Anything for You (Blue Heron #5)(105)

“Hi, guys,” she said as she came in, then nearly dropped the bag of groceries she was holding.

Davey was at the stove. Keith was sitting at the table.

“What— Davey, be careful,” she said.

“Dinner is ready,” he said grandly. “Scrambled eggs and toast. And ketchup.”

Jess put the bag down. “You cooked?”

“I know how.”

She glanced at her father. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I’ve just been sitting here, listening and learning.”

Okay, so Davey hadn’t done anything alone. That was good.

But in a way, he kinda sorta had.

There was that vise on her throat again. She sat down at the table. Davey had drawn pictures on the paper napkins. Hers was a picture of a smiley-faced heart.

Davey put the plate of eggs on the table, then brought over the toast. Two pieces were just this side of charcoal, but the truth was, the toaster was finicky. “It smells fantastic,” Jess said, her voice wobbling a little. She served herself some eggs, then passed the spoon to her father. Took a piece of the dark toast.

“This is the best supper I ever had,” she said.

“You haven’t even eaten it,” Davey said, grinning that sweet smile.

“I already know.”

“Perfect eggs,” Keith said. “You did good, son.”

After supper, they walked up to Ellis Farm Nature Preserve so Chico could get some exercise, and Davey could, too. He and the dog ran ahead, and Jess found herself a little jealous of Davey’s endless energy.

It was a beautiful summer night, the sun beginning its slow descent over the hills, the clouds turning creamy, the sky behind them softening, pink and lavender edging the horizon. A rabbit ran across the path a few yards ahead, and a wood thrush was showing off from high in a treetop.

“Jessie,” her father said, “I want to talk to you about something. I’d like Davey to spend some time with me. At my place. To stay with me part-time.”

She jolted to a stop. “What?”

“I’ve been sober for almost three years now. I have a steady job and a decent apartment and a reliable car. I’d like to see my son more.”

Jess closed her mouth. “Oh, really.”

“Yes.”

There was a bench nearby, overlooking the small pond. Davey was throwing a tennis ball in the water for Chico, who loved to swim. Jess sat down, keeping her eyes on her brother, making sure he didn’t get too close to the edge of the pond. He could swim. But still.

“So you want...custody?” she asked. Her legs were shaking.

Her father sat, too. “I don’t want to take him away from you, honey. I just... I’d like to see him more. Be more of a real father and less of a guest.”

“A real father.”

“That’s right.”

John Holland was a real father. Bet he never got drunk and threw up in one of his kids’ beds. Levi Cooper was a real father. Lucas Campbell, too.

Keith Dunn was not a real father.

Chico Three barked joyfully from down the hill. Davey waved, and Jess and her father both waved back.

“That’s a nice thought,” she managed to say through the anger that was twisting through her like razor wire. “About thirty years too late—twenty-five for Davey, but still, a nice thought.”

“I can’t rewrite the past,” he said.

“Save the euphemisms, Dad,” she hissed. “You gambled away what little money you did make. I wore hand-me-downs from the rich kids in town. I never had a friend over in case you or Mom were drunk.” Her chest started to jerk. “I’ve worked a full-time job since I was fifteen years old, and you stole my savings and put me in debt. I’ve never had a vacation. I slept with half the boys in my high school so they’d look out for Davey, because you were off in a bar somewhere, and I’ve never had fewer than two jobs. And you let me. Why didn’t you want to be a real father back then?” Tears burned down her face like acid.

“Oh, baby,” he said, his voice wobbling.

“You don’t get to cry,” she said, starting to sob. “Why didn’t you want to be a real father when I needed one? Where were you when I tried to be a stripper so I could afford Davey’s medicine? Where were you after Mom died and Davey fell apart? He needed a real father then. Not now.” The sobs were out now, galloping through her entire body, kicking their way out of her throat. “Why weren’t you a real father when Mommy was pregnant and I was bringing her drinks? Why didn’t you stop me, Dad? Why didn’t you stop me? Look at him! That’s all my fault.”

She pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around herself and it hurt, this crying. It was horrible. It was like being trampled, and she had no idea how to stop.

Then there were arms around her, and her father was rocking her. “It’s all right, baby,” he murmured. “It’s okay to cry. You’re such a good girl. Such a good girl.”

That just made her cry harder. She bent her head and just gave up, letting the hurt run through her, and sobbed, and sobbed, and sobbed.

But eventually, the sobs slowed. Her head throbbed, and she just didn’t have anything left, not even enough energy to sit up straight.

Instead, she leaned against her skinny father. There was nowhere else to go. Couldn’t remember the last time he hugged her. It had been decades.