18. Michelle
Chapter 18
Michelle
T he streets are overtaken with running children, clusters of preteen kids, and parents chatting behind them in either no costume or one that matches their child’s. Leave it to the Burke family to have an eclectic variety of a horror movie villain, an inappropriate wrestler, and a cat.
“I’ve never seen a town so excited about any holiday,” I say.
Cliff grins. “We take Halloween very seriously. Lars has this whole pizza competition in the square. If you can eat the whole ghost-shaped pizza, you get free slices for a year.”
“And you deprived me of that?” I ask with a gasp.
“You think you could win?”
“Maybe.”
“I’d like to see you try. Oh, we’re going this way,” he interjects, placing a palm on my lower back to direct me down another street than the way we were going.
I’m already lost in the mix of things, and I’ve jumped twice after a group of boys ran past with a fake chain saw. But all that doesn’t compare to the thrumming in my chest when Cliff touches my lower back.
Up ahead, Josh and Emily hold hands. Her cat tail bobs behind her, right next to his paper dog tail. She nudges her shoulder against his. He returns it.
“Thanks for telling me to give him a chance,” Cliff says. “He’s not the worst kid she could like.”
I snort. “Is that a compliment for Josh?”
“It’s not an insult.”
“You’re growing, Cliff.”
He rolls his eyes. “I think having another teen daughter would give me an early heart attack.”
“Hate to break it to you, but …” I point at Brittany, who’s racing down a driveway with her floppy pillowcase partially weighed down by a small collection of candy.
Beside her is Luke—the boy who supposedly hates Steve Austin—dressed as The Undertaker. He asks her to race him to the next house, and they bolt off with Rocket in tow, carried by the leash attached to Brittany’s wrist.
“I’m doomed,” Cliff says with a grin.
I bite my bottom lip, staring at his smile again. I can’t help myself. I like the little line beside his mouth and the fan of check marks beside his eyes.
I keep trying to pinpoint the last time I felt this anxious. I was so nervous on my first date with Allen that I could barely eat. But for the past five years, with our steadily declining communication, with all the times he got home late from the hospital, with how he chose to take the guest room so he wouldn’t wake me up, eventually taking up permanent residence for no other reason … the only nerves I’ve felt were bad.
Are these butterflies around Cliff bad?
Are they butterflies or moths?
And in what world am I having potential butterflies at all?
I’m having them in this one—this world, where we’re walking down busy streets and trick-or-treaters disregard sidewalks and cars putter through the crowds at a snail’s pace. I have butterflies for this small-town baker, nestled in Vermont. For this man—a friend—I would have never met in any lifetime except this one, with my divorce and without my mom. But I’m not sure I’d want to be in any other place right now, and that’s the scariest part.
“Dad, Rocket got candy too!” Brittany says mid-run back to us with an open pillowcase. She tilts it to show a small doggy treat among the wrapped candy.
“Wow, good for him,” Cliff says, peering down at Rocket, whose tail is wagging up a storm.
I haven’t seen him this happy since we got to Copper Run. That makes two of us.
“Next house!” Brittany yells, running off again toward the house blasting groaning ghoul sounds and a fog machine.
Cliff leans down and whispers in my ear, “Discreetly look to your left.”
A shiver rolls down my spine at his proximity, but I do as he said. In a yard nearby, Betty and Lisa sway back and forth. They each hold a bright orange flask with black stickers plastered on one side to resemble a jack-o’-lantern grin.
I gasp. “Are they drinking?”
“We can’t be held accountable for our actions on Halloween,” he says with a grin.
“I can’t believe my mom lived here. This is so … different.”
Cliff blows out a breath, then laughs. “Oh, yeah. She and Lisa were little heathens together.”
“Really?”
“I’ve never seen Lisa and Birdie party as hard as they did at the haunted house last year.”
I bust out laughing. “Wow.”
“Have I told you the story about when she tripped over a grave?”
“No,” I breathe.
“Best part? It wasn’t even Halloween.”
I bust out laughing, and the joy feels so foreign. But it’s there, releasing from me through a collapsed dam. I hold my hand over my mouth to stop myself from laughing louder. Cliff smiles down at me, almost like he doesn’t want to see anything else but me.
A bright light flashes through the darkness, and I blink through the stars.
