Anything for You

by Kristan Higgins

  "I'm so, so sorry," Petra said, and it sounded like she might be crying. "Davey said you and he were going to make dinner together."

  "Well, he lied." First time, too. Connor had taught him more than cooking.

  According to Davey, he and Connor had been meeting secretly for weeks. Weeks! Connor had been teaching him to cook so he could get a girlfriend. How to talk to girls, how not to mention their boobs, how to tell them they smelled good, but mostly, how to cook.

  Davey had also said that Connor told him never to use the stove when he was alone.

  Connor had never mentioned the oven.

  And that was the problem. People didn't understand how Davey thought. The letter A was not necessarily followed by the letter B. She knew that. Connor did not. He had some nerve, going over her head. She, who'd taken care of Davey her entire life.

  How dare he?

  She had never been so angry in her life. Her entire body shook with fury from the bone marrow out. Connor had no business deciding that Davey--her Davey--was capable of being around flame and heat and sharp objects. He had no idea.

  Davey had been trying to make an omelet for her and Keith. This from the kid who couldn't make his own toast. And since Connor hadn't mentioned not using the oven, he'd used the oven. Put it on broil, stuck the big frying pan right inside. When it started to smoke, he opened it up, flapped a dish towel inside the oven to clear it. The dish towel hit the heating coil, caught fire, and Davey tossed it in the sink, where the curtains caught.

  He pulled down the curtains and turned on the water, effectively ending the fire, but burning his sweet face. And hair. And hands. He looked like a sooty chick, and those burns had to throb.

  Where the hell was the doctor? The self-important nurse had come in briefly, told Davey in a saccharine voice that he was a brave boy and told him to make himself comfy.

  He has second-degree burns on his hands and face, bitch, Jess wanted to say. You get comfy with that.

  But Davey did doze right off. Probably the shock.

  Her poor honey-boy.

  Jess was an EMT. She knew the signs of a third-degree burn. Charred skin, no sensation because of nerve damage, difficulty breathing. Davey had none of that, thank God. But it was bad enough that there were two blisters on his right hand, one on his left, and both hands were a little swollen. The skin on his face was angry and tight.

  She hoped it wouldn't scar.

  She took off her suit jacket--oh, yeah, a century ago, she was going to give a presentation--and looked at herself in the little mirror in the exam room. She was as white as her shirt. Her knees stung; she'd fallen getting out of the car and skinned both of them.

  She took her hair out of its twist and ran her fingers through it. Pinched her cheeks to bring some color.

  Tugged down on her white blouse so the V showed enough cleavage, then tucked it in really tight. Got her bag, dug out her lipstick and put it on. Took a deep breath and went into the hall. Walked toward the nurses' station, making sure her hips swung.

  There were three women and a man sitting behind the counter. One of the women was the useless nurse; the man was sitting with his feet up, eating an apple.

  She went to the man. Tucker Simmons, MD.

  Perfect.

  "Hey," she said, leaning onto the counter, her arms folded under her chest. "I wonder if you can help me." She wound a piece of hair around her finger and gave him a little smile.

  "Sure!" He tried very hard not to look at her cleavage. He failed. One of the women snorted in disgust. Jess didn't bother looking at them.

  "I know you're really busy today," she murmured, "but my little brother got hurt in a fire, and he's special needs, and we've been waiting forever. Do you think you can peek in at him? I bet all he needs is to be checked and maybe get a prescription for some painkillers."

  He nearly fell out of his chair getting up. "Yeah, absolutely, I can do that. Sorry you had to wait so long."

  Jessica Does struck again.

  The lump in her throat didn't matter. What mattered was Davey. That was all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THANKS TO A CAR accident on Route 17, it was after six when Connor's cab pulled up in front of Jessica's house.

  She hadn't answered a single text or voice mail.

  He paid the driver, got out and went up the walk to her door. Ricky, her neighbor, was waxing the Camaro, and Connor lifted a hand in greeting.

  "There you are, dude," Ricky said. "You hear?"

  "A little. What happened?"

