Anything For You. Kristan Higgins

guy was such a prince, it hurt her heart sometimes. He was also a liar. He was best friends with Levi, in love with Faith in such a sappy way that it was a shock that bluebirds didn’t follow them around. Jer was friends with everyone he’d ever met.

      As they pulled into West’s Trailer Park, Jess let herself imagine that Jeremy was her boyfriend. That he’d dump Faith and fall for her, and love Davey—he was already good to Davey—and take care of them for the rest of their lives.

      “What do you say, Jess? Will you do that for me?”

      She cleared her throat. “That’s really nice, Jeremy, but it’s not the money. Philly’s really not my thing, you know? Plus, I’m working that weekend. But thanks.” She blew him a kiss and ran inside before the casual act slipped.

      That Friday night, when her classmates were in the city of brotherly love, a huge party of middle-aged fraternity brothers came into Hugo’s, and Hugo gave the table to Jess. They left her a tip of $250.

      Too little, too late.

      On Sunday she took Davey to the fair in Corning and bought him corn dogs and popcorn and root beer. She screamed on the roller coaster, and he put his arm around her, laughing with glee. He loved when she was the one who was scared and he got to protect her. They both ate candied apples and then scraped the gunk off their teeth with their fingers, Jess more successfully than Davey.

      When he wanted to play Shoot the Balloon, she made sure the carny got a good look down her shirt so that Davey won a huge stuffed animal, even though he only managed to pop one balloon.

      It was the best day she’d had in a long time.

      “I love you,” Davey said sleepily on the car ride home.

      In that moment, she was so glad to be exactly where she was, with her brother, her best bud, the boy who’d had an uphill battle since the day he was born.

      A battle which was largely her fault.

      “I love you, too, honey-boy,” she said back, her voice husky.

      Nothing was ever more true.

      But as Davey slept, his head against the window, snoring slightly, Jessica couldn’t help wondering about the view she might’ve seen from that hotel, and the little soaps and shampoos, which she had fully intended on bringing home to her brother.

      * * *

      WHICH IS WHY, at the age of twenty-one, Jessica Dunn had never stayed in a hotel before.

      It was three years past graduation, and Jess and Angela Mitchum were the only ones who hadn’t left Manningsport. Angela was a mother now, having gotten knocked up senior year. She lived on the hill with her parents and was going to school part-time to become a nurse. Sometimes, the Mitchums came to Hugo’s for dinner, and Jess always admired the baby, who was really cute.

      Jess was doing what she’d always been doing—waiting tables at Hugo’s, doing a little home health aide work on the side, looking after her brother. She still lived in the trailer park, but that was going to end soon; she now saved her money in a bank, and in four more months, she’d have enough to rent a decent place in town. Two bedrooms, because of course she wasn’t leaving Davey at the mercy of her parents’ negligence.

      Lately, Dad had been offering him drinks, which Davey was only too happy to take. For some completely unfathomable reason, he worshipped their father, who thought it was funny to see Davey tipsy. Mom wouldn’t like Jess taking Davey, but in the end, she’d give in. Her Vicodin was now supplied by the grungy guy at the laundromat, since the doctors had finally figured out that there was nothing wrong with Mom except addiction.

      It was October, always a poignant time of year for Jess. The leaf peepers, those tourists who came up by the busload to see the foliage and drink Finger Lakes wine, were heading home, and aside from the Christmas Stroll, Manningsport would soon be quiet. Hugo closed the restaurant after Veterans Day, so Jess would have to see if she could get more hours as an aide. It didn’t pay nearly as well as waiting tables, but she didn’t have a lot of other options.

      Hugo called her into his office before she started her shift that night. “I want you to take a wine class,” he said without preamble. “Felicia kills you in bottle sales, and the markup is incredible. What do you think?”

      “Um...sure,” Jess said, scratching her wrist. “But I don’t really drink.”

      “I know, honey.” He knew about her family. Everyone did, and just in case they didn’t, Dad crashed into the restaurant at least once a year, asking where his “baby girl” was and wondering if old Hugo would give him a drink on the house. “But you’re twenty-one now. You should know about wine. What goes with different kinds of food, how to talk about it, what to recommend.”

      “I just recommend the really expensive stuff,” she said.

      “Which I appreciate. Still, I want you to do this, kid. It classes us up if you can talk knowledgeably about what people are drinking.”

      “Yeah, okay.” It was true. Felicia could sell a bottle of wine to just about anyone, and was full of phrases like “that particular region of France” and “long, lingering finish with notes of fresh snow and blackberry.” It sounded pretty ridiculous to Jess, but Felicia’s clients spent more, and that meant bigger tabs, which also meant bigger tips.

      “Blue Heron Winery is having a class next week,” Hugo continued. “You went to school with Faith Holland, didn’t you? Want to go there?”

      “I’d rather not take that one,” she said easily. “If that’s okay. Next week is a little packed.”

      Hugo nodded. He’d hired her to bus tables when she was fifteen, promoted her to waitress and was now teaching her to bartend. He never asked why she didn’t go to college like all the other Manningsport kids, or enlist, or leave town to find something other than a waitressing job.

      He knew why. He probably knew more than she wanted him to, including why she’d try to dodge a class at Blue Heron.

      “Okay, kid,” he said with a nod. “I’ll see what else is around.”

      “Thank you.” The words didn’t come easily to her, but she rubbed the top of his head, said, “Lucky bald spot,” and went back to work, stuffing down her feelings.

      Manningsport was a moderately wealthy town. Full of vineyards and families that went back generations, like the Hollands, or wealthy transplants, like the Lyons, or families whose parents earned a lot of money, like the O’Rourkes.

      And scattered in between, like weeds in a garden, were families who were poor, and had tussles with the law, and had drinking problems or drug problems and always, always had money problems. Families where the mother was milking the system, claiming a lifetime disability from a vague knee injury she got four days after being hired at the high school as a lunch lady. Families where the father couldn’t hold a job and had been driven home in a police car more times than a person could count.

      Her family, in other words.

      But she had Davey. If not for him, she would’ve left Manningsport the second she could drive, moved somewhere far away from anyone who knew why she was called Jessica Does. Maybe she’d live in Europe. Italy, where she’d fall in love and learn the language and become a clothing designer or something.

      But there was her brother, and he was her responsibility and hers alone, so none of those thoughts were worth more than a few seconds. Davey made staying worthwhile and then some.

      A week later, Hugo handed her some papers and walked away. “Don’t say no,” he said over his shoulder. “You can figure it out.”

      The first page confirmed her enrollment in a day-long wine class at the Culinary Institute of America, down in Hyde Park, a good four hours’ drive.

      The next page was a hotel reservation at the Hudson Riverview Hotel.

      He was putting her up overnight.