I’d met Jack Specter when we were twelve years old at some business function our family had dragged us to. The kind of event where kids were expected to sit quietly while adults talked about mergers and acquisitions. We’d both been bored out of our minds, so we snuck out to the parking lot and spent two hours seeing who could throw rocks the farthest.
We’d been best friends ever since.
We grew up going to the same functions, the same private schools, the same exclusive summer camps where rich kids learned to sail and play tennis. Jack was the brother I never had—the one person who knew me before the money got serious, before the company became what it was, and before I became someone people wanted things from.
He’d always been protective of his little sister. Even when she was just this tiny kid with blonde hair and scraped knees, following us around and asking a million questions. Jack treated her like she was made of glass, like the world might break her if he wasn’t careful.
When we got older and I started dating, Jack pulled me aside one time at a party. We were twenty-two, drunk on expensive whiskey someone’s dad had left unattended.
“You’re a player,” he’d said, pointing at me with his drink. “A commitment-phobic player who goes through women like they’re disposable.”
“That’s harsh.”
“That’s accurate. And I love you, man, but if you ever—and I mean ever—even think about looking at Claudette that way, I will personally destroy you.”
“She’s seventeen, Jack. That’s disgusting.”
“I’m talking about future you. Future her. Any version of this where you think my sister is an option.” He’d gotten serious then, the drunk humor fading. “You don’t do relationships. You don’t do commitment. You sure as hell don’t do love. And Claudette deserves someone who can do all of that. So stay away. Don’t even sniff in her direction.”
I’d agreed. I’d also wondered why Jack was suddenly warning me off when I’d never seen her that way before.
That she’d looked at me a few weeks earlier while I was fixing her laptop didn’t mean anything to me back then.
I left for college overseas two months later. Spent years in London building my education and then my company, putting an ocean between me and whatever Jack thought was going on.
I came back two years ago.
Claudette was twenty-six then—no longer the teenager with scraped knees but a woman who was beautiful, brilliant, lovely, and kind. Maybe that was when I realized Jack had been right to warn me off. Because I’d absolutely been blown away by her.
Every time Jack invited me over and she was there, curled up on the couch with a book or making sarcastic comments about whatever documentary was playing. I’d gotten good at looking away, at keeping my distance, at pretending I didn’t noticeher smile or the sound of her laugh or the fact that she was everything I’d ever wanted wrapped up in the one person I could never touch.
Jack’s warnings never stopped. Even now, at thirty-three, he’d make comments about my dating life. Call me a player. Joke about my inability to keep a girlfriend longer than six months. And always, always, there was the underlying message:stay away from my sister.
So I had.
Then eight months ago, Jack called me at midnight.
I’d been in my office, working late on some acquisition deal that didn’t matter anymore. I’d answered on the second ring because Jack never called that late unless something was wrong.
“It’s Claudie,” he’d said, his voice wrecked. Broken in a way I’d never heard before. “She has a brain tumor. They found it yesterday. It’s—Mike, they said it’s bad.”
I’d driven to his place and sat with him while he fell apart. Watched my best friend, the strongest person I knew, cry about losing his baby sister. I kept every feeling locked down because this wasn’t about me. This was about Jack’s pain. About Claudette fighting something that shouldn’t exist in someone so young.
I’d asked what the doctors said. Jack told me they were trying treatments, that there was hope, that maybe they’d caught it early enough.
I’d wanted to believe him.
For eight months, I watched from a distance as Claudette fought. Heard updates from Jack about appointments and treatments and side effects. I kept my distance because what was I supposed to do? Show up and confess feelings for a dying woman? That felt selfish. Cruel, even.
Yesterday, Jack called again.
His voice was hollow. The doctors were out of options. They were talking in weeks instead of months. Claudette was getting worse, and there was nothing anyone could do.
I stood in my office after we hung up, staring out at the city, thinking about all the time I’d wasted. Eight months of telling myself there would be a miracle.
My phone rang, jerking me out of my thoughts. Jack’s name lit up the screen.
I answered. “What’s wrong?”