  Ricky scratched a tattoo on his bulging biceps. "Kitchen fire. I hear the smoke detectors go off, I rush in there. Fire's already out. The kid has some burns on his hands, but he's okay. Jess, though...kinda hysterical. It's good that you're here, man."

  Connor wasn't so sure. "I'm glad you were around, Ricky."

  "Me, too." He grinned and went back to worshipping his car.

  Connor knocked on Jess's door. She opened it right away. Stood there in yoga pants and a cardigan, feet bare, hair wet.

  Her eyes were red.

  Her face, however, was completely expressionless. "Are you okay?" he asked.

  "You smell like beer."

  "Yeah, uh... I spilled some during the presentation."

  "Have you been drinking?"

  "Yes. At the presentation. Jess, are you all right? How's Davey? And why the hell didn't you call me?"

  She grabbed him by the shirtfront and yanked him inside.

  "This was your fault," she whispered. "You're teaching him to cook? To cook, Connor? Jesus!"

  "Okay, okay. Let's just talk. What happened?"

  "Keep your voice down. He's sleeping. He's on Tylenol with codeine for his burns."

  Connor flinched. "How bad?"

  "Bad enough. Second degree, on his hands and face."

  "Oh, Jess..."

  "Shut up. How dare you go behind my back--"

  "Hi, Connor." Keith Dunn walked into the kitchen.

  "Hi, Mr. Dunn."

  "Jessica, honey, I'll just...take a little walk, how's that?"

  "Great. Thank you."

  Her father gave him a possibly sympathetic or possibly murderous look. It was hard to tell. The effects of all that beer hadn't worn off.

  The kitchen curtains were gone, and there was a black streak up the wall.

  Connor suddenly felt sick, thinking of Davey alone in a fire. "Can we sit down?" he asked.

  "Absolutely not."

  "Jessica, look. I was trying to do something with him, to..."

  "To get him to like you."

  "Yes. Exactly. And to get to know him."

  "And to hook him up with a girlfriend?"

  "Oh, Miranda?"

  "How do you know her?"

  "I went to see him at the candle factory. She was there."

  Jessica wrapped her sweater around her more tightly. Everything about her was clenched.

  "You shouldn't have been sneaking around with my brother," she said. "You should've asked me about teaching him to cook. He's not capable of that."

  "Look every cook has a fire at some--"

  "Connor, his IQ is roughly 50. He could've died because of you."

  Connor closed his eyes. "Please, can we sit down and talk about this?"

  "No."

  "Jess, he did good, right? He put out the fire. He didn't panic. This house is still standing."

  "He put the frying pan in the oven because you told him not to use the stove when he was alone in the house. You don't get it. If you tell him, 'Davey, don't eat cookies in bed because you get crumbs on the sheets,' he thinks it's perfectly okay to eat cake in bed, because you didn't say cake. He can't make the same connections you and I can. You had no right to assume you know what's best for him!"

  "Okay, you're right about that. But Jess--"

  "And this stuff about a girlfriend! You don't even know Miranda!" Her whisper yelling was scary.

  "She seems nice," he said.

  "Based on what,
Connor? Your many conversations with her? Have you ever talked to her?"

  "No. Doesn't mean she--"

  "You've been coaching him on how to have a girlfriend," she hissed. "Did you ever think about what happens if she doesn't like him, Connor? What if she breaks his heart? What if he actually loves her and it doesn't work out. What then, huh?"

  "Who are we talking about here? Davey, or you? Or is it maybe me?"

  Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps that hadn't been the right thing to say. She looked like she might be about to stab him.

  Connor rubbed his eyes. "Jess, I'm so, so sorry there was a fire here today. I'm sorry I didn't check with you about the cooking lessons. I just wanted him to like me, so you'd see things could work out with us, and guess what? He does like me."

  "He was burned today in a fire. You're missing the point! And you reek of beer."

  "I spilled some."

  "I cannot believe you came here drunk."

  "I took a cab. While you were toughing it out alone at the hospital, I was still trying to give that stupid presentation, when I should've been with you. But you would never call me, would you? You'd never let me help."

  "You're the cause of this problem."

  "I said I was sorry. I am sorry. But Jess, I have to say I think you're the one missing the point."

