Anything You Can Do

by R.S. Grey

  “I have an idea, but I know you won’t like it,” Madeleine says as she drives me home.

  I shrug and look out the passenger window. “You’re probably right. Don’t tell me.”

  “There’s this Hamilton Singles event next week—”

  “Yep, that sounds like a fun journey to take all by yourself.”

  “Well…I’ve signed us both up for it.”

  “What a hilarious joke, Madeleine,” I deadpan. “Maybe we should take you to an open mic night instead.”

  “It’s next Wednesday and it starts at 7:00 PM.”

  “I’m so glad you feel comfortable enough to share these details with me, but they are irrelevant considering I won’t be attending.”

  She pulls to a stop right in between her childhood home and mine. Madeleine doesn’t live there anymore; she rents a small house just off Main Street, meaning our old walkie-talkies are out of range (I convinced her to try). As such, I’m the only one dipping into the past, staying in my childhood bedroom with my too-small bed trying to pretend that in the 11 years I’ve been away, I’ve actually grown up.

  Madeleine insists I will be going with her next Wednesday and I put up a good fight. Truthfully, I already know I’ll go because I hate to disappoint her, but I can’t shake a scary thought that overwhelms me as I walk up the driveway.

  By 28, I really should have things figured out. I should have built a well-rounded life for myself, but in actuality, I have been stuck in the same loop for nearly three decades. The backdrop has changed and supporting characters have flitted in and out, but the script has stayed the same: I am Daisy Bell, rival to Lucas Thatcher, and the weight of carrying around that hatred has started to wear on me. Deep down, I’m starting to forget what exactly it is I hate about Lucas. Right now, I can disguise it with logic. I want to own my own practice and I’m not good at sharing, therefore I want to run Lucas out of town. But, if it were that simple, I wouldn’t have spent the last 11 years mentally throwing darts at his face. We were a country apart from one another, and I still gave him free room and board in my mind.

  That leads me to believe this is a sickness I can’t cure. At this point, my loathing for him has become a bodily function. Eat, drink, hate. When Lucas pops into my head, my stomach clenches and my heart pounds. I try to whack-a-mole thoughts of him out and my brain keeps putting in quarters. I even tried DIY therapy once: I put a rubber band on my wrist like a smoker trying to kick a pack-a-day habit, and every time Lucas popped into my head, I snapped the rubber band. By the end of the day, my swollen wrist was rubbed raw.

  If the brakes have been cut and my hatred for him is in the driver’s seat, my only hope is that this job with Dr. McCormick will cure me. I will complete all three phases of my diabolical plan and convince Dr. McCormick to name me his sole successor. Once that happens, I have every reason to believe my hatred for Lucas will be exorcised in one fell swoop.

  Done. Finito. I will be free to write a new script. I will be Daisy Bell, gracious winner, beautiful taker-of-the-high-road. I won’t rub his face in it or gloat. I will just forget about him.

  Dear God, please let me forget about him.

  Chapter Eight

  Lucas and I were once grouped as partners for a book report on The Catcher in the Rye. We both read the book and agreed to meet at the library (neutral territory) to work on our presentation. That ended up being the last thing we agreed on.

  “Holden Caulfield is a spoiled hypocrite, and the only reason he’s so bitter is because he’s finally being called out on it,” Lucas argued.

  “He’s just a kid!” I insisted. “All kids are immature to some degree, but that doesn’t make his criticism of the adult world any less true. The adult world sucks.”

  “Oh, so it’s everyone else’s fault he’s been expelled from every school he’s attended?”

  After an hour of debate, the giant poster board was cleaved down the middle. When it came time to present as a group, we considered divvying up the five-minute allotment, but neither of us wanted to give up the honor of going first. Instead, we both just talked over each other the whole time.

  Seeing patients with him feels like a lot like that project.

  “Could be an ear infection,” I ponder.

  “What about her loss of appetite?” Lucas argues.

  “That’s a symptom.”

  “I think it’s best if we rule out separate intestinal issues as well.”

