Chapter 21
Cliff
he drive home from the ER feels longer than the drive there. Brittany is conked out in the passenger seat with a large bandage covering her kneeT and the few stitches beneath. Three, to be exact. A number I won’t forget anytime soon either.
“Three stitches,” Tracy repeated over the phone.
My heart was in my throat at that point. I wished I’d had time to cool down, but I wasn’t sure how long we’d be in the emergency room, and I’d already deposited the quarter, so a quarter’s worth of scolding would be my punishment until the pay phone inevitably cut us off.
“I’d like them to spend Thanksgiving with me this year,” she said.
I almost stumbled in place. “What? You already come over for
Christmas.”
“I want them.”
“Trace,” I breathed, pinching my nose as I parsed through the logic. “You
can’t be serious.”
“Clifford, I … I think I need to.”
I could tell she was nervous. Scared. Uncomfortable with everything, and I understood that, but it felt like the rug was getting ripped out from under me.
“I mean, you’re letting her play with random dogs by herself.”
“The dog didn’t do anything to her. It got scared.”
“And where was Emily in all this?”
“She was there,” I said. “There’s nothing anyone could have done.”
“You could have not let our daughter be friends with an animal.”
I rested my head against the cold phone box.
“Trace, please don’t take them for Thanksgiving.” I hated how it’d sounded like I was begging, but the words had slipped out. “It’s their favorite holiday. We always have a big dinner with neighborhood people.”
“But they can see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in person.
Wouldn’t they love that?”
Of course Brittany would love seeing it. Even Emily might get a kick out of the spectacle. But that meant they’d be gone. I didn’t want them gone.
“Yes. But …” I’d never sounded so desperate in my life, but I couldn’t find a single argument that wasn’t selfish.
“I want to spend the holiday with them,” Tracy said. “You think I don’t
think about my babies every day?”
I didn’t.
But she couldn’t hear that. So, I didn’t argue.
I said, “Yes, that makes sense,” and, “Yes, they’d love the parade,” and, “As long as they’re back the day after,” which was met with zero resistance.
I look over at Brittany with her head lolling against her seat belt and her lips parted with puppy-like, breathy snores.
How in the world am I supposed to tell the girls I won’t have them for Thanksgiving?
My truck rumbles past the lattice Copper Run sign, under the covered bridge, through the square, and down the couple of blocks to our house. The porch light of Bird & Breakfast glows orange and gold, illuminating the swinging bench with Michelle and Carol.
My foot shakes on the pedal. I haven’t been more than a block or two away from Michelle this past month, and after what happened between us tonight, I can’t help but feel uncomfortable with the distance. I don’t know what that says about me, but I’m sure it’s not a good thing.
I turn into the driveway, gently unbuckle Brittany’s seat belt, and carry her up to her bedroom. She only whines a little when I take off her shoes before tucking her into bed. She snatches her stuffed unicorn closer and snuggles under the covers without opening an eye.
I pass by Emily’s room. Her door is shut, and the light is off. I lightly knock, but hear nothing in response.
The house is abnormally quiet, especially compared to how loud the streets were hours ago. It makes me uneasy.
I walk downstairs. A note by the phone says Lars called, along with George, Betty, and Sandra. I assume the whole town has heard about the
incident by now.
I push through the back door, letting the screen snap closed behind me.
My boots crunch across the leaf-filled driveway and snap over the cobblestone into Michelle’s yard. Carol and Michelle pause talking. I know I should say something, but I’m too distracted by Michelle’s worried eyebrows and parted lips.
Somewhere in the last month, we’ve become inseparable, and I don’t know when it started. It’s like how, one day, the leaves are bright and green, and then, suddenly, they’re flittering to the ground in dull browns and oranges. The seasons of our relationship changed without my consent. Now, I
don’t know what to make of us.
We kissed, but what does that mean?
I can imagine the smell of rosemary in her hair and taste the cinnamon on her lips, and I want to relive those kisses over and over. She’s leaving in two months—two months—which adds a wrinkle to everything.
A long-term plan doesn’t seem possible with Michelle’s job waiting for her across the country. It feels too optimistic. Irresponsible.
She loves Seattle. I won’t hold another person to Copper Run. I can’t.
“Well?” Carol asks. “Is Brittany okay?”
“She’s good. Three stitches.” The two words ring in my head again like a
gong.
Michelle sighs. “Poor girl.”
I run a palm through my hair. “Yeah, she slept the whole way home.”
Carol pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and snickers. “Did you know you’re still dressed up?”
I look down at the massive black robe clinging to my chest, pooling over my boots and flowing on the porch steps.
