Page 8 of My Unfinished Heart

It’s no.

Even in this conversation where I can picture her perfectly—her baggy, paint-smeared white overalls, her curly hair, her funky glasses, and the worry line between her dark brows—she feels like a stranger. “It’s not that serious,” I say with the full realization that I’m talking more about me and Carrie than the hell I’m trying to navigate here, and it’s the most depressing thought I’ve had all day. So far.

“Oh. Well, that’s good. And truly. No worries about the show. I’ll take tons of pics. Whenever you get back, I’ll give you the entire play by play.”

“Cool.”

“I miss you. Check in with me, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell your brother I said get well soon.”

I nod at the empty room around me, mumbling my goodbyes before I end the call.

Still using my phone, I search for a flight back to Seattle. The cheapest leaves Tuesday at 5:45 a.m. That’s three days away for nearly seven-hundred dollars. I can’t cover the cost until I get paid on Friday or the lawyer starts transferring me some money, but I can’t think about that right now. All I can think about is how I’m stuck here either way for now without a clue what to do with myself besides sit vigil at the bedside of my comatose brother at the hospital.

This is the moment reality really starts to sink in, and while my feelings are many and varied both in content and intensity, I still cannot muster an ounce of grief.

When I return to the hospital, I’m clean and slightly better rested. I’m dressed in the wrinkled cargo shorts and Perfume Genius t-shirt I pulled from my hastily packed backpack. My clean hair was completely unworkable with the humidity this morning, so I gave up and put a wide, cloth headband on. I wear my wavy brown hair long enough to cause issues, but not long enough to pull back.

I’m not expecting to see anyone who’ll care that I look like shit with dark circles under my already dark eyes and more scruff than I was in the mood to deal with. I can’t remember the last thing I ate, and I feel shriveled and weak, but thirsty more than anything else.

I’m operating on half-assed autopilot. It occurred to me while I thought about throwing my wadded up shorts into the dryer to get the wrinkles out that my brother is all alone. I left him alone. The sense of urgency about being at the hospital must be some weird form of guilt making me skip past things that others might deem critical.

He’s only eighteen. The nurses must think I’m a real cold-hearted bastard. The urgency has more to do, I think, with trying to prove to myself that I’m not.

Tristan is in the waiting room when I step off the elevator.

He glances up, a passing glance at first, then he does a quick double take, eyes widening as he sits straighter, putting his phone on the seat beside him.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

I come to a stop in front of him. I’m not the only one who had a rough night. He doesn’t look like he slept much either. He’s wearing the same thing he had on yesterday, and his hair is tangled at the ends. His exhaustion doesn’t make him any less attractive, which is probably more than I can say for myself today. “Is everything all right?”

“I think so. I just…I’m here, you know. Maybe I’ll have better luck with the nurses this time.”

“Did you sleep here?”

He glances around the waiting room, sighing. “Sleep isn’t what I’d call it.”

“What about the nurses?” I ask, curious.

“I guess they don’t think the family resemblance is strong enough.”

“Well, they’ve seen me, so…”

“Yeah. You look a lot like him.” He glances back down at his hands on his thighs.

I feel bad for this sweet guy. He’s earned his right to be here, and I’d also like to meet the person who could say no to that face.

“Mind if I sit for a second?”

“No. Go ahead.” He picks up his phone to clear the spot beside him.

“I’ve been at the house.” To me, the words are like a bomb detonating.