  “I don’t think we need to run additional, expensive tests—”

  “Um…excuse me?” Ms. Keller, our patient’s mother, tries to get our attention, but we ignore her so we can continue our fight.

  We justify the unprofessionalism because by all objective measures, patients are getting more time and double the expertise. In reality, it’s overkill, and the subjective measures catch up to us quickly.

  “Okay. Right, you two, I’ve been getting some feedback from your patients,” Dr. McCormick says on Friday afternoon after our first week of working together.

  I smile, prepared for praise.

  “A few have complained of poor bedside manner, arguing over minutiae. I thought you two might set aside your old games when you’re seeing patients, but it looks like I was wrong.”

  I am crestfallen; it’s Lucas’ fault. I don’t hesitate before trying to push him under the bus. My mouth opens, but Lucas is quicker.

  “I think we just had a few kinks to work out”—I bristle at his word choice—“but we have the hang of it now and come Monday, we won’t let you down.”

  Dr. McCormick claps him on the shoulder, all buddy-buddy. “That’s what I like to hear, son.”

  SON?!

  “Can I still expect you on the course tomorrow?” he continues. “I want to try to get to all 18 holes before the sun gets too high.”

  Lucas flashes his winning smile, the one with the dimples and the straight white teeth. I blink to shield myself from it.

  “Looking forward to it, sir.”

  With a nod, Dr. McCormick turns back down the hall, and Lucas turns to me, smile still in place, though now it’s a weapon.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to use this alone time with Dr. McCormick to lobby for your dismissal, but who knows? Maybe while we’re having a few beers in the clubhouse, he’ll come to that conclusion all on his own.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You’re the worst.”

  “Sorry, did you think after all this time, I’d gone soft?”

  It’s a trick question, but his smile has slowed my response time. My gaze is halfway down his strong, definitely not soft frame when I realize what I’m doing and whip around.

  “Have a good weekend, Daisy,” he calls after me. He could not sound more pleased with himself.

  Come Monday morning, Lucas is tanner than he was on Friday, which I know means he went golfing with Dr. McCormick. I wonder who won, but as I pass him in the hallway, I don’t ask.

  “Oh, Daisy,” he says from behind me. “I left a little something on your desk.”

  I offer no response. I’ve yet to have an ounce of caffeine and my wit is sluggish this morning. Plus, I’m curious. Did he leave another bouquet of daisies? The scorecard from their round of golf?

  Neither.

  Sitting on the center of my keyboard is a 4x7 photo of Dr. McCormick and Lucas on the golf course, hip to hip like they are conjoined twins somehow separated by 30 years of age. Dr. McCormick is laughing and Lucas’ eyes seem to follow me around the room.

  Perfect. While he was schmoozing our boss with his long game, I was at home, in my pajamas, watching old movies with my mom and Madeleine.

  I take a Sharpie from my drawer and suddenly Lucas is sporting devil horns and a tail. Defacing the photo doesn’t get me any closer to winning, but as I pin the picture on the bulletin board beside my computer, I feel just a tiny bit better.

  My first patient isn’t due for another fifteen minutes, so I decide to do something I’ve dreamed about for the last week. It’s pretty une
thical, but technically not illegal—at least, I don’t think it is. I bring up Indeed.com and search for open M.D. positions around the United States—the farther away from Hamilton, Texas, the better. Oh look, Honolulu needs doctors. With a simple drag and drop, I’ve submitted Lucas’ CV, which I copied from the practice website. Just like that, my Monday is looking up. Aloha, Lucas.

  Wednesday after work, my mom is shampooing my hair in the sink. With my cast on, it’s easier to just to let her do it than to fight my mane one-handed. She’d scrub me down from head to toe if I let her. Mothers.

  A few minutes ago she started going on about calling an exterminator out to the house soon, but I tune her out. I’ve got enough problems of my own.

  “And well anyway, they said we’d have to vacate for a week or two while they put one of those big circus tents on the whole house! I’m not sure I’m going to do it yet. Oh look! It’s Lucas—”

  I jerk up and slam my forehead into the faucet.

