not sound like a big deal, but for Asher—and for me—it was huge. My brother was a smart, funny, brave, and interesting kid, but it was the rare person who looked beyond his disability to discover those qualities. And I understood why.
His speech was mostly incomprehensible to anyone outside the family. He used a walker or a wheelchair to get around, and he made a lot of involuntary movements. Sometimes he drooled. Occasionally he had seizures. Add to all this his oversensitivity to light, sounds, and textures, and his inability to express himself, and kids were wary. He was frustrated and anxious a lot, which often resulted in behavioral problems like tantrums or extreme reclusiveness. Needless to say, he struggled to make friends of his own at school and was often bullied and misunderstood. People would call him dumb, which drove him crazy—he wasn’t dumb at all. He was perfectly smart. He just couldn’t communicate the way people at school expected. And all those stupid IQ tests are geared for kids who can.
I’d been ferociously protective of him.
When kids made fun of Asher—and they’d been brutal—I’d snap like a wire in me had been cut. There were countless fights on the playground, in the halls, on the street. The elementary school principal probably had my parents’ number on speed dial, I got sent down there so often (she and I have since laughed about my career path in law enforcement). But I just wanted him to be treated like anyone else.
So seeing him interacting at home with Meg, making her laugh, showing her a project he was doing on the computer, talking about a TV show he liked (he shared her interest in true crime) filled me with the best feeling imaginable.
She was way too good for any asshole who just wanted to get a hand down her pants, including me. Not that I ever thought of her that way.
Much.
Sure, there were times when I couldn’t stop myself from jerking off to the idea of ripping that bikini off and fucking her expertly as she told me over and over again that I was her hero. Sometimes we were in the shower together. Or the back of my truck. Once, I even imagined us in the barn on her parents’ farm. But who can control his fantasies at sixteen?
Or eighteen.
Or twenty-seven.
Or thirty-three, I thought, as my hand wandered down my stomach and slid beneath the waistband of my boxer briefs.
My conscience made a brief but valiant effort to speak up.
Stop it. Think about somebody else this time. The woman at Whole Foods who wears the tight yoga pants. Or the cute librarian with the freckles on her nose. Or, better yet, someone you don’t even know—the model on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue!
But it was no use.
Meg was always the best fantasy, because she was both familiar and untouchable. I would never let myself touch her. She had no big brother to look out for her, so she needed me to be that guy. Someone she could trust not to hurt her. Someone she could count on to be a good man in a world full of assholes. Someone she could turn to. I always wanted to be that for her.
She’d certainly been there for me during the tough times in my life. The day after my first dog died, she dragged my sad ass out of the house and took me to the movies. The day before I left for boot camp, she brought me cookies and a letter that she made me promise not to read until I was gone. Of course, I read it that night after she left, and in it she thanked me for saving her life and being such a good friend to her. She told me she loved me like a brother. She called me her hero. It put a lump in my throat the size of a baseball.
And I’d never forget how quickly she jumped on a plane when we lost my Dad. Just dropped everything to come home and be there for me. I even had a girlfriend at the time, but it was Meg’s shoulder I cried on the day after the funeral. I’d held my shit together all throughout his illness and the long, agonizing days of hospice, and even during the final, wrenching goodbye. I’d let my mother and sister weep in my arms. I’d stayed solid and strong and took care of everyone and