I ring Justin’s bell, hoping blindly that the door will swing open and Emma will be standing there. I want to believe that Justin called me over on the pretext of business as a simple ruse. Emma would have asked him for a favor. She’ll open the door, looking as delectable and harried as ever, and lean up on her toes. She’ll whisper how she wished she’d done things differently, and I’ll reassure her with a gentle yet still somewhat forceful kiss that she’s done nothing wrong. I should apologize. I should hold her close, and breathe in the scent of her hair, and whisper sweet endearments like—

The door opens. Justin appears before me, wearing his Berkeley sweatshirt. “Hey, Fraser.”

“I love you.” It comes out of me in a strangled whisper.

We stare at each other for a full minute, listening to a plane pass overhead. Right sentiment, wrong Brightman sibling. Perhaps I should just go and drive east never to return. All the way into the Atlantic Ocean. Final stop.

“I…I value you as well. Come on in.” Justin brushes that off, which is quite classic him. What’s not classic him, however, is what I find when I enter the living room.

Justin has always been intelligent and a good worker, but he’s not much of a self-starter. Even when we were kids, he needed me to remind him that our Dungeons and Dragons quests needed a magic ring or a troll attack to get the journey started.

I am not ashamed of my former Dungeon Master talents, incidentally.

The point is, that there are file boxes laid out orderly around the coffee table. A half-eaten lunch and a forgotten cup of tea have been pushed to one side, to make way for an open laptop and loads of manila envelopes. The phone rings, and Justin busies himself with a call, jotting something down on a notepad. At first, I was confused as to why the hell he’d invited me over in the middle of the day. Surely he had work at his firm.

Is that what this is? Is he taking a sick day?

No. I see some names scribbled down on a post it quite near the coffee table. Brightman and Connington, the Brightman Office. These are names he’s trying out for his own firm.

The man has gone full blown entrepreneur. I’m sure it’s insulting to look as impressed as I know I do, but I can’t help it. I’ve wanted Justin to take some initiative for himself since seventh grade. Back when Emma outsold our neighborhood lemonade and Kool-Aid stand three to one.

Back when she laughed in my face and then made a farting noise.

Come to think of it, that’s still her personality now. Only now I find it devastatingly attractive, if mystifying.

Justin hangs up, then sits down to look through an excel spreadsheet. “Sorry, Fras. It’s kind of a mess in here right now.”

“It looks like work.” I mean that as a compliment. I’ve never understood how some men live without goals, without a new challenge to meet. Work is essential to happiness. Of course, Emma would say I’ve a stick up my ass. She does love that phrase.

God damn, how do I begin to approach this topic? Should I even bring it up? Or would Justin be within his rights to kick me out and chase me down the street with a bat?

Hardly likely. Justin was never into sports when we were young.

“I’ve already brought over a few clients from my old firm. Including Jeff Hammer, which I know is going to piss DeWitt off.” He grins, showing a bit of teeth. “Good.”

Justin sharked a client from DeWitt and Hoffman? And he’s smiling about it?

“When did you leave the firm? And what kind of drugs are you taking?” It’s barely a joke. Whatever he’s on, I’d love a taste right now. Anything to get my mind off banging and losing his sister. Well, perhaps not the banging part. I’d rather hang onto that.

Justin shakes his head, still grinning. He stops working when the sound of a child crying rings throughout the house. Must be his youngest. The screeching continues half a minute, until there’s a soft, cooing noise. Charlotte pads into the room, jostling the boy on her hip.

“Babe, think you can pick up from the deli for lunch? I’ll call it in,” she tells Justin, wincing as the baby boy knocks his head against hers. “We’re having some technical difficulties over here. Sebastian wants to be a plane, and it’s tiring me out.” To illustrate, the child throws his arms out wide and makes a whooshing sound. Sometimes I’m not so certain I want children.

Not unless they were Emma’s. Then I would have as many as she wants or can stand. I would sow my oats in her wild—

Dear God, tell me I didn’t say any of that out loud.

Fortunately, the Brightmans are too taken with the thought of lunch to pay me any mind. Charlotte even comes over and gives Justin a soft, fond kiss. Seeing them, my gut cramps. Had it and lost it, Fraser. You’ve only yourself to blame.

After Charlotte says a polite hello to me, she bounces, or rather, flies Sebastian back to his room. Justin chuckles, going back to his email. Honestly, I can’t remember seeing him this relaxed and smiling.