  My mom, bless her soul, doesn’t laugh. “Ouch. You okay hon?”

  “Fine.”

  I rub my forehead as I run to the window where she pointed, and it’s true—Lucas is outside, mowing my mother’s lawn in the buff. Well, he has low-slung workout shorts on, but no shirt, and I run back to the sink. I pretend I’m going to throw up from the sight of him.

  “Surely that’s against the deed restrictions,” I say. “Aren’t there decency laws?”

  “It’s Texas, Daisy. It’s got to be 90 degrees out at least, who could blame the boy?”

  She calls him a boy, but Lucas is all man.

  “I’m going to go check the mail,” I say.

  I’m having what I can only assume is a hot flash. Maybe the sight of a glistening Lucas has caused me to tumble into early menopause.

  My mom shouts after me, but I ignore her and yank the front door open.

  Lucas is up to something. Mowing my mom’s front lawn? He hasn’t done that since we left for college, when she hired a service. The fact that he’s doing it now, 11 years later, is absolutely absurd.

  He pauses when he sees me strolling down the front path, but he doesn’t say a word and neither do I. I stomp, stomp, stomp down to the mailbox, yank it open, find it empty, and slam it closed again.

  When I glance over, sweat is rolling down Lucas’ chest. Dear god. I’m still not convinced this isn’t somehow illegal. I notice a group of female speedwalkers stopped on the street corner, gawking at Lucas. Oh really? All four of them needed to tie their shoes at the same time? It’s called a double knot, people.

  I wave my hand to shoo them away and they scurry off, embarrassed, but not really.

  “You’re causing a scene,” I snap at Lucas. “Surely you can chop blades of grass while wearing clothing.”

  “I can put my shirt back on if it’s a problem for you.”

  “It’s not. For me. I don’t care.”

  “Really—is that why you’re checking the mailbox like that?”

  I cross my arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve got shampoo in your hair.”

  That’s when I feel the wet suds slipping down my cheeks and chest, soaking my tank top.

  “It’s leave-in conditioner.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “Daisy! Hun,” my mom calls from the front stoop. “You already got the mail earlier. Now come on in and leave poor Lucas alone. I need to rinse your hair anyway.”

  Her ability to ruin a moment is uncanny.

  “Oh, and Lucas,” she continues. “I left some lemonade here for you in case you get thirsty.”

  “Satan doesn’t get thirsty,” I mutter under my breath as I drag my feet up the front path. The last thing I see is Lucas’ reflection in the window: buff, sweaty, disarmingly handsome. That night, before I go to sleep, I retrieve the massive box fan from the garage, turn it on full blast, and aim it right at my bed. The hot flashes are getting worse.

  Friday afternoon, Lucas and I are presented with Mr. and Mrs. Rogers. They’re newlyweds in their late 40s with a penchant for PDA and an aptitude for over-sharing. They insist on a joint appointment and they sit on the exam table together, their hands linked. Their intake form mentioned painful rashes, but little else.

  “You see…we went hiking on our honeymoon and well, you know how romantic it can be out in nature—”

  Mr. Rogers blushes and pinches his wife’s side. “T-M-I, Kathleen.”

  “They’re doctors! They need to know the full story if they’re going to help us, Mitch.”

  Lucas nods good-naturedly. “So you were hiking and then…”

  “Well we’re newlyweds,” Mrs. Rogers continues, and they both flash their rings in unison. “Did we mention that? That we just got married? It’s crazy. Mitch and I used to hate each other in school. He bullied me on the playground! Isn’t that ridiculous? Well anyway, we bumped into each other at a bar, one thing led to another, and well—”

  “I asked her to marry me on our first date. I knew she was the one for me, even back in elementary school.”

  I need to clear my throat, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I know Lucas wants me to look at him so he can arch a brow and say, Isn’t that interesting, but I resist.

  “Let’s get back on track. Where exactly were you hiking?”

  My voice sounds weird.

  “Out in Big Bend. We were camping there too.”

  “And things got a little heated on the trail?” I suggest, trying to connect the dots.