“Oh God?—”
“Britt, you gotta warn us,” Cliff says with a laugh, rubbing his own eyes and shaking his head in shock.
Brittany giggles with her fists curled around the camera I gave her. She runs off, and another bright light blasts off across the street without a single warning.
“She’s gonna blind someone, if she hasn’t already,” he says.
“Or wrestle them.”
“Did you get that for her?”
“The camera?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“Mmhmm. If she ever needed one, it was for tonight.”
He smiles. “Thanks.”
“Who was I to say no to Steve Austin , Cliff?”
“I would have caved too.”
Up ahead, Emily turns around, looks at us, bites her bottom lip, then turns back to whisper something in Josh’s ear. My smile fades, and I stiffen, feeling too seen in that moment, realizing that Cliff’s arm is nearly touching mine and the space between us is minimal compared to everyone else walking by.
“I hate it when teenagers whisper,” Cliff murmurs. “I feel like I’m getting bullied.”
“Were you ever bullied?” I ask.
“Of course I was. I was the class clown. But anything they said about me was something I’d already said about myself. Oh, wait.” He quickly slings an arm around my shoulders, directing me to the left. “You have to see Winston’s house.”
Down the street, a shuffling line of people walk toward erected, shrouded walls. Fog coats the ground as they cautiously disappear through a black curtain. Screams and chain saws echo inside, almost as loud as the sound of ghouls moaning through the speakers at the house next to us.
“A haunted maze?”
“A haunted maze,” Cliff confirms.
“Am I ready for that?” I ask with a grimace.
“Probably not. But whether you’re ready or not, we’re doing it.”
“We are?”
“Trust me,” he says. “Social planner, remember?”
“I’m trusting you,” I murmur.
The sentence lingers between us for a moment, and when I turn to Cliff, his eyes dart between mine on a deep exhale.
“I promise it’s worth the wait.” My stomach smarts as he turns to call, “Hey, Em! Can you watch Brittany and Rocket for a second?”
Emily, down the street with a heavy pillowcase full of candy, looks between us with a half smirk that is all too similar to her dad’s mischievous grin. I narrow my eyes, and it only grows bigger.
“Sure!” she yells to Cliff. “Have fun.”
A warm glove slides into my palm, and when I look at Cliff again, he’s wearing the white mask. I jump on the spot and squeal.
His husky laugh is muffled behind the mask as he gently leads me by the hand down the road toward the haunted maze. He twists his palm in mine and threads our fingers together, nestling our hands comfortably between us. A shiver trickles down my spine, and I start to shake.
“You’re more skittish than I thought you’d be,” he says once we’re in line. He leans closer to my ear and whispers, “Does the unshakable Michelle get scared?”
The sad part is, when I gulp and lie, “Absolutely not,” I’m not sure if it’s in response to the dark tunnel ahead of us or Cliff’s hand entwined with mine.
I’m so scared.
Winston’s wife stands at the entrance, moving her hips side to side to a joyful tune from the boom box next to her, which I bet is trying to drown out the bloodcurdling screams ahead.
“You ready?” she asks with a grin, pumping her arms side to side, dancing the twist.
I tilt my chin up with a defiant, “I’m ready.”
Cliff chuckles. “Attagirl.”
I grip his hand, and he tightens his hold as we duck between the heavy curtains, made from black tablecloths, into the haunted house.
Grass crunches under our boots. We slowly make our way down the narrow hall. Streetlights attempt to break through the black folds of the makeshift walls, but the only way ahead is shrouded in darkness.
There’s a scream. I pause, my back colliding into Cliff’s hard chest. He snickers.
“We can go back if you want,” he says.
“Never.”
“Good, because that would make you a quitter.”
“Shut up,” I hiss-whisper.
He barks out a laugh, placing his palm on my shoulder and stroking in reassurance. But if anything, it puts me more on edge. Especially when he languidly slides his hand down my arm and over my wrist to slip our fingers together once more.
We turn the corner, and a masked clown leaps out. I scream but immediately laugh when Cliff does as well.
“Oh, are you scared, Clifford?” I tease with a grin.
“Whatever,” he drawls.
A skeleton drops from the mesh ceiling.
“Winston!” I yell.
Cliff laughs behind me, and I swear I hear a little kid’s laughter beyond the blackened walls. It’s most likely Winston’s family, getting their kicks.
“Keep walking,” Cliff says, rubbing a thumb in the middle of my spine.
