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My blood feels like lava, bubbling up to my throat and cheeks. My chest hurts from the heat. I can’t tell if I’m sad, scared, or angry. Unfortunately, in fight or flight, I’m not proud to say that fight is the default.
I’m bubbling with anger, and here’s my explosion. My world is out of control. Everything is out of my control.
So, I’m doing what I always do—whatever needs to be done.
There are lots of beautiful women in Copper Run, but I can’t remember the last time I saw someone as breathtaking as her.
“Was I right?” he asks. “You were right.” The familiar cocky smile spreads across his face, and he looks at the ceiling, as if praying to heaven. “I love it when that happens.”
I hum noncommittally, but my mind is stuck, like a snagged sweater, slowly unraveling the thoughts of my own mom. Our complications.
Cliff then rolls up his loose cable-knit sweater sleeves, slaps the dough onto flour-coated parchment paper, and starts kneading the mix with his palms. Spreading and pulling, sending puffs of white over his pulsing forearms. I find myself breathing heavier, swallowing deeper, and tapping incessantly on the counter beside him. I didn’t realize baking was…this. Strong forearms and deft hands.
I know I’m overcompensating with how hard I’m staring because this man cannot know I was watching him work like that.
“He’s a loser,” Cliff repeats, moving back to kneading dough. “Why else would he cheat on you? You’re stunning.” My heart skips as I stammer, “Wh-what?” “That’s not an opinion. That’s a fact. You are. Even when you scowl at me.” Then, slowly, Cliff peers up through hooded eyes, scanning from my lips down to my waist and back up. Goose bumps press into the fabric of my shirt. “You’re stunning. And he’s a bonehead.” I click my tongue and nod. “That’s…well…thank you.” “You’re welcome.”
He does things like that—giving casual compliments like they’re Halloween candy. I never know how to react, and I used to think that was his intention. Shock and awe. But now…now, Cliff throws out nice things without any pause for recognition.
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 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 extends his hand out with the letters. “Mail?” “It’s a federal crime to grab someone else’s mail.” “Want me to stop?” “No.”
“It gets better out there, I promise,” he whispers. 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.”
I would cry if I wasn’t so angry. If my blood wasn’t overflowing from my heart like lava and dripping down to my stomach in hissing drops of disdain.
“Why else would I blindfold you, Michelle?” I can think of a few reasons echoes in my head, and my cheeks instantly heat. His low, husky laugh acknowledges my silence. “Naughty. But we’re not those types of friends.” It’s funny though; my heart tightens at his instant denial. I swallow. “I wasn’t thinking that.” “Of course not,” Cliff whispers.
“It’s all right,” I agree, but all right comes out more like perfect, and I can tell he knows.
The glow of the small lamp on the front desk reflects on her pink cheeks, casting her eyes in a dark shadow, where she peers at me with a grin. The world tilts. It suddenly feels like I’m falling through the ground, straight to the center of the earth. God, she’s breathtaking.
“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.
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.
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.
“No, Sara’s nicer than me,” she says. “She’s total sunshine. Kind. Generous.” “So are you. You gave up a lot to be here for her,” I say. Suddenly, she’s quiet, blinking to herself, as if maybe she’s never considered it a sacrifice before. Of course she wouldn’t. “Well,” she says quietly, “she means the world to me.”
“Question for you now, Clifford,” she says, mocking my tone from earlier. I chuckle and raise my glass. “Shoot.” “Do you know you’re in love with my sister?” I sputter into my water, spilling it over the table. I grab the napkin and wipe down the tabletop. “Yeah,” she says through smacking lips. “That’s what I thought.”
I don’t want to go on more dates. I want Michelle. Not as a friend. Not as a fling. I want 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.
Her eyes meet mine, and we freeze. Still as statues. Breathing in tandem. She’s close. So close. I could be closer if I dared.
I’m quiet. I’ve always been quieter in crowds, but I watch Cliff carry on seamless discussions about sports or books because that’s the man he is. I wish I were half as approachable.
I’m so angry that I could be split from the inside out, and when he lets go quicker than he did for anyone else, it only infuriates me more. I stare as Cliff leaves through the back door. I watch with narrowed eyes as the chill from outside winds through the kitchen, sending goose bumps over my skin. I focus on the blinds as they snap shut on the glass when he closes the door. I stand there for too long, focusing on the bare trees outside. The dead grass. I should probably give Cliff space. Let him heal from my mistakes. But I’ve never been that kind of woman. So, I pass by Sara, rip open the
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He blinks at me repeatedly. His mouth opens, then slams closed. His frustration is picking up now. He’s adding fuel to my fire, and I’m thrumming with energy. I want to raise my voice. I want to argue with him. I have so many emotions; I’m boiling over with them.
“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?” Suddenly, our fight is too real. I pushed him too far.
“You’re lashing out at me because you’re scared. That’s why you came over. You’re scared of being happy for one single second.” He inhales, swallowing and staring at me with a pointed look. “And maybe you’re even scared of…of falling in love again.” “Love?” I ask with wide eyes, but my heart is hammering. Because maybe he knows. He knows. And what do I do with that? What will happen if he knows? “You’re one to talk.” “What?”
“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
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Her stare feels like being dunked into warm water after so long in the cold. My nerves are almost shocked before melting, dissipating down my chest and to my hands. My palm winds up her neck and behind her head, burying my fingers in her hair.
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.
“So, that’s your ex,” Michelle announces. I nod solemnly, trying to gauge her reaction, but she seems unaffected. So sure of herself. I smile. Of course she is; she’s Michelle. But I also know she hides behind a lot of walls. “She’s not so bad,” Michelle says. “She’s not,” I agree. Except I keep thinking about that look she gave Michelle and how much I didn’t like it. “This won’t be an issue.” I smirk at Michelle. “Oh, really?” “I’ve handled harsher women. I’m a harsher woman.”
I don’t like it when someone starts a cold war without my consent. I only start arguments if I plan to end them and win, and she’s gotten an unfair head start.
“You ever stop to think that maybe you deserve more?”
You’re strong. And we strong women deserve better.
“Don’t get on the plane.” “What?” “Don’t get on the plane, Michelle.” “I don’t—” “I love you.”
