, but her gaze sticks to me, and I swear we inhale at the same time because I think we both realize what happened. Michelle never touches me playfully.
“Who are you again?” she asks.
I hold out my palm. “Ghostface. Pleasure to meet you …”
Her bottom lip tucks between her teeth as she shakes my palm. My large gloved hand engulfs hers.
“Michelle,” she answers.
Shake .
“Well, Michelle, I’ll be your guide for Halloween in Copper Run tonight.”
Shake .
“Thank you very much, Mr. Ghostface.”
Shake.
Our hands linger.
I slide my hand from hers. “All right, let’s get moving out there.” I squeeze Brittany’s shoulder. “Ready?”
“Yep,” Brittany says, lifting her camera and taking another picture of me.
I blink through starry eyes.
“Britt, be careful with that thing,” I say, fumbling to pick up the kitchen phone. I bring it to my ear and hear Josh’s voice saying something about how the drummer for R.E.M. left the band.
I tuck the phone closer to my lips and channel my best Ghostface impression to growl, “Do you like scary movies?”
From the floor above, Emily screams, and Josh squeals even louder over the phone.
“O-oh my God,” Josh stutters through the phone.
“Don’t do that, Dad!” Emily screeches.
“You gave me the costume, Em. I have the power to do the voice. Get off the phone.”
“What ever ,” she whines through a terrified exhale. “You’re such a buzzkill.”
“You’ll see each other in two seconds anyway.”
“Y-yes, Mr. Burke.”
Emily groans. “Josh, he said you can call him—” But I don’t hear the end because I put the phone back on its base, letting them sort out their goodbyes themselves.
I clap my palms together. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
I peer over at Michelle, and she’s paused and staring directly at my lips. My heart does that terrible thing again, flip-flopping like a fish out of water. I clear my throat, and she flicks her eyes to mine.
“Ready?” I ask with a chuckle, trying to keep my words steady when I am anything but.
“Ready when you are,” she answers quickly, walking past me to the living room with her thumb and forefinger dragging her mom’s pendant over the chain.
She only does that when she’s nervous.
Is she nervous?
Emily barrels down the stairwell with an empty pillowcase flying over her head. “Let’s go get candy!”
“Yeah!” Brittany yells in the lowest, most wrestler-like voice a six-year-old girl could muster.
I swing open the front door. Brittany skips out first, followed by Emily ducking under my arm to run out too.
I tilt my chin, signaling Michelle to pass. Without looking at me, she crouches to cross under my arm. Her hair slides against my hanging robe, adding static to some loose strands. Instinctively, I chuckle and stroke them back into place.
I swear she stares at my lips again, then smiles, as if trying to cover up how obvious it was, before turning on her heel and clicking down the sidewalk after my girls.
“Have fun trick-or-treating!” Carol calls to me. “And don’t get too spooked!”
I swallow. “Sure thing.”
Though I fear there is something much scarier than ghosts tonight.