Slowly, his palm opens fully, splaying out across my back, tangling in the folds of my dress. I walk slower, frozen by his touch.
“You gotta keep walking,” he repeats, and the husky murmur brushes against the nape of my neck.
My body heats. I reluctantly take more steps forward.
Another turn reveals a man in a leather mask. The one after that is a werewolf. Then a devil. But my jumps are smaller. Maybe I’m getting desensitized. Or maybe my focus is solidly on the man behind me, spreading his fingers wider around my waist.
His chest is against my back. His breath is in my hair. I never realized how tall Cliff was until now, as he towers behind me like a shield. I gingerly reach back and entwine my opposite fingers with his. His thumb makes gentle circles around my wrist.
This man—this charming man—is so close. To me. Why me?
The maze empties out on the side of Winston’s house. A man darts toward us with a chain saw extended over his head. Cliff and I bolt away from the exit, our synchronous laughter echoing in the night.
We run down the grassy yard until we reach an impasse. To the right, leaves raked on either side of a pathway lead back to the neighborhood sidewalk. On the left is a tall row of bushes, coated in fake spiderwebs, with a small sliver in the middle to sneak through.
My feet halt at the fork in the road.
I hate that they do.
I hate that I consider the what-if of turning left. Of being alone—hidden in the bushes—with Cliff. What would happen? Do I want something to happen?
I turn around, and I’m met with a white mask staring back. I scream so loud that Cliff bursts out laughing and places his palm over my mouth.
“I forgot about your stupid mask,” I say, partially muffled against his gloved hand.
But our laughs lessen, and then we’re standing there, frozen together, with his palm cupping over my lips. My stomach twists into knots.
And then I make the decision. I don’t know when my mind decided to, but I’m already stepping backward toward the bushes. Cliff walks forward after me.
I walk backward.
He paces forward.
Step by heart-pounding step, Cliff and I disappear into the bushes. We take the quiet, alone, away-from-the-world path.
Beyond the bushes, the bramble-filled dirt is pitch-black under our feet. My backside hits the paneling of Winston’s house. The distant streetlamps and house decorations trickle through the bushes, leaving only a sliver of light. Cliff lifts his mask up. His eyes hide under the shadow of the long white mask, but I can feel them on me.
He removes his hand from my mouth, tracing the back of his knuckles over my cheek, down the column of my neck, and to my shoulder. His thumb dips into my collarbone as we both draw in a shaky breath.
The air around us changes. The autumn breeze that’s been still all night suddenly rustles the leaves. A single leaf catches on Cliff’s hood. I reach up to pick it off, and he sucks in a breath as my arm brushes over his cheek.
He leans closer, resting a palm on the wall beside my head, caging me against the paneled siding. His other hand ghosts up my arm, tickling the fabric of my shirt with the back of his gloved fingers. Shivers prickle over my skin despite the layers of clothing between us. I’m trying to breathe normally, but my inhales keep catching.
I want to kiss him.
I want to kiss Cliff so bad; it hurts. But he’s so cautious. So careful.
I wonder if it’s because he’s unsure. I don’t blame him.
“Don’t do something you think you’ll regret,” I whisper.
He shakes his head without hesitation. “I wouldn’t regret this.”
His hand finds the column of my neck, running up the side. I pull in a breathy gasp.
“Do you think you would?”
I don’t know what answer to give. My heart is beating out of my chest.
What would this mean for us? Is he looking for an autumn fling? Am I? Or is this more? He’s my friend. My best friend. I’ve never had a best friend outside my sister.
In my extended silence, Cliff finally lets out a choked laugh. He removes his hand from beside my head and pushes away. My heart pounds at the loss of his warmth. Anxiety courses through me as he steps back.
He pulls his mask back down and tilts his head to the side. “Do you have a favorite scary movie?” he teases, his voice carrying a sinister, raspy timbre beneath the mask as he quotes the movie from his costume.
Cliff laughs at himself, and then I’m laughing too.
Leave it to him to break the tension.
“Come on, Michelle,” he says in his normal voice. I can hear the smile on his face. “Let’s get you back.”
And that—that right there—is the exact moment I know I need to kiss him. Because, despite Cliff taking a risk, he immediately backtracks when he thinks I’m uncomfortable. Because he’s that kind of friend. He’s that kind of man.
