Page 167 of My Unfinished Heart

It comes to me all at once—the enormity of my mistake. He hasn’t been steering me down a dead end road—he’s driving himself off a cliff.

So—okay—biggest plot twist ever. Most people say it was in The Sixth Sense, which is a fine example, but I say it happened before that.

It happened in The Empire Strikes Back.

I am your father.

The truth that makes you question everything you once knew for a fact.

And the fact is this:

I am the worst friend—forget boyfriend—forget lover—that ever lived.

Search your feelings…you know it to be true.

“Tristan…” I say, still choked up, if not more so, than before. The word—his name—sounds hushed and ashamed. As it should be.

As I should be.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say.

“Fuck you.”

I shut my eyes again and gulp down the breath I’ve just taken. I take a step back from him.

He speaks, voice raised and just shy of shouting at me. “I’m not here because you blew me off, Archer. I’m here because I can’t even look at my best friend anymore. And you…taking him to Helen’s—Instagramming your group hugs—I’m so glad you both finally found some fucking peace. Congratulations,” he says, the word corroded and bitter. “Enjoy your new family. Go—be happy. Enjoy your life outside the valley of the shadow. I’m not here to be the icing on your fucking cake.”

Before I have a chance to take a breath, he’s gone, his silence echoing behind a slamming door.

I walk into the executive suite at The Four Seasons in Houston—the cherry on top of my grandiose delusion. If all had gone according to plan, and Tristan allowed himself to be taken in by my thoughtless apology, I would have brought him back here, into a suite almost identical to the place we spent our first ill-advised night together, which also, now that I think about it, was insane in terms of grand gestures.

Instead, I’m alone and rattled. His harsh words and all his pain bounce off the walls in my head.

The empty room holds a storm of memories. His long hair, the moles on his smooth skin, his hands on my face, the smell of coffee, the pounding ache in my knee, the sound of his voice—sexy and happy and way too crazy about me.

My phone rings two seconds after I lie down on the bed. Connor. I answer not because I want to, but because I promised him I would.

“Hey,” I say.

His voice is much too enthusiastic as he asks how it went.

“You haven’t talked to him?” I ask.

“No. Why?”

I don’t say anything. Can’t.

“What happened?”

“He’s not coming back, bud.”

My brother is silent.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Why?” he asks again, his tone softer.

“It’s like you said. I broke his heart. That’s what fucking happened. I let him down, I broke his heart, and there isn’t anything I can say⁠—”