  “It was Mitch’s idea!” Kathleen giggles. “He swore no one would see, but then I think we got a little carried away…”

  Fifteen minutes later, after a short exam, it’s clear that Mr. and Mrs. Rogers are each sporting intense cases of poison ivy, concentrated around their nether regions. Yikes.

  They leave with a prescription for extra-strength hydrocortisone cream and clear instructions to lay off sex until the rash subsides. I don’t think they will. I smile and shake my head as I finish jotting down notes in Mrs. Rogers’ chart. Lucas is beside me, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

  “Aren’t you going to finish Mr. Rogers’ chart?” I ask, staring up at him from beneath my lashes.

  “I did.”

  I look back down and start to write faster.

  “So that’s it, isn’t it?” he asks.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I do, but I want him to drop it.

  “You’ve had a crush on me this whole time, just like Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.”

  I bark out a laugh. It’s forced and fake. “Don’t you have something else to be doing? Like planning your next tee time with Dr. McCormick?”

  “It’s already on the schedule, and you’re avoiding the question.”

  “That’s because I’m trying to work,” I say, writing the same word in Mrs. Rogers’ chart for the fifth time. Thank god for white-out.

  “That’s fine. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  It feels like he’s coming on to me and it’s hard to believe that, in this old war, there are any unused weapons remaining in his arsenal, but this one is fresh off the line and my mind reels in its wake.

  I narrow my eyes and try to decipher his motives, but his neutral expression betrays precious little. I don’t know if he’s a surgeon with a knife or a child with a rock—either way, he wants my jaw to drop and my heart to quicken, and I don’t disappoint. My face is on fire. Whatever his intentions, he’s found a new, hidden chink in my armor. Lucas and I have been at this for so long that he very rarely gets a rise out of me, an unexpected reaction. I turn on my heel and slam my office door closed, nervous for what his next move will be.

  Chapter Nine

  Lucas

  From: lucasthatcher@stanford.edu

  To: daisybell@duke.edu

  Subject: Unsent Email #349

  This feels a little strange. I haven’t written one of these messages in a while, not since before I moved back to Ha
milton. Can I even call them messages if I never hit send? I’m not even sure you’re using this email address anymore. Dr. McCormick keeps saying he’ll give us new ones for the practice, but coming from a guy who still uses Windows 98, I wouldn’t count on it happening any time soon.

  I looked the other day, just out of curiosity, and the first time I wrote one of these…journal entries? Shouts into the void? Whatever I decide to call them, the first was during my freshman year at Stanford. It was a week into fall semester and I guess you could say I was homesick. At least that’s what I told you in the email. I went on and on about missing Hamilton and I never once mentioned that I missed you.

  I guess I’m pretty good at keeping secrets. I never told you I applied to Duke. I got in with a full-ride, same as you, but then I overheard your conversation with Madeleine before prom. You went on and on about how excited you were to move away. You couldn’t wait to get out of Hamilton and get away from me.

  I got the message. Loud and clear. It might’ve been the first time in our lives that one of us actually took a hint, ha.

  I went to Stanford, ready for a fresh start, but instead I spent my entire freshman year thinking about transferring to Duke. I didn’t join any clubs or make those lifelong friends that end up being your groomsmen. I hung out in my dorm room and listened to those CDs you used to make for Madeleine. (I stole most of her collection before I moved.) There was something comforting about listening to the songs you’d handpicked, even if they weren’t for me.

  God, that was a long time ago, a decade, and yet I can still remember being that eighteen-year-old kid away at college and so homesick it hurt.

  I got over it—I got over a lot of things—but to this day I’ve been bothered by the one question it’s too late to ask.

  Would it have hurt more or less if I’d just sent that first email?

  Chapter Ten

  This fight with Lucas is different than it used to be. 11 years ago, our weapons were conventional and agreed upon: report cards, race times, SAT scores, death glares. There were no innuendos or subtle hints of foreplay. I would have guessed that high school Lucas couldn’t have differentiated between foreplay and his forearm. Adult Lucas can. It seems Stanford taught him more than biology. I should write a letter congratulating and admonishing the dean.