If It Makes You Happy

by Julie Olivia

“Carol looks stressed.” “She’s upset she’s not as talented as you.” Winston chortles. “Everyone wishes they were as talented as me.” I clap his back in passing. “Good job not getting a big head, buddy.”

If people were pastries, Carol would be a cannoli. When you take a bite of a perfect cannoli—even though it’s perfect—it cracks apart, and all that’s left is a gooey center. Carol is always on the verge of showing her soft side.

Burke’s Bakery is both my biggest accomplishment and one of my biggest problems. I love it.

If Carol is a cannoli, Tracy is a yule log—more difficult to bake than it needs to be and only seen by me at Christmas.

The Burke family is held together by duct tape, glue, and the old wood of this bakery. But we are held together, and I suppose that’s all we can ask for.

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.

“You’re telling me drug dogs don’t have a drug problem?”

His hand is bigger than mine.

*swoons

And then there’s Cliff, arriving home from work late, mid-laugh as he steps out of his truck, like a crack of lightning in the empty sky.

It’s like a whole comedy routine is permanently at his lips, ready to be unleashed without request.

That’s the secret thing about raising a kid—if it doesn’t look like a big deal to you, it’s not a big deal to them.

Her brown hair is a teased mess, and that maroon lipstick of hers could kill a man.

Behind us, Michelle follows, clenching and unclenching her fists, heavy sighs rushing out of her nose. If she could breathe fire, I might see plumes of smoke.

Emily leans against the counter with her arms crossed, pulling in a deep inhale. I clap my palm onto her shoulder. Tracy always wants to talk to Brittany first.

It’s funny; both Michelle and Tracy get straight to the point. But the difference between their tones is so distinct, like Tracy is a viper and Michelle is a garden snake that wants peace. I can’t help but laugh a little.

Copper Run is an idyllic town. The autumn leaves and cozy fall festival were perfect. New management was fine.

Sometimes people in Copper Run drop hints about my mother, and it’s always jarring. But they’re like precious shimmers. I want to grab each one.

Metal zippers whack against the Tamagotchi, whose health no longer stands a chance now that Rocket’s in the picture.

That’s the thing about Cliff—he touches everyone, and it’s always warm.

I hum noncommittally, but my mind is stuck, like a snagged sweater, slowly unraveling the thoughts of my own mom. Our complications.

“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.”

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

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.

I can’t remember the last time I had a zip in my stomach, like when Cliff’s palm was on my knee.

Michelle has walls. A lot of them. And I don’t know when they were built—whether it was with Birdie or her ex—but they’ve closed her off to everyone. They’ve made her tough though. Confident.

I don’t want to remove her walls because that’d destroy her strength, but I’d kill for more peeks into the other side.

“Well, I’ll let you in on a secret. Men? We want women. Period. Over thirty. Forty. Hell, over sixty. Short, tall, brunette, blond—doesn’t matter. We like them all. Especially women over thirty.”

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.”

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

“Wow. I’m truly in the baker club,” I say. He scoffs out a laugh. “I’ll get you a membership card. They’re edible.”

Cliff laughs again, but it doesn’t feel like it’s at my expense. The sound rumbles through me, over my shoulders and down my spine, where it settles into his palm, like he’s holding my nerves close. Protecting them.

I like Cliff Burke. Like like, as Emily might say.

My heart does that terrible thing again, flip-flopping like a fish out of water.

“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.

Cliff sinks his hand into my hair, cups my head, and collides his lips with mine.

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.

My sister’s umbrella blooms open like a flower, pink and beautiful, matching her massive grin.

Cliff glances at me, and I feel that taut tether between us. The line of rope where I find him and he finds me, and we exchange a knowing look that nobody else notices.

My sister is cute when she’s tipsy. Her pink cheeks and dimpled smile are the human embodiment of champagne. Bubbly and sweet and always served at fun events.

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

The tightness in my chest is so all-consuming that it feels like I’m getting shoved deeper and deeper into a six-foot grave I dug for myself.

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 then he presses his lips against mine.

“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.”

“I like you because you’re Michelle. And that’s enough.”

Gahhhhhhhhh just kill me. May this kind of love attack me.

but the freedom to touch wherever I like is like carrying heaven in my palms.

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.