If It Makes You Happy

by Julie Olivia

not.

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.

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.

“D’oh.

I forget we’re on a first-name basis with the wrestler of the year. Carol got her hooked on Steve Austin—of all people, Christ—and he’s edging higher on my six-year-old’s list of admirable men, right over those Backstreet Boys.

“What’s said in or near the bakery is kept in the bakery, all right?”

What’s said in Bird & Breakfast also stays in Bird & Breakfast.”

“Duh.”

“Did D.A.R.E. teach you nothing?” Emily shrugs. “It made smoking sound cool actually.”

“Your aunt is an adult,” I continue. “She’s allowed to make terrible, life-ruining decisions.” “When can I make terrible decisions?” Emily asks. “When you’re fifty.” “Oh, wow, maybe by then I’ll be old enough to date Josh too,” Emily says sarcastically.

I smirk. “He’ll be dead by then, the old geezer.” Emily reluctantly smiles as she pulls her headphones back over her ears.

“I’m making your least favorite meal tonight,” she says. “The absolute worst on...

The crisp air is a reprieve from the smoky taxi. 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.

A quilt-covered queen bed sits against the wall. A small TV with a built-in VHS player is on the dresser in the corner. On a side table is a cordless phone and a small stack of Chicken Soup for the Soul books, topped with a tiny Precious Moments porcelain figurine—one of many Mom collected.

I want to be here, I have to remind myself. I take a seat on the edge of the bed and wind my palms together. I chose this.

“Shut. Up. Are you near a dog?”

His hand is bigger than mine. A faded pink burn embellishes the back. His shake is firm but somehow gentle, yet not soft enough to be insulting. He doesn’t shake my hand with half his palm like I’m frail, but instead like I’m an equal—something most men at my company struggle to balance.

“Yeah, but I’m a dick, and you’re not, kiddo.”

It’s about the same time I realize I’m holding said stranger. Being this close, I catch a hint of amber and cloves in her hair. No, burnt sugar. Over time, as a baker, a lot of smells grow sickly sweet, but burnt sugar never gets old.

I decided weeks ago that Josh was undeniably a fig roll. Dry and boring.

The women aren’t the problem though. It’s the brother—Cliff Burke—who keeps drifting through my mind. Cliff Burke, with his veined hands raking through loose brown hair. Cliff Burke, with his crooked smile and deep laugh.

Cliff Burke, who doesn’t understand personal space.

I shake out the irritated feeling in my hands, the remnants of warm sparks that skittered over my skin when he touched me once, twice, who knows how many times yesterday. The palm curled around my waist. The breath in my ear when he steadied the uneas...

“Shellfish!” my sister’s voice squeals through the phone. “You’re actually there!”

The smile that erupts over my lips feels like an electric shock zipping straight from my heart. I kiss him, then smack the snowball over his head anyway.

“I didn’t know George could bake,” I whisper to Cliff. He chuckles and shakes his head. “He doesn’t.” As it turns out, the fruitcake is terrible, but George’s pride keeps anyone from saying a word.

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.

“I think I’ve mastered the baker thing this time.” Cliff sets the box on the table. “Try it.” I look at him, then back to the box, sliding open the lid and looking inside. I’ve never seen a pastry like this before. It’s not a muffin,

but it’s not a sweet roll either. The dough has that croissant texture, but it’s also compact. Small. Round. And it smells exactly like burnt sugar. I pick it up, take a bite, and…melt. It’s buttery. Flaky. There’s a soft crunch with a bit of the sugar flaking off onto my lips. It’s messy, but every crumb is a delicate balance of flavors. It’s so unique, so wonderful, that I take a second bite, trailing my tongue over my lips after. “What is this?” I ask. I glance over at Cliff. He sinks into an exhale, and the little line beside his mouth deepens. “It’s kouign-amann.”

I laugh. “Kwe what?” He leans from one hip to the other, sauntering over to my side and placing a palm around my lower back. “It’s a French pastry. A pastry that is”—he leans in on an exhausted exhale—“incredibly difficult to make. With many layers. A lot like you.” “I’m difficult to make?” “You’re difficult. In the best of ways.” I smile. “Well, it’s my favorite,” I announce, droppin...

I lean closer. “It’s my favor...

I remember the first time he held me like this. 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 wouldn’t call what we did sex. It’s too crude. But I wouldn’t say it was making love either. It was something different altogether—something that didn’t feel like it should have been mine—but I sure hoped whatever it was didn’t mean goodbye.

“This sucks,” she drawls. “Totally,” I say, mocking her teen tone. “Whatever,” she says on an eye roll, peering out the corner with a half smile.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, ma’am. I forgot to introduce myself.” He sticks out his palm. “My name is Cliff. I can’t believe I showed up and kissed you. So rude of me.” My heart leaps so high that it cuts into my throat and stings my eyes. I slide my hand into his. “I’m Michelle,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you.” Shake. “God, you’re beautiful,” he says. “I actually think I might love you.”

“I think I might love you too.” Shake. He looks at the security guards, standing with their arms crossed. Shake. “I need to go,” he says. He leans forward to murmur, “I’m about to be arrested.” I laugh. “You or Rocket?” “I shouldn’t have let a dog run through an airport.”