  She got very, very still. Connor was not so drunk that he didn't recognize this was not a good sign. "Oh, well, then please, illuminate me, because you must know I love when a drunk person gives me a lecture."

  Well, he was in it now. Might as well go for broke. He took a deep breath. "I think you need to let him go a little bit. Let him do things without you watching all the time?"

  "So you're an expert."

  "I'm not. But he actually can cook. With supervision, yes. And today, all by himself, when confronted with a crisis, he took care of it."

  She just glared at him.

  What the hell. He was fucked now, might as well go for broke. "Have you ever considered that maybe instead of him needing you, you're the needy one here? That you get more out of this than he does? That if you're not Davey's savior, then you just have to be a person like the rest of us?"

  She slapped his face. Hard. It stung. He closed his eyes and smiled. "You've been wanting to do that for twenty years, haven't you?"

  "All I have to say is, it's a good thing I slept with half the fire department, because they were here in two minutes."

  "Ah. So you're Jessica Does again, is that it? If you sleep around, then your brother will be safe."

  "That plan sure worked better than having a boyfriend."

  Ouch. The old broom handle through the chest, once again.

  "And by the way, Dr. Phil, it's a little ironic to be lectured about emotional health from someone who's barely spoken to his father in twelve years. Just saying." She went to the kitchen sink, her back to him. "You can go now."

  *

  THE NEXT MORNING for some inexplicable reason, someone was banging on Connor's door, and the door felt hardwired to the surface of his brain, which seemed to have electrodes suction-cupped there, shooting pain into the deepest recesses of his cerebellum and down into his spinal cord.

  The word, he believed, was hangover. He'd never had one before.

  He had one now. Hail Mary, did he have one.

  After Jess kicked him out, he'd walked home. Colleen had called and he'd told her he didn't want to talk, and then he'd turned off the phone to make sure she didn't call back, then decided a couple more beers seemed like the solution for everything.

  "Connor!" his sister yelled now. "Get your ass out here!" She must be the cause of the horrifing banging. If he had the strength, he would strangle her.

  He rolled over and fell right off his bed. Lady Fluffy barked, and Connor flinched. "Never do that again, puppy," he whispered.

  God, he felt sick. Bad dreams about fire and being unable to find Jessica's house had haunted him all night long.

  "Con! Come on!"

  Pulling himself up made the headache worse. Fluffy danced around his feet, trying to kill him, and barked again, which definitely would kill him. He went to the front door, wincing in pain. His brain felt like a pulsing jellyfish of hate and poison.

  "Shh," he whispered, opening the door for his sister. "You look nice."

  Her eyes opened wider. "Our mother is getting married today," she said.

  "Oh, shit."

  "And you're hungover. Oh, man, I knew I should've come over last night." She turned to Lucas, who was sitting in his car on the street. "He's got a hangover!" she shouted, making Connor yelp in pain.

  "Coll! Please."

  Lucas got out of the car, then opened the back door and lifted out the car seat. "Work your magic, Colleen," he said. "Wedding starts in an hour."

  "You are so pathetic," Colleen muttered, pushing her way in.

  "Yes."

  "All right. I have a cure, of course. I'm a bartender. I'm the bartender, and you are very lucky to have me." She stomped into the kitchen. Was she wearing tap shoes? Iron-soled work boots?

  "Morning, Connor," Lucas said. "Sorry to hear about Jessica."

  Yeah. His chest still felt crushed and broken and ruined. He looked down, half expecting to see a smear of ventricle on his shirt.

  His baby niece blinked up at him. "Hi, Izzy. Who's my best girl?" She spit up in response. From the kitchen, the sound of the blender nearly sliced his head in half.

  "You do not smell good, my friend," Lucas said. His brother-in-law wore a navy suit, white shirt and red tie.

  "You're a very handsome man," Connor said. It was true.

  "He's still drunk, mia," Lucas said.

  "You don't say," she called.

  "Why are you both yelling?"

  "Drink this, loser," Colleen said, swishing into the foyer in her long dress. She handed him a foamy drink. "How's Davey?"

  "You probably know more than I do."

