Caleb
Jamie looked incredible in her wedding dress. More stunning than the day I’d met her two years ago, if that was even possible.
Eric stood beside her beaming like the happiest guy on the planet. Lucky bastard.
Together, they were enough to make even the coldest heart melt. The love and devotion radiating between them was almost disgusting. But only because what they had was so damn perfect it could make nearly anyone jealous.
And I had been jealous. Of Eric, mostly.
I’d convinced myself I was in love with Jamie. Watching them together had eaten away at my heart as diligently as cancer had eaten away at my body.
It hadn’t taken long to realize that as perfect as Jamie was, she was perfect for my brother, not me. Those feelings I’d clung to so desperately? They’d had everything to do with my near-death experience and nothing to do with her.
Being fourteen and thinking I was dying had made me desperate to experience everything possible. Since my body couldn’t handle daring adventures, my mind and heart had done all the exploring instead. I’d been grasping for feelings that weren’t really there.
Two years later, any lingering jealousy came from wanting what they had—that type of love—not from wanting her specifically.
Being cancer-free still felt surreal. Sometimes I forgot my lifespan had been miraculously expanded, thanks to Eric and those doctors.
The transplant had saved my life, but watching my brother find his happy ever after had saved my hope for the future.
So instead of jealousy, I chose gratitude. I was alive. Eric had remembered to credit me in his wedding speech. And I could still appreciate how incredible Jamie looked in that dress.
Most of all, I was grateful for the type of love that existed in storybooks. I was glad it was real. And I was happy as hell that my brother had managed to find it—even if he didn’t believe in fairy tales.
I did.