Page 77 of My Unfinished Heart

I want to burn the world.

Light a match and set fire to the whole fucking thing so that not even God can recognize it.

At my invitation, Helen Miles joins me for a drink at Strange Days when we leave the courthouse. She’s stoic about West heading for prison and was clearly more prepared for this horrible day than I was. Now that he’s gone, she wants to hear all about me. Since I’m not my favorite topic, this proves difficult.

Eyeing my hand as I lift my drink, she says, “You still paint, I see.”

“Just as a hobby.”

“Do you show your work to anyone?”

“No, but you can always come by the house if you want to take a look.”

“So, you’re not shy about it, you just think it’s not worth much.”

I lean back in my seat and look warily at the older woman. She has a resting bitch face for sure, but as soon as she opens her mouth, you realize you’re talking to one of the kindest, most down to earth people you’ll ever meet. We’ve had some big conversations in my life—about my life, but it’s been a long time, and I’m not sure what the point of this is. Not that I’m angry at her or suspicious. I’m only trying to decide how involved I want to get. Reintroducing myself to West’s life didn’t wind up so well for me, and I’m not looking to form any other unnecessary attachments.

“I’m not saying I think it’s bad,” I tell her. “It’s more like a diary, I guess. It’s personal.”

She nods slowly. “And what are you feeding yourself?”

I arch a brow. “Um. Well…last night I made a pretty amazing can of ravioli.”

This gets the response I’m expecting. “You’ll come Saturday for dinner, then.”

“Okay.”

“You’re welcome to bring Connor along.”

“I don’t think Connor’s planning to be in town this weekend.”

“How is he?”

Connor and I haven’t spoken in two weeks. He was gone last weekend, and I have no reason to believe this weekend will be any different. He’s gotten good at getting into his room before I get home from work and staying there. He’s gone when I wake up. Damp towels in the bathroom are one of the only clues indicating that I share my house with someone else.

When he does happen to be out and about, usually walking back and forth from the kitchen, he pretends I don’t exist, and after what happened, I don’t blame him.

I owe him an enormous apology, and if I thought he’d accept it, I might be more willing to knock on his door, but my apologies haven’t gone over so well with him historically. “He’s dealing with a lot. It’s pretty rocky.”

She studies me a long moment. “Don’t push it. It’s more likely than not he’ll come around as long as you’re there for him.”

“That’s the thing. He turns nineteen in November, and I think he’s planning to move out when he gets his inheritance.”

“Ah. Well, I’m sorry. It sounds like he’s not giving you a chance.”

I shake my head. “I don’t deserve it. I left.”

“You did what you needed to do, Archer. West was hurt, and I’m sure he gave you an earful, but you were eighteen, and you were ready to be on your own.”

I huff. “Was I?”

“I was more surprised to hear you came back. Even with the circumstances.”

“You gave someone my phone number.”

She gives me a vague smile.

“How’d you get a hold of that?”