Page 166 of My Unfinished Heart

“Oh, I know. None of it has anything to do with me. And if you think about it, maybe all I ever did was hold you back from having it a long time ago. I’ve talked to Connor about this, and he disagrees, but I’ll tell you anyway because I think it’s true—Jayne and me—all we ever did was put another layer of separation between you and your brother. I don’t think you realized you were doing it, but I think you kind of stumbled onto something when you kicked me out. Nothing would have ever made you happy but Connor.”

He’s shattered. I know that already, but it’s hard to see up close. When I met him, he was innocent, and I took that from him. It isn’t something I can give back—I don’t want to—but his innocence was never what drew me to him, so the loss of it isn’t the worst thing in the world. What drew me to him from the beginning other than his brilliant light is the man I become for the incredible gift of being adored by him. I became someone worth waiting for. And briefly, I was forgiven.

I lean forward on the bench to see his face better. He meets my eyes and doesn’t look away. It trips me up—the way he looks at me, like I have nothing to offer him anymore, and I have to catch my breath before I say anything. “I wasn’t using you as a barrier. I wasn’t using you at all. The rest of it—all of it—it had to happen that way. Sometimes you have to just walk through the valley, you know?”

That pisses him off. “No. It didn’t have to happen that way. I needed you, and you pushed me away. I, personally, could have used a hand to hold during my stroll through the valley.”

He’s steering me down a darkening road. A dead end road. I have to get his hands off the wheel. If I’m going to live and die by this conversation, then I have to throw everything I have into it. I have to lay myself bare and let him decide. Then at least, if he doesn’t come home with me, I would know I tried.

I have to “put myself out there,” and the thought of it fucking sucks. All the things I’m embarrassed by—all the things I hold back—the stuff I’m sure is too ugly or pathetic to show the person I care about this much—those are the only things that can win the battle.

The truth is a necessary evil.

“I love my brother,” I begin. “I’ve loved him from the first time I saw him—more than anything.”

The mask of indifference on Tristan’s face falls away. His eyes close again. He leans over and puts his head in his hands.

It’s a rocky start, but what I’m getting to is so important. “I want you to hear this, Tristan. I need you to hear this.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he says, his words nearly a moan behind his hands.

“You can.” I run my hand down his back. I let it rest between his shoulder blades. He doesn’t pull away, so I take that as a good sign. “He and I’ve talked a lot over the last few months, and I'm starting to understand how he felt when I came back to town and blew him off like I did. My only excuse is I didn't realize how much I was hurting him. I thought he was upset by the accident—losing his parents and his brother. I didn't realize—or I didn’t want to believe I played such a big part in his unhappiness. Are you listening?” I ask, because it’s hard to tell when I can’t see his face.

“Yeah,” he says on an exhale, but he keeps his head in his hands.

“Because this is where you come in, and I really want you to pay attention to this part.”

He uncovers his wrecked face to look at me. “You mean I factor in somewhere?” His eyes and voice are ice.

“Listen, I think I understand what you need from me, but this is four years’ worth of shit I’m trying to condense before your parents kick me out for upsetting you.”

He glares at me like I don’t have a chance in hell. “You don’t need to worry about my parents. I’m much more likely to tell you to leave than they are.” There is nothing nice about the way he says that, either. Fair enough, though. “So, tell me. What difference did I make on your long journey back to the brother you love more than anything?”

On I blunder, oblivious. So many times I wish I’d taken a second to think about what he just said and what I say next. But I don’t. Because I’m not listening to him. As much as I like to think I am, the truth is—I’m only thinking about myself. I thought my brush with clarity would help the two of us find our way back to a time before everything went wrong. But I don’t take that second. I just open my mouth and say the next thing on my fucking checklist. “I wouldn't even have a brother if it weren't for you.”

He stands up, the movement abrupt and loud. “I fucking knew it. You’re welcome. I’m so glad I could play a part in your family reunion.”

I grab his wrist before he can walk away. I stand also, facing him. “Tristan, stop. Listen to me.”

His jaw is locked so tight, it would take a crowbar to pry it open. His eyes are on the door. They fixate there.

I want so much to take his face in my hands. I want to press my lips into his—to feel them give way and have his tense body relax in my arms. I want it so much. I can’t explain how much I want that. It’s a struggle to keep talking. To get to the point.

“That night—the night you found him in the bathtub…” I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. Too much adrenaline. Even though he isn’t looking at me anymore, I have to close my eyes to collect myself. “You pulled him out of the tub while I stood there and watched. You were covered in blood. He was dying, and you were dying, and I just stood there. You begged me to help you, and I didn’t do shit. And then—” my voice falters. I clear my throat. I take a breath. “You got down on the floor and told him how sorry you were.”

For the first time in a long time, I find myself getting choked up. Tears sting the backs of my eyes, and it’s a shocking sensation. I hate it, but I try not to resist it.

“You were sorry. Like you were the one who failed him, when you were the only person who hadn’t.”

He twists his wrist out of my hand and looks up at me. “You don’t really think that, do you?” he asks, like it’s too bizarre of a thing to believe.

The question confuses me. I don’t know how to answer it.

“I lived with him for more than three years. I saw him every day. Me. I did,” he says, jabbing his finger into his chest. “But I made a choice to be with you no matter what it did to him. This is all on me. Every last drop of blood in that bathroom is on my hands.”

Oh.

Shit.