Jack helped with all of it. Sat with me while I went through boxes of photos. Held my hand while I signed documents that made everything feel terrifyingly final. Made me eat when grief made food taste like nothing, made me sleep when exhaustion finally won over the anxiety that kept me waking at 3 AM convinced I’d forgotten something important.
There were good days. Days when I could think about her without crying, when memories made me smile instead of breaking me open. Days when I could focus on something other than the gaping absence in my life.
And there were bad days. Days when grief ambushed me in the grocery store because I saw her favorite cereal. Days when I called her number just to hear her voicemail, just to remember what her voice sounded like. Days when the unfairness of it—that she’d survived poverty and loss and raising a child alone only to die from something as cruel as a stroke—made me so angry I couldn’t breathe.
The grief would never be forgotten—perhaps it would never fully heal. I would always need my grandma. Some nights I fell asleep with the small comfort that her pain was finally over, and she would be at peace forever.
**Three Months Later**
I woke up that morning to find an email from Simon Tucker sitting in my inbox.
I blinked at it. Then blinked again. Then sat up so fast I nearly dropped my phone.
Simon Tucker didn’t do interviews. I’d sent him several requests over the past months—and gotten nothing back except one very polite email from his assistant saying Mr. Tucker wasn’t available for press opportunities at this time.
The man was a fortress. Legendary for it.
And now this:
Ms. Wells,
I understand you’ve been interested in speaking with me about my family. I’m willing to do an interview—on my terms, with my wife present, and with my approval before publication.
Let me know if this works for you.
—Simon Tucker
I got out of bed so fast the world spun and headed straight to Jack’s study.
He was at his desk, laptop open, reading something that had his forehead creasing slightly.
He looked up when I entered, eyebrows rising. “Everything okay?”
“Did you do this?”
“Good morning to you too.” He smirked.
“Jack. What did you do?!”
“I’m going to need more context,” he said, though the satisfied curve of his mouth told me he knew exactly what.
I turned my phone around, showed him the email.
“Jack. He just agreed to the interview,”
His smile spread wider “Did he? I may have mentioned to Simon that you were working on a story.” He shrugged.
“You ‘may have mentioned’?”
“Jack.”
“What? I can’t have conversations with my friends?” He was definitely grinning now. Full-blown, completely unapologetic. “Simon asked how you were doing. I told him you were working on something important and that he should talk to you.”
“That’s it? You just asked?”
“I suggested. Persuasively.” He said. “But he made his own decision. I don’t control Simon Tucker.”
Before I could respond, he caught my wrist and tugged me forward, pulling me down onto his lap. I landed with an undignified sound, one hand bracing against his chest.
