Page 81 of My Unfinished Heart

But did I mention what a shitty summer this has been? Did I mention I barely recognize my best friend anymore? Did I mention that I’ve never felt this fucking lonely in my life? That I am genuinely afraid I might never be happy again?

That I’m still barely speaking to my parents because I fucking hate them for doing this to me when Connor needs me, and I need him, and now I need you, too, because I’m not the one who’s supposed to be needed? Because I might not be shy, but I’m not all that strong? That I’m the one who usually spins out when someone says something shitty to me, and I’m the one who cries, and I’m the one who turned Connor into a hugger because I really need a lot of reassurance like—a lot of the time.

I’m scared and I haven’t stopped freaking out since I heard about the accident.

I don’t know if you knew that about me.

I don’t know if you ever will.

Love,

Tristan

Part Two

CONNOR

FOURTEEN

#PhD

January 15th—Three and a half years later

On the first day of the spring semester, after being questioned like a murder suspect and made to feel like I know the least about the history of art of anyone in the world, my name changes.

Dr. Archer Michael Brennan.

Archer M. Brennan, Ph.D.

You can call me either one. But no more Mister Brennan.

I’m in my office when I get the news in a one line email with congratulations and an exclamation point. No fireworks, no clap on the back, no round, yellow smiling face emoji, but I’ll take it.

I print the short message out and tack it to my wall with my other diplomas. As relief begins to dilute the stress I’ve had coursing through me for months, something else takes its place—excitement. Needing something that at least resembles a congratulatory handshake, I reach for my phone to share my big news.

I know who I’m supposed to call. Jayne. Helen. And I’m sure they’re both waiting to hear from me. But the truth is, and I hate to admit it, there’s only one person I want to tell—and I haven’t heard from him in over three years. In my head, like I do more often than I’d like to admit, I imagine the conversation would be loud, excited, and physical. I’d get to see that smile that feels like a fucking rainbow after a storm and those shining eyes that are prettier than rain. It’s the opposite of the conversation I’ll have with Jayne where she’ll give me an ingratiating kiss on the cheek and start hinting about a future I’ve never given her any reason to hope for.

I send Helen and Jayne a group text before opening my computer to pull up the ultimate meaningless contact list. Instagram.

I update my story and bio.

#PhD

West Miles walks through the sliding doors of the Art building as I hurry down the main stairwell for my first class of the semester. Seeing him breaks my stride. It’s so completely out of context. The last time I saw him we were separated by a pane of glass, and I was asking myself if it was possible to get gonorrhea on my face from the nasty phone I had to use to speak to him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask, sounding as utterly shocked as I feel.

He looks cautious when he asks, “How'd it go? Have you done it yet?”

I hold up my hand as he gets closer. “Wait. When did you get back?”

“I got home last night. Sorry, brother. I was beat, or I would have called. Man, it’s good to see you!” Close enough now to invade my personal space, he overwhelms me with a big bear hug. I accept it without flinching. I’m bulletproof today.

“Welcome home,” I say as I pull away, studying him close-up. Orange was not his color, and today in his thick brown flannel shirt, he looks like himself. And that smile—it’s ear to ear—glistening and bright, crinkling his eyes and so much more like the guy I used to laugh with no matter how shitty the rest of my life was. It’s so fucking good to see him.

“Well?” he asks, an expectant look on his face.

“Well, what?”