Page 3 of My Unfinished Heart

I let him hold on to me, though. In his defense, this is all pretty heavy for a sunny summer morning. I can hold this guy’s hand. He’s clearly going through a lot, and I’m not exactly in my happy place, either.

Honestly, I’m halfway convinced I’m still on the couch in my brother’s ICU room, dreaming. Tristan, with all his angles, light, and shadow could easily be an image from a painting I’ve studied, and Haskell with his babyface in his ill-fitting suit and thick glasses is, more or less, a caricature. Maybe none of this is real. As my fingertips tingle, the whole scene takes on a weird quality of unreality.

“How’s Connor doing? Is there any news?” the lawyer asks.

Tristan’s gaze bores into the side of my face. I try to focus on Haskell, but he’s blurring. Not from tears, but more from the kind of anxiety I associate with impending doom. With my free hand, I reach for my t-shirt collar and give it a tug but find it loose and not choking me like it seems. “He’s still in a coma.”

Tristan exhales audibly.

“Have you been sleeping here at the hospital?” the lawyer asks.

“I just got in last night.”

“Are the doctors optimistic, or…?”

I turn to Tristan as I say, “They said they’ll know more when he wakes up.” Doctors, like lawyers, are very good at vague, sweeping statements like sole heir and critical but stable.

Tristan nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the column of his throat.

Haskell speaks. “We’re pulling for him. This has been pretty shocking, all of it. Tragic.”

Tragic for sure.

Tristan lets my hand go so he can wipe the few tears that have fallen. Knowing he’s way more concerned about Connor than I’ve allowed myself to be yet, I give his shoulder a light squeeze. He did me a favor coming over here. Not only is his presence grounding me in the facts of the situation, but it’s also distracting me from the potential enormity of it.

Haskell reaches into the front pocket of his briefcase and takes out four keys on a tagged key ring. Two are car fobs, two are standard keys. Immediately I recognize my old address scrawled in bold, black ink on one of the white tags attached to a silver key. Pressure forms at the base of my throat. I yank the collar of my t-shirt again. It still doesn’t help. “Maybe today you can have a better night’s sleep.” He pushes the keys toward me.

I stare down at them. “I don’t think I want those.”

“They’re rightfully yours, but you’re certainly not obligated to use them.”

Tristan looks at the keys, then at me.

“I got the house too?”

This is when Haskell finally realizes he needs to go much slower with me. Took him long enough. “You got everything, Archer. It’s a very, very large inheritance. I’ll be happy to go over it with you once your brother’s out of the hospital, but maybe today, with all that’s happened, isn’t the right time.”

“How large?”

He clears his throat, apprehensive. He’s getting that vibe off me, probably. It’s been many years since I’ve had a full frontal panic attack, but I can feel it coming. “In total, your father’s net worth is about eleven billion dollars.”

The unbelievable amount hits me like a high speed train. I cough. “What?”

“But more importantly,” he adds, and I blink in terror—more importantly?

“He wanted you to act as Connor’s guardian.”

The gears screech in my head as the world comes to a complete stop.

“What?” My mouth goes bone dry. “Me? Why me?”

“I have no way of knowing that, but⁠—”

“Archer—” Tristan says with a pressure on my arm too gentle to pull my focus from Haskell.

Leaning closer so as not to yell, I ask the lawyer, “What am I supposed to do with him?”

“I don't know how to answer that, but⁠—”