She hesitated, then nodded. He picked Davey up easily and went upstairs. “First door on the left,” she said, somewhat needlessly, because it would be obvious which room was his.
Worried the puppy would get cut, she picked up the pieces of broken pottery. The Italian bowl was way too shattered to be fixed with glue. As for the little pinch pot Davey had given her for her birthday, well, she couldn’t think about that right now.
Chico Three sat under the table, the squeaky purple dinosaur in his mouth. “Come here, boy,” she said, grateful when the puppy obeyed her. He didn’t seem traumatized now, just waggly and sweet. She picked him up and kissed his head, and the little guy licked her chin.
“Don’t be nice to me,” she whispered, then went upstairs.
Davey was sleeping, the blue plaid comforter pulled up to his chin. Connor stood there, looking down at the boy. His eye was nearly swollen shut.
She set the dog on the bed, and he snuggled right up to Davey’s back, turned in three circles and lay down with a sigh. Jess went into the bathroom, ran a clean facecloth under the cold water and got a Band-Aid, then went back to the bedroom. Wiped the blood away from Davey’s head. Just a small cut, thankfully. No stitches would be needed, but his head would be sore in the morning, that was for sure. She put the Band-Aid on, her throat choked with glass.
“Will he be okay?” Connor asked.
“Yep.” A tree branch ticked at the window. “Connor, you should probably go, okay?”
“Let me help clean up.”
“I want you to go.”
“Jessica, this is—”
“Please, Connor.” Because if he didn’t leave now, she’d start crying for real, and there was no way in hell she was going to let that happen. Bad enough that he’d seen what he had.
She went down to the kitchen, got some ice cubes from the freezer and stuck them in a plastic bag. “Hold that on your face.”
He obeyed. “Jess, we can work this out.”
“Sure. But I want you to go now.”
He looked at her through his unswollen eye, then leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Okay. Call me later?”
“You bet.”
She didn’t call later.
* * *
CONNOR CALLED HER the next day; she let it go to voice mail.
The third day after Davey’s outburst, when she couldn’t put it off anymore, Jessica waited till O’Rourke’s would be closed, checked on Davey to make sure he was asleep. She left him the running note on the floor outside his door and then went next door. Ricky answered right away. “Would you mind?” she asked. “I won’t be long.”
“No problem.” He took the baby monitor. “You okay, Jess?”
“I’m fine. Thank you, Ricky.”
Then she drove to Connor’s and broke up with him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t think this is going to work. He’s my first priority, and until I can see if that new medication will work, I can’t expose him to anything upsetting. You saw what happens.” His eye was swollen. The rumor mill had it that he took a spill on his motorcycle. So he’d lied for her, apparently.
“Jess, I did some reading—”
“And now you’re an expert?” Her voice was sharp. People had been giving her advice on how to handle her brother all her life.
“No, but I can help with some things. Maybe.”
“Like what, Connor?”
“I can pay for the medication.”
She could feel her face hardening into the Jessica Does expression—Don’t mess with my brother, and we won’t have a problem. Threaten first, give sex second.
It generally worked.
With Connor, though, the order was wrong, but it was the same thing, sort of.
“Let me help you,” he said quietly.
“No, thank you.” People meant well. Sure they did. But then they thought their money entitled them to something. If Connor funded Davey’s medication, maybe he’d start saying things like, I think I get a say, since I’m the one who’s paying for this. Or, if he didn’t like how things went, what if he decided to stop paying?
No. It had to come from her. She was the only one she could rely on. She’d made this problem; she was the one who had to deal with it, and if it meant she didn’t get a normal life, so be it.
“Maybe I can help in other ways,” Connor said.
“What ways?”
“I don’t know yet. This is new to me. But I know a little. I read a lot of articles, and—”
“Well, it’s not new to me. Don’t think you can figure this out because you’ve spent three hours on the internet, Connor. I’ve been living with this since I was seven. I love him. I know what’s best for him. I’ve talked to doctors, read every article there is. I know what he can and can’t handle, and he can’t handle me having a...a thing right now.”
“A thing? Is that what we are?”
She swallowed. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
He just looked at her a long, long minute. “I’ll miss you, then.”
For a second, she could feel her face wobble, her tough-girl don’t mess with me front slipping, and oh, God, what if he saw how lonely she was?
“I have to go. Davey’s alone. I just ran over to tell you. Thanks for being so nice about everything.”
With that, she turned and ran down the stairs. Pulled out of O’Rourke’s parking lot so fast she slung gravel.
She didn’t realize she was crying till the road went blurry.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Five years before the proposal
IT WASN’T THAT Connor gave up on women after Jessica cut him loose. No. He was a normal healthy American male. He dated. And he did try to date, rather than hook up, because he wouldn’t want some asshole guy to sleep with Colleen and never call again. In fact, if it was up to him, Colleen would’ve joined the Sisters of Mercy long ago.
And then there was Savannah, who was as sweet as they came, a sturdy little kid who got dropped off at O’Rourke’s every Friday night so Colleen and Connor could spend some quality time with her, and babysit while Pete and Gail went to some other, fancier restaurant.
So being a well-behaved guy was kind of paramount. Savannah already had a shitty male role model, though Pete was Mr. New and Improved Father 2.0 with her. Even so, she didn’t need a brother who slept around.
So Connor dated. Just not very well.
Not many women made it past the two-week point. They were nice and all... They just weren’t Jessica.
He kept waiting for her to come in and tell him things were under control, and could they pick up where they left off. It didn’t happen. She came into O’Rourke’s every Wednesday night with the rest of the volunteer EMTs and firefighters, and she always said hello, just as nice as pie— “Hey, Con, how’s it going?”
And he’d say something like, “Just fine, Jess. How’s your brother?”
And she’d say, “He’s doing okay, thanks for asking.”
Then the copper wire that connected them, ever since sixth grade, would light up with electricity and heat, a reminder that no matter what, they were locked in.
And then it’d go cold.
Or, more likely, Jess would flip the switch. She’d go back to the firefighters, who were more of a drinking club, at least on Wednesday nights, and get dealt into the poker game or make wisecracks with Gerard Chartier. She’d have one glass of white wine, which she never finished.