If It Makes You Happy

by Julie Olivia

Cliff is attractive when he runs a palm through his hair. He’s attractive when he huffs out frustrated breaths in defense of his daughters. He’s attractive when he smiles, and he’s attractive when he gives that half smirk and the little line beside his lips creases.

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.”

She’s beautiful like this—thrilled and entirely overwhelmed. I don’t know what lies she tells herself; there’s no way she could be underwhelming.

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 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.

Cliff smiles down at me, almost like he doesn’t want to see anything else but me.

I want to kiss him. I want to kiss Cliff so bad it hurts. But he’s so cautious. So careful.

“Don’t do something you think you’ll regret,” I whisper. He shakes his head without hesitation. “I wouldn’t regret this.”

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.

“Ah, screw it.” Cliff sinks his hand into my hair, cups my head, and collides his lips with mine.

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

I want to talk to him, but I don’t know what I’d even say. I miss talking with him so much that it hurts. I miss our nights on the front porch. I miss racing down the inn steps together. I miss his sarcasm. I miss the way he challenges me.

See me, see me, see me. Finally, he does. And our gazes snag. They always do.

And all at once, I know it as clear as day. I love him. I love him. Sarcastic, floppy-haired Clifford Burke.

“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?”

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.