Page 149 of My Unfinished Heart

He comes down the stairs with a frown on his face, looking out at the deck before he sees me. He has on jeans and a black zip-up hoodie with his hands jammed into the pockets, meeting each other in the middle, one holding the other. As small as he is, he’s striking, as always, even with very little hair and no eyeliner.

I stand, drawing his gaze. He freezes for a second, and I think I’ve made another huge mistake by showing up here unannounced. But then he takes off in something like a run. On that leg that was hurt so badly he almost didn’t make it, he’s running. And he’s not running away from me but toward me. He doesn’t slow down until my arms are around him, and his feet are off the ground.

It isn’t joyful. There aren’t any smiles or laughs. There’s heavy breathing and a grip that won’t let up. It’s the reunion we should have had four years ago. There’s grief in it and regret. And finally, some forgiveness. “I missed you,” I whisper. It’s not the apology I planned, but it’s truer than anything else.

When I set him back down, his eyes are filled with tears.

A couple slip out, dripping down his cheeks. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Don’t cry, bud.” I wipe his face with my fingertips, somehow knowing this time he won’t bat my hands away.

“I’m sorry. I know. I’m a mess. Watching people cry all day kind of wears on you after a while. When in Rome…”

I take a step back, still unsure where I stand with him. “These are good tears?”

He sniffs loudly and runs the cuff of his sleeve across his nose. “These tears are relieved as fuck. I can’t believe you came. I thought I was gonna have to track you down when I got out of here so I could say all the things I needed to say⁠—”

“You don’t need to say anything.”

“Well, you might not need to hear anything, but I definitely need to say some things. Will you come outside with me?” He nods his head in the direction of the patio door. I follow him, surprised at the glimmer of his personality shining through—it’s like I’ve never even met him before. I guess I technically haven’t.

The smoking deck is enclosed by a waist-high concrete wall. We walk to the corner, and Connor lights a cigarette, looking off into the tree-covered neighborhood just west of downtown. The sun is already setting. Another summer’s almost gone.

“How long have you been here?” I ask, to head off whatever it is he thinks he needs to say.

“Three weeks. I was in a psych unit for a little while. They let me come here to deal with my ‘Xanax problem’,” he says, the last words laced with sarcasm and bracketed with air quotes.

I look at him, not understanding.

He picks up the question on my face. “I don’t actually have a Xanax problem, but it got me in here, so I went with it. I wasn’t ready to go home.” He takes a drag off his cigarette and stares out into the trees. Size-wise, he looks as delicate as ever, but his jaw is lifted, squared to the world, his eyes alert and vibrant.

“How long do you have to stay?” I ask.

“It’s voluntary, but they pretty much decide when it's best for me to make my re-entry. I’m thinking maybe another week or so.”

“So, you're doing well?”

He looks at me and nods. “I am. I'm at least fifty percent better. Maybe sixty after tonight.” He smiles at me, but my own smile still won’t come. It’s odd to feel both tied to and disconnected from a person. Hard to know how to act around them.

“How are you?” he asks. “You seem sad.”

“It’s been a rough few weeks.”

He takes a breath to power his next words, but I’m still not ready to hear them, so I speak instead. “I mean, I’m fine. I was sick last night when you called, but I feel better today. It’s good to see you like this. You seem a lot stronger.”

“The power of pharmaceuticals.”

“Yeah. No kidding,” I agree.

“Listen, I know you broke up with Tristan.” He effectively blindsides me with his subject change.

“I don’t think we should talk about that,” I say quickly, my unease growing.

“Archer, please let me say this.”

I’ve been leaning on the concrete wall, propped up on my elbows. When he starts to talk again, I put my face between my upper arms and breathe into them—my version of a brown paper bag, and only slightly more subtle.

“What I did wasn’t your fault. I need you to understand that. It wasn’t his fault either. I have some pretty fucked up genetics, you know?”