Page 29 of My Unfinished Heart

Tristan is quiet, but his hand moves smoothly across my back to my other shoulder. I love when he touches me, which I can say about very few people. I prefer to initiate physical contact, but it’s always Tristan who moves first, and I want to touch him back.

I want more than to touch him. I want to lose my hands in his hair. Drown my tongue in his mouth. Myself in his body. He’s letting me stare at him while he scatters glances at the watercolor, my face, my shoulder, his own hand. The silence and stare don’t last long, but in my head, it stretches into this unending moment where I could tell him all the things I never told anyone, or I could kiss him until words stop mattering at all. His presence comes over me like rain. Every time I’m near him, I leave drenched.

I don’t know if it’s the task at hand, the ongoing emotional upheaval, or if it’s just him, making me feel things I have no right to feel.

His roaming gaze moves to my mouth, then to the charm on my necklace, then the floor between us as he takes a small step away. The place where his hand was grows colder.

“I feel like I’ve known you longer than I have,” I say, which is an okay line. Not the smoothest or the coolest, but in this case, it’s true.

“Technically, you have, but I get what you mean. It probably just seems like that because I knew your family. Connor.”

“Maybe.”

“Should we keep going? There’s a lot left to do.”

We should, but it’s almost like he’s giving me an option. An opening. A chance to confess. I don’t take it, though. “Yeah,” I say. “If you don’t think there’s anything Connor would want in here.”

He shakes his head, gaze still averted. “Definitely not.”

I leave the picture frame on the nightstand but take the small painting with me. Ultimately, Tristan and I go our separate ways again, getting back to work. We pack up the house in different rooms. He stays for hours like he understands how much I want to get this done. I want this to be the last time I’m ever here.

He takes care of the bedrooms. I deal with the rest, sealing things up, sorting them for storage, charity, and Connor. The movers are scheduled for tomorrow, and I’m prepared to stay up all night if I have to.

Tristan emerges from Bryan’s bedroom a little after one in the morning as I’m charging down the hall with two more trash bags. “I have to go,” he says apologetically.

I nod, understanding. “Thanks for staying so long.”

He gestures toward the bedrooms. “Everything back here that can be packed is packed. There’s a contents list on all the boxes.”

“Thank you. I’ll sort it all out.”

“Um…I know you aren’t getting rid of Connor’s stuff, but can you not give away anything of Bryan’s either?” For the first time tonight, his voice sounds unsteady.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Okay. He was…” He shakes his head and looks down, like he can’t finish telling me what or who the brother I never met was. And I’m not ready to know, either.

I resist the urge to move toward him. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He looks back up at me. “If I haven’t said it already, I’m really glad you’re here, Archer.”

I notice he doesn’t say home, and that means something to me. Maybe it shouldn’t, but it does. He was listening. He heard me. “Me too,” I say quietly.

“Yeah?’” he asks like he hopes I’m telling the truth.

I nod. It’s half true anyway. I feel useful here—at least for now.

“You have my address, right? Because Connor’s staying with me,” he adds, like I might derive some other meaning from it.

I nod. He texted it to me at some point, once the living arrangements were finalized. “How’s his rehab going?” I hope it’s not too obvious that I’m stalling for more time.

“He’s walking without crutches. It takes a lot out of him, and he’s still got a limp, but he’s getting there.”

“Do you think there’s any chance he’ll wanna come live with me when you leave for school?” I ask.

“Do you want me to talk to him about it?”

“I can.”