“Back to my first question. When did you leave the firm?” I sit opposite him.

“They shoved me out.” He gives a shrug, as though it’s all very casual. “And I’m going to make DeWitt bleed for it.”

I don’t know what kind of hobgoblin has slipped inside my old friend’s skin and turned him into such an ice-veined legal killer, but I rather like it. “I always knew you’d this murderous instinct inside you.”

“I didn’t. You know who convinced me of it?” He looks up, his blue gaze a bit too sharp. “Emma.”

I pause, because this might be the moment he attacks, and I’d feel rather embarrassed if he simply knocked me over in this chair. One of the reasons I’ve spent so many hours sparring in the gym is precisely that: not being mowed over by a middleweight man in a California State University sweatshirt. The scenario is specific, I grant you, but ultimately valid.

But Justin doesn’t attack, or threaten me with legal action. Rather, he seems amused by my silence. I wonder if I’m doing that ‘shitting a brick’ face Emma liked to tease me about. She meant it in a complimentary way, I’m certain of it.

“Come on, man. You’ve been seeing my sister for more than forty-eight hours. You think she wouldn’t hint at it?”

Yes, Emma and her siblings have always had a close, unforced connection. As an only child, I remember having such a relationship with my invisible dragon named Lionel. Ah, the laughs we used to have, alone in my room.

My life sounds sad, but it isn’t. Not entirely.

“You don’t object then?” I wonder if Charlotte’s going to come in with the lunch order. I wonder if I can ever stop feeling awkward again, knowing that Justin knows how intimately I’ve now experienced his sister.

“I think it’s great. We just haven’t told Mom because she’d turn either smug or crazy about it.” Ah yes, Delia Brightman and her Machiavellian values. Justin shuts his laptop. “Of course, now that something’s gone wrong, there may not be a point anymore.”

What’s she told him? “It might be something we can fix.” I say that for my pride rather than because I believe it’s true; how can Emma come back from a slight like the one I handed her? But Justin looks relieved.

“I hope that’s true. Look, Fraser, I hope you know that what I’m about to say comes from a place of friendship.” Never a promising start to a sentence. “But you’ve been a tightass since we were kids. It was kind of exhausting.”

Ah, there’s that famous Brightman spirit. Rip a man down to his foundation, then watch him try to build himself back up. Nice to know that such a trait doesn’t bypass the men in the family.

“Thank you,” I say flatly.

“I told you, I mean this as a friend. That’s why I think Emma could be good for you. Hell, after she wiped the floor with Mom on Sunday, I got an idea of just how good you’ve been for her, too.” He regards me with a cool, easy confidence. “My sister’s important to me. Anything that’s good for her is all right in my book.”

There’s a thought I hadn’t entertained. I know what Emma’s given me—great sex, laughter, a noogie that time I threw her over my shoulder to carry her to the bedroom. Is it possible, though, that I’ve helped her in return? Given her some boost of confidence, some defiance towards her harpy of a mother?

If I could believe that, I could believe it might be worthwhile to inflict myself upon Emma once more. Since Gillian, I’ve imagined myself as someone whose wealth and status might make up for whatever deep, unfixable character flaws he possesses. But if it’s more than that—if Emma actually needs me, if I make her better—then there might be hope after all.

It’s more than I’ve ever dared hope: that I might be enough for someone. More than that, that I might fulfill her.

Perhaps I’ve let what happened with Gillian warp all perception of myself.

“Then perhaps I should call Emma.” I pull out my phone, attempting to sound casual. “Just in case she wants to talk.” Yes, calling on the phone usually signifies talking, Fraser. You’re a bloody genius.

“But there’s one problem.” Justin steeples his fingers. “Whatever issue you and Emma had, it sounds like it was communication based. So if you want to call and talk to her, something tells me you’d better be ready to give her the truth. Whole truth. Nothing but the truth.”

So help me God, yes, I know. I place my phone face down on the coffee table. “I’m not sure I know what to say.” It’s painful, admitting the lack of something. Some knowledge. Some instinct. “I don’t have a talent for discussing…emotional topics.”

Charlotte emerges from the hallway, without the child this time. She sits down on the couch beside her husband, and hooks her arm through his.

“Well lucky you, the food’s not ready for twenty minutes. So why don’t you try practicing on us?” she says.