If It Makes You Happy

by Julie Olivia

The Burke family is held together by duct tape, glue, and the old wood of this bakery.

Copper Run smells like crunching leaves and breezes that bite.

“He’s a misogynist actually. Big one.” “Huge,” I sarcastically agree. “She’s gotta learn her place now while she’s young.”

i geniuenly can’t stop giggling .

Somehow, her being annoyed with me only makes her prettier.

She tosses a weak thumbs-up without looking away from the sink. “Three o’clock,” I repeat. She shakes her thumb higher in irritation. I laugh. “So happy we’re friends now.” “Don’t make me show you a different finger, Cliff.”

they’re so cute i’m gna explode .

“People smile around me more.” “You’re a good person to smile around,” Cliff says, taking a bite.

He’s so different from me. If I’m autumn, he’s spring. He’s all smiles and glowing warmth. His blue eyes are so deep, like the first beautiful clear sky of the season. He likes to rest them on my breeze-blown hair, drift them down to my painted lips or to the cardigan falling off my shoulder.

He places a hand on the small of my back, escorting us until we’re on the other side, then rips open the door to the video store.

it’s the little things .

“Why?” “Because I said so.”

daddy .

Not my baker Cliff.

my !

The world tilts. It suddenly feels like I’m falling through the ground, straight to the center of the earth. God, she’s breathtaking.

I have a crush on my very unattainable friend.

The place smells incredible, like vanilla and cinnamon spice and cakes. It smells like Cliff.

“Tell me another secret,” he murmurs, the question humming in my ear. “I’ve got too many,” I admit. “I don’t know where to start.” “I’ll take any I can get.”

“Thanks for the secrets.” “Thanks for the company.”

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.”

it feels like my heart is breaking .

Two lonely, divorced friends, having fun.

I can’t get her flavor out of my mouth. I realize everything I’ve been trying to bake for her is nothing like the real thing. She isn’t cinnamon. She’s honey all the way through, and I need to taste it again.

But in the center of the lobby is the only woman who could make a rainy day seem not half bad. Maybe it’s because she’s a bigger storm cloud, and I like that about her.

“Change your shoes if you want her to like you!” I hesitate for a moment on the threshold, and then I shut the door behind me, wearing my same brown shoes.

She’s sweet; a colorful macaron would suit her.

i love how his brain operates .

“Because you mean more to me than just a simple, confusing kiss.”

I want her to heal. I would be a selfish man to steal that from her.

Three days pass without Michelle. I’m exhausted. I miss her.

My heart rate slows. Her voice is soft. Warm. Comforting. It doesn’t matter that we haven’t spoken in days. I’m addicted to the sound, and I’m letting myself indulge.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her without makeup, but even without her armor, she’s stunning.

Her chest flushes red. It always does when I compliment her. It’s the best part.

When I look back up, her brown eyes—warm like the autumn leaves—flick between my eyes and my lips.

I’m already missing the patter of little shoes and snapping of sneaker shoelaces.

And instead of feeling elated—I’m in love—I’m angry.

I’m in love with a good guy.

And then he presses his lips against mine. It hurts, like I deserve. It’s painful, like I need. And I’m melting into it faster than either of us can breathe.

He walks me back against the wall. His hand stops my head from bouncing against the picture frame before threading through my hair, bunching it up to my ears and tangling it around his palm.

Her lips part as she stares at me like I’m a stranger. “Why would you say that?” she whispers. I might be offended if I were a lesser man. “Why wouldn’t I?”

I’ve touched Michelle in quiet ways for weeks, little bumps or strokes along her knee and forearm, but the freedom to touch wherever I like is like carrying heaven in my palms.

Her stare feels like being dunked into warm water after so long in the cold.

I reach up to trace my thumb over her jaw. I can’t help but admire her. And for some reason I don’t deserve, she’s looking down at me in the same way, trailing her palms over my neck and down to my chest.

I love this woman. I don’t know when it happened. It slipped over me so softly, like the changing of seasons. The seeping scent of baked bread first thing in the morning. A wistful sigh on a perfect fall day. I love Michelle. I’ve loved her for far too long.

I thought Cliff liked touch before, but now it’s like he can’t get enough of me. Like he was a man starved and he can finally feast.

She has that defiant look about her. I kiss it away.

His lips pull at the corner, the crease beside his mouth deepening so beautifully, and I hope I can remember it exactly as it is when I’m across the country.

Cliff kisses over my chest with low, barely there hums, like he’s singing a hymn in his church and I’m the icon he’s praying to.

The first night we kissed. The night he caged me against that house and told me, “Screw it,” and we fell into the abyss together. The night I realized that I wanted him. I loved him in that moment. I didn’t know it yet. But, oh, how I did.

I felt freedom in a silly graveyard.

It will feel scary, starting new, but it’s that irrational type of fear—the graveyard-at-night-with-no-ghosts fear.

“Don’t get on the plane, Michelle.” “I don’t—” “I love you.”

“I love you—you know that?” “You can tell me every minute of my life.”