“I didn’t,” I answer, managing a laugh because I can’t imagine how I must have looked, rolling into the emergency room with my daughter in a bald cap and me dressed as 1997’s scariest serial killer. At least I didn’t have my mask. Michelle had knocked it off while we were … I swallow. “Emily’ll get a kick out of that.”
Michelle and Carol exchange looks. I lean against the porch railing and
cross my arms.
“How’s Emily?” I ask. “Is she okay?”
Both women cringe. I might laugh at the twin looks if it was under different circumstances.
“That bad?” I ask.
“She felt like she was being ignored,” Carol explains. “You know how sensitive she is with that.”
I groan and thread fingers through my hair again. Everything feels uncomfortable. This loose robe. My eldest daughter’s loneliness. The terrible truth I’ll have to tell my girls tomorrow, which will only make things worse.
And then there’s the memory of kissing Michelle, which hangs over my head like an axe.
Carol slaps her knees. “Well, I should get going. I’m full with candy and drama.” She stands, saying goodbye to Michelle and clapping me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow, Cliff.”
I place my palm on her hand and pat it. “Yeah, see you.”
Carol crosses the yard, back to our driveway, revs up her beater, and starts down the few blocks back to her house, leaving me and Michelle on the porch alone.
I scuff my boot on a porch plank and clear my throat. “Hey —”
“I—”
“No, you go first,” I say. I hop onto the railing, leaning forward with my hands clasped between my spread knees.
Michelle sits up straighter, crossing one knee over the other and setting her delicate hands in her lap. Always so pretty and composed.
She exhales. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” I ask.
“What isn’t there to be sorry about?” she says. “Sorry I distracted you
from your daughters —”
“I chose that —”
“Sorry that Rocket scared Brittany —”
“He was spooked —”
“Sorry that I kissed you.”
Our overlapping words halt in that moment.
“You’re sorry that we kissed?” I ask.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” she says, not meeting my eyes for once.
“Me too.”
“And”—she twists her skirt between her fingers—“I’m only going to be in Copper Run for two more months. I have a life in Seattle, and you have
your life in Vermont.”
“True—”
“And I like you, Cliff.” She lets out a disbelieving laugh.
I chuckle. “I like you too, Michelle.”
“But …”
“But we’re only friends,” I finish for her.
“Yeah. You’re my friend,” she confirms.
I can’t tell if I’m relieved or not. She’s thinking exactly what I was— because of course we’re on the same page—but I can’t help how my heart sinks at the reality of hearing it out loud.
I jump down, sitting next to her on the swinging bench, sending the whole thing creaking on its chains.
“We’re probably just”—she rolls her eyes with a smile—“super-horny divorcees, and I don’t want to ruin the good memories we’ve created so far with some fling.”
I chuckle. She’s not wrong. At least about the latter. And, sure, maybe a little of the former. I’d love to sink my hands into her hair and kiss her more.
I’d love to dip my fingers beneath her skirt, too, but I also want to laugh with her.
The last thing I want is to lose her for the two months I have her. I have to forget the kiss if it means I get to keep her. And I need to keep her while I can.
“You’re right,” I say. “It was only a kiss anyway, huh?”
She reaches up to twist her earring. “Right.” Her face is crestfallen. “This whole thing is complicated.”
“Hey,” I say, reaching out to cup her face in my palms.
She freezes under my touch.
“I’m with you on this, okay?”
I’m surprised, warmed, when she tilts her head to the side, leaning a cheek into my hand.
“I like you, Cliff. Someone needs to tell you that.”
And that alone has me smiling. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I’ll tell you anytime you need.”
I manage a low chuckle. “I’ll hold you to that.”
She rolls her eyes. “You deserve to get back out there, you know,” she
murmurs.
“So I hear.”
I swallow, stroking my thumb over her cheek, and kiss her forehead, closing my eyes. My heart pounds in my chest as I linger. Her breath tickles
against my neck. Then, I slowly pull away, catching her eyes with mine.
“Friends?” I ask.
I see her swallow. “Friends.”
A slight Halloween breeze blows past, sending a shiver down my spine.
Because even though she’s here and we’re okay, I know a piece of my heart —the piece she captured so quickly—flitted away like a leaf on the wind.
“Well,” I say, breaking the silence, “that’s that then.”
I place my palm on her knee and squeeze like I normally do to give her reassurance. But it feels different now. Inappropriate.
“I should get to bed,” she says, shifting on the bench. “It’s late.”
I nod and fake a yawn, but I know I’ll be up all night.
“Me too,” I agree.
“Thank you,” she says. “For a really fun night.”
Fun.
“I do what I can,” I tease.
She’s right; it was fun. That’s all.
Two lonely, divorced friends, having fun.
