Page 157 of My Unfinished Heart

“No. But now I understand why he kept trying to get me to leave. You look—” He gives me the worst smile ever, affects a brightness in his voice so false it makes my head hurt. “You look great. You’re like…happy.”

Words fail me again. I’ve seen Tristan sad before. That morning he moved to Houston. The day he showed up in my class at UT. The day I kicked him out of my house and broke up with him. But this is different. This is palpable. It takes enormous quantities of self-control to keep from grabbing him and holding him until I force all our collective sadness away. It goes against my grain not to. I’m actually amazed he doesn’t see it on my face—my restraint. It’s the only thing I’m thinking about. I know exactly what he needs right now, and everything in me wants to give it to him.

But I don’t.

His fingertips lift and touch the skin behind his ear. The gesture is mindless, like he isn’t aware he’s doing it. Like it’s something he does all the time. It roars at me—that tattoo—the part of me still under his skin.

He searches my eyes while he waits for me to say something. And I might be about to, but he loses his patience, letting his anger show. “Well, are you? Are you finally happy?”

A few minutes ago, I was happy—or at least something that bore a certain resemblance to happy. But I don’t respond, because I know him well enough to know it’s a trick question.

“This is us now then, huh? We’re this? You won’t even speak to me? You and Connor are best friends all of a sudden, and I’m just thrown out with the trash? You only have room for one of us at a time?”

“No—I⁠—”

“What was I to you?” he asks, cutting me off.

“Tristan, please don’t do this⁠—”

“Do what? Ask you a question? You never had a problem answering me before.” He squeezes his eyes shut, his defiant expression crumbling—falling to pieces. He presses the heels of his hands to his forehead and makes a noise of frustration. His hands are shaking. “I can’t do this,” he whispers. “I can’t stand it… I can’t…”

He looks up at me, his gaze lingering on my mouth as a pain I’ve never seen takes hold of him. It makes me wish I was fucking dead.

I have a thousand things to say to him, but all I can think is his name. Tristan Tristan Tristan Tristan...

I love him.

The thought is a fist around my heart. I open my mouth to say the words, but they won't come. They just stick in my head with his name…

Tristan I love you Tristan I love you Tristan

I reach for him, but in the instant before my hand makes contact with his arm, he moves away, rushing past me. “Tristan, wait⁠—”

But he doesn’t stop. I don’t blame him, but I also can’t take a deep breath.

Jesus Christ, I need a deep breath.

I can’t imagine someone worse than me today. Not while I stand by and watch the love of my life break his own heart because I’m too stupid to string together a few words.

Connor and I are on my porch swing. He’s chain-smoking. I’m still reeling from seeing Tristan, and I admit, pretty quiet.

He’s talking about our mother. I’m building a kind of immunity to it. I listen, and I absorb, but I’m managing to keep it from infecting me. Maybe I’m getting better. Maybe it’s the Wellbutrin.

“I think the more time that passes, I forget what it was like—what she was like, but I have these letters she used to write me and they’re super shitty. All her narcissism and nastiness just right there, and reading them sometimes reminds me I’m not crazy. She really was that bad. If you ever want to read them⁠—”

“I won’t.”

“I get it, but it’s been more than ten years since you had to deal with her. I can only imagine you would start to doubt what was real or not real. Maybe one day when you’re feeling up to it.”

“I know what was real. My feelings about her and dad have never been mixed. I haven’t missed them. Not even for a second. Not ever.”

“I’m jealous of that,” he says.

“Don’t be. It’s just another example of how shut down I am.”

He takes a deep breath of preparation. “Can I say something?”

Bracing myself, I ask “Am I gonna need a drink for this?”