If It Makes You Happy

by Julie Olivia

This book is my love letter to both the autumn months and the late nineties.

Two of my favorite things!

The thorns from the bouquet gnaw into my skin. The first fall leaves flit down from the trees. Honking cars. Loud music down the sidewalk. He’s right. I’m bubbling with anger, and here’s my explosion. My world is out of control. Everything is out of my control.

I raise my girls day by day, week by week. It’s always something new, and I always hope the problems get spread out over the course of weeks or years. But sometimes they happen all at once on the same day.

Copper Run smells like crunching leaves and breezes that bite. There’s a hint of something warm in the air too—baked bread of some kind. Maybe a pie or biscuits in the oven. Mazzy Star hums from my neighbor’s open window.

But while I understand her motivation to leave, I can’t fathom genuinely wanting to. I love my girls so much it hurts. The idea of leaving them would never cross my mind. But that was Tracy’s prerogative. Not mine.

“Why is it that every woman needs the city life?” “Friends makes it seem fun,” I joke.

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.”

“I’m a baker. We live for others’ enjoyment.”

I like that he says my full name, mostly because I know it’s intentional. Cliff might lean too close or ask too many personal questions that catch me off guard, but he knows how to make people feel seen. Sometimes too seen.

He’s got that baker charm. The broad shoulders, built from lugging heavy bags of flour; the thick forearms, strong from molding dough; and the smile of a man well practiced in swaying people to indulge in icing-covered delicacies.

I sheepishly confess, “Men don’t want women like me.” “Like what?” Unfun, too serious, workaholics. “I don’t know,” I mumble. He gives a devilish, absolutely wicked smile. “I think men secretly want women just like you,” he growls, leaning even closer. “And the men who don’t are cowards.”

“So, it’s a surprise,” I guess. “Why else would I blindfold you, Michelle?” I can think of a few reasons echoes in my head, and my cheeks instantly heat.

“First off, never call yourself that,” he says sternly with a pointed finger. “And second, what I’m hearing are other words. Classy. Opinionated. And intimidating to people who can’t handle strong women. Which I really like about you.”

I don’t want to turn around. I don’t want to know if he’s watching me walk away. I don’t want to potentially see his subtle smile rise up the corner of his mouth. I don’t need to feel my heart beating faster. And I definitely don’t need to confirm my newest secret. I like Cliff Burke. Like like, as Emily might say.

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.

I don’t want to go on more dates. I want Michelle. Not as a friend. Not as a fling. I want her.

I grit my teeth and curl my lips in. My chest tightens. My fists clench. And all at once, I know it as clear as day. I love him. I love him. Sarcastic, floppy-haired Clifford Burke. I love the man I—damn it—set up with my sister. The man who told me he’s sorting through his feelings for me, and I was too stubborn to address them. The man who called me in a panic when he lost his girls. The man who depended on me, who gave me a bed under his roof, even when we hadn’t talked for days. I love this man.

“I want you to be happy and—” His next words almost come out in a whisper. “Have you ever thought I might be happy with you?” I tense, taking in a shaky breath. “You can’t mean that.” “I almost wish I didn’t.” “But you said—” “I say so many things that I don’t know what comes out of my mouth half the time,” he says. “But you do…you make me happy. So, there. I’m stuck in my own damn head with thoughts of you that I can’t get rid of. So, what do I do? Huh? What do I do?”

“God, I like you so much. I like you when you lash out. I like you when you come up with a thousand reasons to hate me.” He cocks his head to the side. “And when you run to my house to tell me all those reasons. And even when you put up so many walls that even God can’t break them down.” He grabs my chin between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes razing me on the spot, blown out and wide and seeing me—always seeing me—right through to my core. I open my mouth to speak. To say, I love you. You can break my walls down. But then Cliff traces his thumb over my bottom lip and says, “I like you because you’re Michelle. And that’s enough.”

And it hits me. 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. She’s complicated. Difficult sometimes. She tastes like caramelized sugar and cinnamon and all the layers of flavors in between. And suddenly, I know exactly what that is. She could never be something as simple as croissants or muffins or even cinnamon rolls. She’s something else entirely.

I wish I could pause this moment. Maybe keep it on my shelf like a beautiful snow globe I can shake whenever I like. But that isn’t how life works.