Page 19 of My Unfinished Heart

“I was eighteen.” I glance at the door to make sure no one is coming after hearing us yell. I lean in and lower my voice. “Do you really think I thought about anything more than a week in advance? Do you think I planned to stay in Seattle for six years?” This is a stupid conversation to have with someone who is, in fact, eighteen, but it was the same excuse I gave West, and no one’s entitled to the truth truth.

“Seattle?” He looks shaken for a moment. His eyes cloud over with tears, before he clenches his jaw and says, “No. I think you planned to stay forever.”

“Well, I guess we'll never know.”

He swallows, making it look like swallowing is one of the hardest things in the world. “Does that mean you're staying?”

“Connor…”

Two tears slip down his cheeks, and he stares at his scraped up hands. For a moment, he looks as helpless as I feel, but beyond the helplessness, there’s hurt. The damage I did.

None of what happened was his fault. He doesn’t deserve my cold indifference. He didn’t put it there. It doesn’t belong to him. “I'm sorry for everything. I’m sorry I left without saying goodbye. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. It wasn’t just you, but you’re right. You deserved better. More than just an overdue apology.”

He wipes away his tears. “So now what?”

“When are they gonna let you go?” I ask.

Our eyes meet, and I can see the effort he’s making not to cry. It’s Herculean. His thin body trembles with the force of his will. The words I wish I could say get hung up in my throat—that everything will be okay, that we can make things work. That I can take care of him, and he doesn’t have to worry about anything anymore.

But I can’t bring myself to say any of it. It’s all a pack of lies.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Did you want me to ask somebody?”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head like he’s done with this conversation and me.

“Do you want me to go?”

He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, looks straight ahead, and nods.

Guess that’s my cue. “Well, call me…whenever you find out anything.”

“I don’t have your number,” he reminds me with a note of bitter derision.

I walk over to the white board in his room and pick up the eraser and the marker. I wipe off all the nurses’ names and phone extensions—all the instructions for incentive spirometry and goals for the day, and I write my phone number in big blue digits across the whole thing.

When I turn back to him, my eyes settle on his stoic face. “Helen Miles found me because she looked.”

I get a text later while I’m watching the Mariners game. My first thought is of West, which is a weird first thought to have because, as he explained, we haven’t heard from each other in years. It’s probably the baseball game that makes me think of him.

More bizarre is the actual text. It’s from Connor. The first one he’s ever sent me.

They’re discharging me in the morning. Tristan thought I should let you know and give you the chance to bring me home. If you’re even still in town.

There are a lot of potential replies I toy with, but bearing in mind my own conversation with Tristan, the one I send is I’ll see you in the morning then.

It’s a huge relief that Connor is alone in his room when I arrive. I’ve made myself as presentable as possible just in case Tristan is with him, but I’m glad he isn’t. I’d rather not have any witnesses to this interaction with my brother in case it takes another bad turn.

“Hey, stranger,” he says when I come in. It isn’t nice the way he says it. I brace myself and try to put my inner asshole in check.

“You all set?” I ask.

“Yeah. Just waiting.”

I ignore the dig and pick up his duffel bag. I notice the wheelchair near his bed. “Is somebody coming to help you?”

He presses his lips together, and he glares up at me. “I thought you were here to help me.”