I knew instinctively the moment she started struggling—my chest went tight, my adrenaline spiked—and I jumped from the chair and took off running.

To this day, my stomach churns when I think about what might have happened if I hadn’t had my eye on her. Granted, my reasons for watching her go into the water might have included the tiny blue bikini she was wearing, but I also believed in gut instincts, and mine were strong that day.

When it was clear she was okay and able to stand, she threw her arms around me and sobbed. At that point, I just hoped I wouldn’t spring a boner with her bare, sandy skin on mine. I didn’t hug her back, but she didn’t care. That girl must have clung to me like ivy on bricks for five solid minutes, blubbering her head off.

From that moment on, I felt protective of her. I liked the feeling it gave me when I thought about how I’d kept her safe. I’d even call it a turning point in my life—after that, I knew what I wanted to do. Plus, my dad was a cop and I idolized him. So it was no surprise to anyone when I joined the Army right out of high school and later became a police officer myself.

“Come on, boy. Let’s go in.” I let Renzo back into the house, said goodnight several times before he believed me that more playtime was not happening this evening, and watched him curl up on his bed in the spare downstairs bedroom. My house wasn’t big, but it was plenty of space for Renzo and me. Downstairs it had two small bedrooms, a full bath, kitchen and living room. Upstairs was the master bedroom and bath.

Ten minutes later, I lay back in the middle of a bed big enough for two, but in which I’d slept alone for the last couple years.

She was still in my head.

I hadn’t seen her in a while, but she never seemed to change much. Long brown hair with some gold streaks in it during the summer. Gray-blue eyes that could change color depending on the light. Lean, athletic body with long, muscular legs.

I couldn’t believe she’d been dumped by yet another DC douchebag—what the fuck was wrong with these guys? At least I’d been able to make her laugh a little. The sound always took me back to the early days of our friendship.

We’d watch TV at my house or hers (she loved true crime and police shows, which I kind of dug at that age too), or we’d call each other late at night and talk for hours. It was crazy, because I was always awkward and tongue-tied around girls, but conversations with Meg were easy—even easier than talking to my guy friends a lot of the time. I knew exactly how to tease her, and she made me laugh without even trying. I could even talk to Meg about girls, and she’d listen and give me advice. Then I’d listen to her complain about all the stupid, immature boys at her school who were only interested in girls who put out.

Of course, I was interested in girls who put out too, but I didn’t say so, because I didn’t want her to think that’s the kind of thing she had to do to get a guy’s attention. Because in addition to being beautiful, Meg was fucking amazing at everything she did. Straight-A student. Student council president. Varsity athlete. Sure, she was wound tight and Type A as fuck, but she had the biggest heart of anyone I knew. She was always volunteering for things and dedicating herself to one good cause or another. And it wasn’t just for show—she cared.

She’d come over to my house and sit with my brother Asher, who has cerebral palsy and some sensory issues, and talk to him like he was just another one of her friends.

It might 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 everything, because I knew that’s what my dad would have wanted, and because I’d promised him I would.