Page 53 of My Unfinished Heart

His hand comes up to cover his heart, and he drops his head when he recognizes me. His eyes close again, and he takes a deep breath.

When he looks back up at me, he’s pissed.

“What are you doing here?” I can’t hear him, but as far as lip-reading goes, the words aren’t hard to figure out.

I attempt to wave him over and lose my footing. I grab at the branch above me, somehow managing not to fall.

On his knees, he shuffles toward the head of the bed and opens the window a crack “What the fuck, Archer? Are you stalking me?”

“I just want to finish talking to you,” I explain.

“Have you heard of texting? Wait. Are you drunk?”

“Is that a deal breaker?”

He gapes, still blinking in disbelief. Finally, he says, “You need to sleep this off. You're freaking me out.”

“Tristan, come on. I climbed a tree.”

He gestures pointedly at the position I’m in. “Exactly. You climbed a tree in the middle of the night to spy on someone while you’re drunk.”

He has a point, but it’s not much of a deterrent. I already knew all those things. The difference is, I’ve come to terms with it. “Come outside and talk to me. Just for a couple minutes.”

He hesitates then shakes his head. “You need to go home.”

“Tristan—Jesus Christ—give me a break, okay? I need five minutes. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“You might,” he says coldly. “You did this morning.”

Ouch. If I needed any proof that we were remotely on the same page, that’ll do it.

“That’s more or less what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Again—I have a phone.”

My grip on the branch above me is becoming tenuous. “I’m not leaving until you come outside.”

“Or until the police get here.”

I’ll definitely fall before that. He’ll come outside for sure if I fall. “Are you coming?”

“Fine, Archer. Fuck. You win.” Then he hesitates again, a worried frown on his face. “Be careful getting down, okay? ”

I keep my smile to myself.

I get halfway down the tree before I lose my footing again and thump the rest of way to the ground. My knee lands on some kind of rock or spike. Whatever it is, it hurts like a bitch. When I get my act together, I limp over to the front walkway where he’s waiting.

“Shit, are you okay?” He approaches me like I’m a wounded puppy and not a crazed peeping tom.

“I hit my knee on something. I need to sit. Will you sit with me?” I drop onto the pavement, landing hard on my ass. He lowers himself to sit in front of me, muttering something about how insane I am.

It is a sad fact that he’s put on clothes. His black t-shirt and pajama pants cover so much, it’s criminal, but fuck. He looks amazing in black, too.

“You shouldn’t have been driving like this.”

“I didn’t. I Waymo’d.”

“Why?”