Page 49 of My Unfinished Heart

My portfolio arrives later that same afternoon from Seattle. Jayne is gone, Connor hasn’t come home, so I’m alone, which I’m doing my best to get used to.

I’m on my third pot of coffee, because I need something to put my whiskey in. Drinking it straight seems too depressing while it’s still light outside—and it’s not like I’m depressed.

I figure the coffee will help me be more productive. The theory is sound enough, but the reality is I get drunker and drunker and not even a little wired.

I put a 90s alt-rock playlist on shuffle, set my drink on the floor next to my portfolio, and flip through the huge pages. I come across an oil on canvas of West’s face that I painted just after moving to Seattle. It’s colorful and fierce, glowering at me with all my own self-imposed rage. It stops my hand. I’m actually surprised how good it is. How raw and fresh. It captures today’s West in a way photographs couldn’t.

Turns out bridges can be burnt more than once. Given the small size of the world, you sometimes have multiple opportunities. The stronger ones don’t burn so easy.

I think it’s fate that the portfolio arrives the day after I totally fucked up what was left of my relationship with the person I once called my best friend. As I've said, West and I are like this. He’s where all roads in my life eventually intersect.

Staring at the painting, I text him a brief question: Are you home?

He responds: Y

Does he mean Why? Or does he mean Yes?

Either way, any response would have been good enough for me. He lives nearby, but it’s hot as fuck and too far to walk, so I get a ride share to his house. I have to knock twice because he’s really milking this for all it’s worth. Understandably.

He opens the door. That’s all he does. Then, without speaking, he turns around and disappears inside.

I follow the sounds of baseball and find him on the couch in what I guess is the den. He’s wearing cut-off sweats and a black tank. A sweating bottle of beer sits next to the ashtray on the coffee table. He picks up the burning butt of a cigarette, sucks down what’s left of it, and stubs it out. He glances up at me as I take a seat in the adjacent chair.

“What can I help you with?” he asks.

I pick up the remote and mute the TV. Now that I have at least sixty percent of his attention, I break my more than six-year silence. When sex isn’t on the table, being drunk makes me feel like talking.

“You’re right. I am a fucking coward. With you and me—after Salisbury—it didn’t feel right with us. It felt like—between you and your mom—I was some charity case, and if I had no future, I didn’t want you to have to watch me screw up the rest of my life. Because I really thought I would. I didn’t trust myself to be your friend anymore.”

“Okay. That’s all bullshit, but okay. Why’d you come back?”

“For Connor. But I think he wishes I’d stayed gone.”

“Probably too soon to say.”

“Maybe…” I tug at a loose thread on the hem of my old shorts. I really do need to buy some new clothes. It’s not like I can ever wear my favorite t-shirt again after this morning. “You know…my mom was worse than anything I ever told you. I’ve read stories about other kids who grew up with mothers like her, and they are not fucking okay, brother. Not even close.”

“You think you’re not?” he asks.

“I read those stories, and I think about how weak those kids were. Like how sad it is they never thought they could stop it, because I was able to, you know? But does that make me better? Or does it make me a dick for thinking I’m better than them?”

“Is this about our fight at Salisbury?” he asks, his voice incredulous.

I guess it sort of is. “I changed a lot after that.”

“I know you did.”

I swallow hard. “For better or worse?”

“Much better,” he says.

“Thanks.”

He sighs heavily. “But then you left, and you were a real asshole yesterday. So, I guess I don’t know.”

I glance away, over to the TV. What’s freaking me out is that same old thing. Attachment, and the danger that comes with it. The inevitable heartache. “I just got back, and now you gotta go to prison.”

Admitting that I’ll miss him is almost too humiliating. It must be the alcohol allowing the thought into my head. I close my eyes and hope he doesn’t see the shame on my face.