Page 144 of My Unfinished Heart

“No.”

“You want me to check you in?”

“No.”

“Let's go then,” he says.

And then, using both arms and his super-strength, he lifts me up.

TWENTY-FOUR

(Chemo)Therapy

I wake up in my studio without a clue what the fuck is happening. I’m on the bed, it’s dark outside, and West is standing by the window, looking down at his phone.

The gruesome puzzle starts piecing itself together in my head, random parts coming at me with the precision of heat-seeking missiles. I feel the urge to throw up again, but with a few long, deep breaths, I power through. West sits next to me while I struggle, grounding me with a hand on my leg. “That’s good. Just breathe for right now, brother. It’s all you need to do.”

I force the air in and out of my lungs, but they’re so tight—like a belt is wrapped around my chest. My brain is coming apart. Coming unglued. I’m crumbling. Crucial parts of me continue to break and fall away. I sit up on the side of the bed and put my head between my knees because the room is still spinning, and I can’t look.

“Maybe when you’re able to talk, you can tell me what’s going on. Why you were in a hospital bathroom in the middle of the night.” West’s voice deepens with dread. “Did something happen to Tristan?”

I cover my face with both hands. “It isn’t Tristan, it’s my brother.”

“And?”

“He tried to kill himself.” I hope I say it loud enough, because no way am I saying it again.

“What?” West asks, no longer calm, but sharp and disbelieving. “Is he alive? What the hell happened?”

I can’t fucking breathe. My stomach heaves like I’m on the roughest waves.

“Did he die? Bro, you need to tell me.”

“He’s in intensive care.”

“Jesus Christ. Did you find him?”

“Tristan and I did.” There. Now he’s all caught up. I scratch my fingernails against my scalp, then lie back down and curl up on my side facing away from him. Like a film reel projecting on my inner eyelids, all I see is Connor in the bathtub, Connor naked on the floor, and the blood…everything painted red. My stomach rolls again, and I gag, heave, and cough, tears from the effort streaking down my face, saliva coating my chin. I no longer care where my vomit lands. I don’t care if I drown in it.

West gets me back to the toilet.

The film rolls on. Connor on the floor. Tristan’s face. The moment I lost him. The moment when the truth hit him—that I had done this to them. It was all—every bit of it—my fault.

West doesn’t move for a long time. He remains at my side or sort of behind me. He isn’t doing anything. He’s just kind of…here. If it were me, I'd be here and all, but I'd probably be watching YouTube videos or something.

So here we are, two friends on a floor. Because that's what we would have to be, right? For him to still be here? We would have to at least be friends.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says.

“I think he’s gonna be okay,” I manage to croak out. “I hope so. I mean—he should be. We got there in time. I think.”

“No, brother. I’m sorry. For what happened with Tristan. It was fucked up, and not a day goes by⁠—”

“West.” I reach back and somehow manage to grab hold of his arm. “I forgive you.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, and I’ve never heard him sound so vulnerable. It takes a full chunk out of my heart.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”