Page 1 of My Unfinished Heart

Part One

TRISTAN

ONE

Light and Shadow

Austin, Texas

June

The lawyer and I are not alone on the hospital cafeteria’s patio. I finish my coffee as he maneuvers a file out of his briefcase and tries to find enough space for it on the small table between us. I glance again at the young man sitting three tables away.

Because we’re the only three people outside on this scorching summer morning, I’ve noticed him. A lot. And the glances he keeps sliding my way.

It’s possible that anyone sitting on the patio this morning besides me and the lawyer would be a welcome distraction, but this particular person has almost too much of my attention. The angles of his face are spellbinding.

I remember my tenth grade art teacher lecturing the class about training ourselves to view the world and objects we see around us in lines and shapes, light and shadow. I also remember wondering who doesn’t already do that? Who was she talking to? Not to me. I’ve always seen the individual leaves on the trees before the forest takes shape.

This young man is ovals and triangles and a curly bracket that makes up his upper lip. His eyes are ellipses. His hair a series of arches and bends. And he’s color, too. Gold and light bronze for his hair. Aquamarine for his eyes. Pale rose for his lips, and his smooth skin the color of untouched desert sand.

So many of his details have me distracted.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Brennan.”

Now that he’s speaking, I return my attention to the lawyer. With all the files situated, his expression is solemn. I give him a slow nod and wait, glad I’m not the one in a three-piece suit. The long-sleeved t-shirt I’m wearing is hot enough.

Philip Haskell clears his throat and places his hand on a stack of papers. “This is your father’s will. I can read it to you, or I can give you the highlights.”

“I’ll just take the highlights.” I’m not expecting much. Twenty-five grand in a trust, if that. Maybe a car or some old furniture in a storage unit.

“I’m not sure you’re aware, but your father did name you as sole heir, which means⁠—”

I wave my hand to slow him down. “Wait, stop.” That last thing he said was a huge leap from my low expectations. We need to back up.

Haskell pats beads of sweat from his brow with a paper napkin. “So, you were unaware…” He takes a fortifying breath. “Let’s zoom out.”

I regard the middle-aged attorney through narrowed eyes.

“Since your mother also passed, what would have gone to her, goes to you.”

That can’t be right. “Are you sure you have the right will? There’s no way my mother would sign off on that. Also, I’m not the sole anything. I have a brother.” Barely, but still. He’s technically alive.

Haskell opens his mouth to respond, but another hand lands on my shoulder.

When I turn to see who it is, it’s him. The guy with the distracting face. His round cheekbones are pink-splotched, and his aqua eyes are lighter up close than they seemed at a distance. Greener, but somehow still blue. I don’t recognize him, but the way he’s looking at me tells me I’m familiar to him.

“I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m Tristan,” he says to me, moving his hand off my shoulder for me to shake.

I take it. “Archer.”

He nods like this isn’t news. “I’m Connor’s friend.”

I zoom out on him, too. Tristan is young—or younger than I am. Late teens, I’m guessing. He’s wearing wide-legged baggy pants like a skater would and a short-sleeved linen button down, which is see-through enough to show the white tank underneath. His hair is nearly shoulder length. Dark blond. His voice is on the softer side. Between that and the fluid way he carries himself, I clock him as gay, which tracks from what I deduced about Connor several years ago. Boyfriend is likely a more accurate descriptor as to who Tristan is to my brother.

“I don’t expect you to remember me,” he says. “I just wanted to see if maybe I could help. A lot’s happened since you left.”

I glance at Haskell who looks grateful someone intervened before I started casting more doubt over whether he brought the right paperwork to this unfortunate meeting. I gesture toward the chair Tristan is gripping. “Have a seat.”