Page 11 of My Unfinished Heart

Those words close my throat. It’s a temporary closing, but it still feels like I’m being choked. “He doesn’t even know me.”

Tristan regards me for a moment with his reddened eyes, and I get the sense he’s choosing his words carefully. “I don’t think that’s true. But I hope you both give each other a chance before you go back to Seattle. If that’s what you’re planning.”

I nod, agreeing as best I can.

He takes a deep breath, and it’s like the weight of the world just came off his shoulders. He shifts in his seat, bringing him slightly closer to me. I can’t tell whether it’s on purpose or not.

Jesus—is it hot in here? My head burns beneath the headband. As bad as my hair looks without it, I can’t handle wearing it anymore. I slide it off my head and run my fingers through my hair. I feel instantly cooler.

I notice him staring now, and my hand freezes mid-air. In these three seconds where our gazes lock, I know exactly what colors I’d use to paint his light turquoise eyes, and the blend I’d have to create to replicate the color of his strangely perfect mouth.

Three seconds, and if he were anyone else, I’d be done for.

He blinks and glances away at the same time my brain yells at me to save myself. “Awkward. Sorry.” His face flushes like he just had a hot flash, too. “You know, I always pictured you in California.” He goes on in a rambling way. “Like Santa Cruz or Pismo Beach.”

I roll with it, taking the chance to breathe. “Doing what? Painting surfboards?”

“Or sunsets. Someplace sunny. With a beach.”

“Sunsets and surfboards. Sounds better than Art History and clouds.”

“Depends on your mood, I guess.” He looks down at his hands where he turns the silver band on his left middle finger.

“Seattle’s more me.”

“I don’t know. I sometimes think we’re not our own best judges of where we belong.”

I’m about to respond—to tell him I’ll try to keep that in mind, but that’s when a sputtering noise erupts from my brother. His body gives a spastic jerk. He makes a sound like he’s choking—drowning. I shoot up from the chair and start toward him, but the nurse at his side holds out an arm to block me.

Frozen, I stare down at the nurse’s arm and feel the aching familiarity of the gesture.

I’ve never been allowed near my brother.

In the next two minutes, four more people buzz through the room, and none of them will let me get closer or let me leave. I lose track of Tristan in the organized chaos of hospital personnel, but I do manage to see them pull the breathing tube out of Connor’s throat. It’s a horrible thing to watch.

As he coughs and gags, my brother’s frantic eyes search the room and the faces of the people trying to settle him. I have never seen anyone so scared. His terror surges through my own body, like it belongs to me.

Panicked and gasping, Connor sits up, a sharp cry coming from somewhere deep inside him.

Our eyes meet.

He hasn’t been the only one in a coma.

Clarity hits me like a spike in the chest.

He has no idea.

He doesn’t have a clue what happened. He doesn’t know where he is, or who I am, or that the rest of his family is in a morgue downtown. It’s so much.

It’s too much.

I wish there were some way to change what happens next.

I’m not big on emotional moments. When things get too intense—I head in a different direction. It's how I operate. Shut down, get out. It’s my go-to. So maybe I don't have to spell out exactly what I do.

The knowledge of the kind of person I really am sneaks up on me. Following my routine, managing minor life disappointments like a flat tire on my bike before work, or the movie being sold out—those things test me and all. I can be a real dick when a pharmacy doesn't fill my prescription on time, same as the next guy in line.

But today I blindside myself. Shutting down has always been a defensive strategy for me, but this time, I see it differently. I see it the way Connor and Tristan must see it—as a slap in the face.