Page 32 of My Unfinished Heart

I give him a tight smile and think of the old saying about how you can’t go home again. I understand it now. It’s not so much about home. It’s about the “you” part. You change too much, and, yeah, home does too.

“Did you put yourself through school?” he asks.

“Yeah, I worked. I got student loans. I probably owe about forty-five thousand still.” I realize my mistake one second too late. The words are out, and he pounces on them—the bitterness, or something like it, back in his tone.

“Not anymore though, huh?”

I don’t answer. I just look at him.

He shrugs like he’s gonna go ahead and go there. And he does. “How much did you get?”

The question feels so inappropriate. Up there with asking a woman how much she weighs.

You know what, though? Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe it’s better to finally see someone for who they actually are so the stupid ideal you have of them in your head dies a timely death. People are assholes. Friendship is a Hallmark myth.

“A lot,” I say, because I can play this game, too.

“Like what?”

“You really want to know?”

“I'm just making conversation.”

“Interesting angle. But if you want to know that bad, I got everything.”

“What's everything?” he asks with what seems like genuine interest.

“The company stock, the estate, the life insurance, all of it.”

“And what'd your brother get?”

“A trust fund.”

His brows lift. “Holy shit. So, you're talking millions.”

I level my gaze with his. “It was billions.”

The word doesn’t shock him quite as much as it did me that day on the hospital patio. “What are you gonna do with all of it?”

My gaze travels to the front door again. “Keep some, give some away. That's what rich people do, right?”

“I’ve never known anyone with that much money. You won the fucking lottery.”

“Right?” This little reunion was fun while it lasted, but I’m over it, and my glass is empty.

“You want another?” he asks.

It’s my turn to shrug. I do want to give this a chance. I showed up. I answered his intrusive questions, so maybe he can answer some of mine.

He goes to the bar since we have yet to see a waitress. I check the text I got while he was being nosy as fuck. My mood lifts slightly when I see Tristan’s name.

Tristan

Not that I’m doubting your outstanding memory, but I don’t think Connor’s heard from you yet.

To which I respond:

I’m getting around to it.