“Oh my god. It is about Michael.” She’d started laughing. “What did he say?”
“Nothing. I just overheard him talking to Jack about his type and I don’t… I’m not his type. At all. Like the opposite of his type.”
“So you’re going to change your hair?”
“I was just looking?—”
“You’re seventeen.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you want to change yourself for a guy who’s never going to look at you that way because you’re Jack’s little sister.”
She’d been right. I’d known she was right.
I’d closed the laptop and never looked at those sites again.
When I turned eighteen, I decided to actually do something about my feelings. Be bold. Take initiative. Stop waiting for Michael to notice me and make him notice me.
The universe—or more accurately, Jack—had other plans.
First attempt: I’d worn my best dress to a family barbecue. I spent an hour on my hair and makeup. Walked right up to Michael by the pool with what I hoped passed for a confident smile and said, “Want to go get drinks?”
Before Michael could answer, Jack appeared out of nowhere. “Great idea, Claudie! I’m thirsty too. Let’s all go.”
He proceeded to walk between us the entire time, talking loudly about some college project.
Second attempt: I’d offered to help Michael carry something to his car after dinner. Just the two of us. Perfect opportunity.
Jack had appeared instantly. “I’ll help too! Three people make it faster.”
Third attempt: I’d actually gotten Michael alone in the kitchen. We were laughing about something, standing close, and I was about to say something flirty when Jack burst in.
“Mike! Come see this thing I need your help with. Right now. It’s urgent.”
“Can it wait—” Mike had said.
“Nope. Super urgent. Life or death. Let’s go.”
It had been like that for months. Every time I got within five feet of Michael, Jack would appear like some deranged chaperone.
Finally, I cornered Jack. “Are you doing this on purpose?”
“Doing what?”
“The thing where you magically appear every time I talk to Michael.”
“Look, Mike’s a great guy—my best friend—but he’s not good with commitment. And you’re my sister. So yeah, I’m doing it on purpose.”
“I’m eighteen?—”
“Exactly. You’re eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. And you’re not going to be one of his short-term things, okay? You deserve better than that.”
After Michael left for London, the whole thing became moot anyway. I’d tried not to cry when he hugged me goodbye at the airport and told me to stay out of trouble.
We only had rare video calls where he’d ask about school and I’d pretend my heart wasn’t breaking every time I heard his voice. Four years of watching him live a life that didn’t include me.
He came back last year—no, two years ago, apparently, since my memory was currently failing me.