I don’t know what our kiss might lead to. I don’t know if my leaving in two months will matter. Maybe we won’t stay in touch, or maybe we will. Maybe this will be something we can laugh about. There’s a lot of uncertainties, but one thing is for sure: I’m not uncertain about Cliff. He’s sarcastic and loud and open. He’s not buttoned-up, like Allen. But Cliff is more of a man than any of the self-proclaimed kind and altruistic men I’ve dated before. He’s more of a man than Allen ever was.
Cliff turns to walk away, but I shoot my hand out and grasp his elbow. He stiffens, twisting back to look at me. His mask—no, Cliff —suddenly rips fear through my heart, but I tug the crook of his arm anyway, coaxing him back. Leaves crunch beneath his boots as he stalks back to me again. This time closer. Chest to chest.
I push the bottom of his mask up with my thumb, high enough to finally see his sky-blue eyes in the moonlight. His eyebrows are pulled closer. I can feel his heart pounding against mine.
“I wouldn’t regret this,” I whisper.
Cliff blinks at me, eyes darting between mine. “You wouldn’t?”
I shake my head side to side. “No.”
Cliff slowly traces his fingers along my jaw. The glove’s fabric is rough, catching in my hair as he cups the back of my neck.
I close my eyes when he purses his lips on my forehead, lingering for a moment before trailing a kiss to my temple. My cheek. My jaw. Cliff is slow with action, like he’s savoring every piece of me I’m allowing him to touch.
He leans back. I open my eyes to find Cliff’s lips are less than an inch away. The warmth of his breath sizzles over me.
“Michelle,” he breathes, tilting his head to the side, “we can’t.”
An anvil slams down to my stomach. “Oh,” is all I can get out.
He immediately chuckles. “Not right now, I mean.” Then, he leans closer, flashing the most wicked smile. “I don’t want to start something I can’t finish.”
“Oh,” I repeat, but this time, my cheeks grow hot.
He exhales with a hum, tucking hair behind my ear. “I think doing … things … in Winston’s bushes probably isn’t the best call. We’d never live it down.”
“Right,” I agree, shaking my head. “That makes sense.”
Cliff stares at me with a solemn smile. I return it, but my heart won’t stop pounding. My body is buzzing with energy. And with each passing second, I can see his smile fading. The crinkles beside his eyes disappear. His lips straighten into a line. And finally, he exhales.
“Ah, screw it.”
Cliff sinks his hand into my hair, cups my head, and collides his lips with mine.
It takes the breath out of me. I stumble, but his other hand steadies my waist. The flame in my chest licks up to my throat. It’s fire. He is fire. My fingers slide up his robe, tangling in the fabric, tugging him closer. And when his hard chest hits mine, I melt into it.
He opens his mouth in tandem with mine. An embarrassing whine leaves me. But my sound has him groaning in response too. I’ve never heard such a desperate sound coming from Cliff. I’d never have imagined I’d be so desperate to hear it again.
I bite his bottom lip. His tongue sinks into my mouth. I tug on his hood, knocking his mask to the dirt. He pushes me backward. My spine is firm against the house behind me. His hips tilt against mine. My breath catches.
We’re eager, sliding hands over each other’s neck, jaw, and hair. I can feel his heartbeat through his wrist on my cheek. He can probably feel my heart through my palm at the base of his neck. I exhale into him.
But then our feverish lips transform into something slower. Sweeter. Gentler. His thumb strokes over my cheek. My hand releases his fabric. His palm on my waist ghosts up my ribs and back down. The kisses start to linger.
He finally places what feels like the last kiss on my lips and pulls back. But when I lean in, he steals what he can get again—pressing his lips against mine over and over until we extend the little moments in between. I can’t get enough. I could kiss him forever.
We finally part, and when we open our eyes, we both start laughing. We laugh to get the nerves out. We laugh when we notice that my hair is tangled and that his cheeks are flushed.
I reach up and trace my fingers over that little scar above his lip and the deep crease beside his mouth. He chuckles again, kissing the tip of each finger as it passes by.
I feel safe. I’m content for the first time in I don’t know how long.
That is, until in the distance, someone calls out, “Cliff! Where’s Cliff?”
Another person yells, “Go find Cliff!”
But the final thing that has Cliff jerking away is a screeching, “Dad!”
We immediately bolt.