22. Michelle
Chapter 22
Michelle
B rittany doesn’t come over anymore. Days that were once filled with child laughter now only have the dull monotony of a humming television with daytime game shows.
Rocket lies by the back door, waiting for her, every day around three o’clock, as if the school bus will drop her off at any minute. I’ve told him a few times that it won’t, but I don’t think he hears me—or at least he pretends he doesn’t.
Breezy October weather has been replaced by a harsh November chill. The days are rainier, tearing the remaining leaves from the trees, sending them flying into sopping piles on the yard that squish under boots and are impossible to rake.
My job in Seattle has been reaching out to me less and less, and it’s making me anxious. I faxed some reports and ideas, but I haven’t heard anything back. I’m not desperate enough to call, so I dive into advertising for the inn instead. Something to distract my mind—to feel a sense of home again.
Every evening, I sip coffee with my sweater and blanket and paperwork. I watch Cliff pull in the driveway with Brittany, and every day, I wonder if she’ll run over, but the moment she sees Rocket lying next to me, leash tied to a porch spindle, she scrambles into their house.
Cliff comes over most nights once the girls are asleep, sighing into the swinging bench seat and taking my papers from me.
“You’re done for today,” he announces, and I let him.
“Any updates with Brittany?” I ask.
“Rocket is still enemy number one.”
I bend down to pet him. “Sorry, bud.”
Rocket ducks from my palm, walking the max length his leash allows, then plopping back down. He’s not happy with anyone.
Bird & Breakfast guests join us on the porch sometimes, and we regale every detail of the amazing Halloween that passed—everything except for the haunted maze, which we both now pretend never happened.
I’m happy we agreed to move on. My relationship with Cliff means more to me than anything else in Copper Run, which is a sentence I never thought would cross my mind weeks ago. I’ll miss him. I’ll miss the whole Burke family.
But that’s a problem for 1998. Not now, when I’m sitting next to my silly, small-town crush I’m sure I’ll laugh about later because a crush is all Cliff ever can be. A crush where I smile at his low laughter and the handsome fans of lines beside his eyes. A crush where I imagine tracing my fingers over the small scar above his lip.
My laughter-filled nights are very different from my somber afternoons. Emily slouches on the parlor couch almost every day after work, flicking through channels and settling on some flashy, high-octane MTV music video.
Today is no different. Emily lounges on the sofa, one cheek smooshed into her palm, an oversize red flannel layered over a cropped tee, staring at the TV. Rain beats on the windows, making the whole scene that much more depressing.
“Still mad at your dad?” I ask, leaning against the wooden hutch with my arms crossed.
“Yes,” she mumbles.
“It’s been a week.”
“So?”
“Your sister is over it. And she got stitches.”
“She didn’t get told to fuck off.”
I flick my eyes to the one lone guest sitting on the pillowed bench seat in the bay window. She peers out at a rainy yard, seemingly unbothered by the mouthy, lethargic girl on the sofa.
“Number one,” I whisper to Emily, “no cursing around guests, please.”
She cringes. “Sorry.”
“Number two, Cliff didn’t say that, and you know it.”
Emily groans. “He basically said it without saying it. He’s just like Mom. And now, he’s sending me off on Thanksgiving too? He doesn’t want me either. I’m like a giant game of hot potato.”
I would laugh if it didn’t make me so sad. Cliff said Brittany was ecstatic to be in New York for Thanksgiving, but Emily … not so much. And she’s made it everyone’s problem.
“That’s not true,” I say. “Your mom wants to see you for Thanksgiving.”
She rolls her eyes so hard that I worry for a moment if they’re stuck.
“I can see through it,” she mumbles.
The woman at the padded window seat raises her hand like she’s in a classroom.
I smile. “Hi, Marge. How can I help you?”
“Do you have any afternoon coffee?”
“Of course. I’ll get that started. And I’ll also make cookies soon, if you’d like.”
Marge nods, satisfied, then goes back to peering outside. She’s one of my quieter guests. And even though she asks a lot of questions, I’ll take requests from her over loud families any day.
On my way to the kitchen, I pause in front of Emily, blocking her eyesight to the TV. She leans her head to the side, trying to look around me.
“Your dad didn’t mean anything by it,” I say again. “It was a tough Halloween.”
She shifts higher on the groaning sofa.
I place my hands on my hips. “If you’re gonna keep moping, I’m not gonna let you meet my sister.”
That gets her attention.
“What?” she asks, scrambling to sit up. “The cool art sister from California?”
I almost take offense, but my sister is the cool sister. She’s bubbly, wonderful, and she’ll charm every person in this town way faster than I ever could. I still haven’t spoken to the bulky man who runs the hardware store, and I think it’d be too awkward to start now.
“Yes,” I answer. “But if you’re gonna be sulking the whole time like this”—I wave my finger in front of her—“I’ll be forced to tell her you’re always this way. A dull, uncool?—”
“I’m smiling! See? I’m smiling.” A big, toothy, over-the-top grin stretches over Emily’s face. “I’ve got so many things to ask her. Like, what is California like? Is it as perfect as it looks?”
I hold my palms up and huff out a laugh. “Okay, you’ve been watching too much TV.”
“I’ll be happy,” Emily says, cheesing ear to ear again.
I snort. “I’m gonna go make cookies.”
“Save me some!”
I push into the kitchen, sifting through the cabinets, only to realize I never restocked on chocolate chips. I sigh, but the truth is, I’m not upset to make a trip to the square.
Why make cookies when I’m friends with the local baker?
I step back into the parlor and unhook Mom’s purse from the wall, making Rocket turn around from his sentry role at the window, always seeking out his lost playmate.
“I’ll be back,” I announce to Emily. “Mind starting the coffee for me?”
“I thought you were making cookies?”
“I’m out of chocolate chips.”
She nods slowly. “Are you going to visit my dad?”
“He makes the best cookies, doesn’t he?”
“Mmhmm.”
Her face falls, as if my visiting Cliff is a betrayal. I don’t point out that she’s wearing her dad’s flannel.
“I’ll be back,” I say. “And I’ll see if he can throw in a muffin too.”
“Apple fritter,” Emily corrects.
I side-eye her and smirk. “Apple fritter.”
Rocket scrambles from his bed, halting at the door and waiting for his leash.
“It’s too rainy.”
He snorts. I don’t care.
He’s been testy since Halloween—more than usual anyway. He’s eager to get out of the house.
Maybe it’ll be the best for the both of us when we leave. He won’t be heartbroken over Brittany, and I won’t be desperately grasping for every moment I can with the charming local baker.
It’s pathetic. Selfish.
In two months, Rocket and I can get back to our comfortable, less confusing version of happy.