A Greater Love
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 12
His name was Connor Waverly and he was a junior.
Jack noticed him noticing Étain on a Tuesday in December, which was approximately six weeks after the mall and two months after the hike and long enough into the school year that the social landscape had settled into something resembling its permanent form. Connor was a lacrosse player, reasonably well-liked, the kind of boy who moved through the school with easy confidence without being obnoxious about it. He was not, as far as Jack had observed, someone who ran techniques or performed for audiences.
He was, in other words, not easy to dismiss.
Jack watched him stop at the edge of the cafeteria, tray in hand, and look at Étain for a moment longer than passing interest accounted for. Then Connor moved on to his own table. Jack looked back at his lunch.
Theo said something about a history assignment. Jack responded appropriately.
It happened again on Thursday.
Connor passed their table on the way to his and said something to Étain — something brief, casual, the opener of a boy who knew how to make contact without making it a production. Jack didn’t hear the words. He heard Étain’s response, which was polite and slightly surprised and not quite comfortable, and he watched Connor move on without pressing it.
Priya, across the table, glanced at Jack once.
Jack ate his lunch.
Étain didn’t mention it. Jack didn’t ask.
Friday afternoon he ran four miles.
He didn’t typically run on Fridays. He ran on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, a habit he’d built in October when his father had mentioned, with characteristic precision, that physical exertion was a useful tool for managing states of mind that didn’t respond well to sitting still. Jack had filed this away and implemented it without discussion.
Friday he needed the four miles.
He ran the hills above the neighborhood, the route that climbed steeply enough to require full attention and descended fast enough to require focus. By the third mile he’d stopped thinking about Connor Waverly’s easy confidence and started thinking about his stride, his breathing, the specific quality of the December air coming off the bay.
By the fourth mile he’d arrived at a conclusion he didn’t like but recognized as correct: his reaction to Connor Waverly had nothing to do with Connor Waverly. Connor hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d spoken briefly to a girl at a cafeteria table. He was probably going to do it again. And the specific feeling that had moved through Jack’s chest when it happened was not Connor’s problem to manage.
It was Jack’s.
He came home, showered, went to find his father.
Nathan was in the library. He looked up when Jack knocked and read something in his son’s face that made him set his pen down.
“Sit down,” he said.
Jack sat. He described Connor Waverly in the same direct way he described most things — what he’d observed, what his reaction had been, the four miles, the conclusion he’d arrived at.
Nathan listened without interrupting.
“You’re right that it’s yours to manage,” he said when Jack finished. “And I think you know that. So what are you actually asking me?”
Jack was quiet for a moment. “I’m asking whether what I felt means I’ve already crossed a line I said I wouldn’t cross. Whether I’m doing this for her or for me.”
Nathan considered this with the seriousness it deserved.
“Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive,” he said. “You can care about her recovery and have feelings for her simultaneously. The question isn’t whether both are true. The question is which one is driving your behavior.” He looked at Jack steadily. “Has anything you’ve done changed since you recognized your feelings?”
Jack thought about it honestly. “No.”
“Are you making her choices for her?”
“No.”
“Are you creating situations designed to make her dependent on you rather than less dependent?”
“No.”
“Then the feelings haven’t crossed the line,” Nathan said. “The behavior is what matters. Feelings are not a moral failing.” He paused. “What you’re describing with Connor Waverly — that reaction — is jealousy. It’s an honest response to a real feeling. The question is not whether you feel it. The question is what you do with it.”
“I ran four miles and came here,” Jack said.
The corner of Nathan’s mouth moved. “Correct answer.”
Jack looked at his hands for a moment. “What if he asks her out?”
“Then she’ll make a decision,” Nathan said simply. “And you will not influence that decision in any direction. Not toward him, not away from him. It will be entirely hers.” He paused. “And if the decision is yes, you will continue showing up at the front entrance at seven forty-five and you will be glad that she can make that choice. Because that’s what you’ve been building.”
The room was quiet.
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