  "True. Well, he's doing fine. Levi stopped over this morning, and Davey's just great. Jess is calmer. So no worries, okay? She's dumped you fifteen times before. You'll get her back. Now drink this."

  "What is it?"

  "Gatorade, Motrin, kale, a banana and some Tabasco sauce."

  "Hail Mary, full of grace."

  "Oh, shush. Trust me. I'm your twin. Chug it and get in the shower. We'll wait."

  *

  AN HOUR LATER, they were on the other side of Crooked Lake at the Chicken King's palace, a huge Victorian on a hill, decorated with a variety of bizarre chicken statues. His sister's remedy had made him feel minimally human again. Then again, Connor really hadn't had that much alcohol by normal-people standards. By his own...well, best not to think about it.

  For the second time in a year, he was giving away a bride.

  His mom came out of the bedroom where she'd been getting ready. "Ta-da!"

  She looked...well. She looked like his mother. The face he loved, glowing with happiness today. "You're gorgeous, Mom," he said, his voice a little husky.

  "So are you, honey," she said. "You should wear a tux every day. Oh, it's too bad Jess and Davey couldn't make it! They're doing okay, though?"

  "Yes," he said, quashing the guilt. Best not to bring up any unpleasantness on his mom's wedding day. "Davey has a couple minor burns, but they're good."

  "Glad to hear it. All right, let's get down with the others for pictures. Doesn't Colleen look fantastic? She lost that baby weight overnight, it seems! Which was good, because she gained so much, didn't she? And her cleavage is--"

  "Ma. No."

  His mother laughed. "Well. I'm a grandmother at last. Carol Robinson can't hold that over my head anymore. Can you, Carol?" she added as her bridesmaid came into the room.

  "Oh, Jeanette, look at you! You look beautiful! And you're not so bad, either, Connor," Carol said.

  Connor left his mom with Carol and the other bridesmaids--eight of them, including his sister--and looked around. Ah. There was the groom, leaning against a door and
smiling at the women.

  "So, Ronnie," Connor began.

  "Call me Dad."

  "I won't, but thanks. So, Ronnie, I know that you can buy and sell anyone in this town, and you're possibly connected to the Russian Mob, and the President is a personal friend and all that, but if you hurt my mother, you're a dead man."

  "Got it, son!" Ronnie gave him a hard hug. "Good talk. Let's get going, shall we? Give that woman away, Connor. I'll take excellent care of her."

  Ronnie went outside; Paulie followed as his person of honor. Then the bridesmaids began their march out onto the vast yard. "Oh, Mom," Colleen said, her eyes filling with tears. "This is a happy day, isn't it?"

  "Knock it off and do your thing," Connor grumbled.

  "Shut up."

  "You shut up."

  Jeanette laughed. "Oh, my kids. I love you both so much."

  Seven minutes later, Connor had a stepfather.

  With the exception of the food, the wedding reception was the same as all others, give or take. The chicken statues had a certain elan to them, Connor admitted. His headache had subsided to a dull throb.

  He took Isabelle so Lucas and Colleen could dance together, and kissed his niece's little head. Sat on a bench under a tree so she wouldn't get the sun in her eyes. Her head smelled good, the silky black hair soft against his cheek. She made a little sound, and he patted her back.

  He liked babies. Always had.

  He missed Jessica.

  He missed Davey, too.

  His throat was suddenly tight at the image of Davey Dunn, hurt and scared. Everything Jess had said was right--he'd had no business going over Jessica's head. But it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Jess had seemed so close. He'd really thought that with Davey in his camp, maybe the knot on her heart would loosen enough for him to slip in there, but it didn't look that way. And he was out of tricks.

  Jessica Dunn was not the forgiving type. Not where her brother was concerned.

  "Hey there, son." Pete O'Rourke came down the stone steps to where Connor was sitting.

  "Dad." Weird that both Dad and Gail were invited, but, hey, at least Mom was happy these days.

  "A beautiful day, isn't it?" his father said.

  "Yes, it is."

  Pete was looking at Isabelle. "Want to hold her?" Connor asked.

  "Oh, sure," his father said. The baby was passed, but Connor stayed seated, rather than find something else to do, his usual modus operandi for when his father was around.