Page 89 of My Unfinished Heart

I watch his closed eyes, his mouth working itself into West’s. His leg sliding past West’s hip, West’s hand wrapping around Tristan’s thigh. I can see their tongues. From twenty feet away.

And that’s about the outer limit of what I can take. The term blind rage is bullshit. There’s nothing blind about rage. I see everything crystal fucking clear. It’s like watching my blanket burn. Remember? The perils of attachment? This is what I was talking about.

I go back around to the front of the house and make a general announcement as I come through the door that everyone needs to move along home. Thank you, thanks for coming, please get the fuck out.

Then I head out back to break up the porch swing porno. At the sound of the opening door, West and Tristan move apart from one another, Tristan’s leg swinging off my friend’s lap.

I want to kill West. I have never been so angry. Not ever.

I stare hard at him.

“What are you up to, brother?” he asks me like nothing⁠—

Like he hasn’t just done the worst thing—the most unforgivable, unbelievable thing.

I look at Tristan, who glances once at me before he picks up his phone to study the screen some more.

“Nothing. Brother. Party’s over, but thanks for helping Jayne put it together. It’s been a real eye-opener.”

West looks at Tristan and then over to me again. I hope it’s starting to sink in—what he’s done.

Tristan scrolls through his phone, boredom personified.

West looks ready to nail himself to a cross.

I change my mind. They can stay as long as they want. I have to get the fuck out of here. I try not to break into a run as I make my way to my car.

The last glimpse I get of Connor is of him standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, looking out into the street. He looks so small, and a particular frailty surrounds him. A grayness. A loneliness I could touch if I reached out for it. The light-hearted young man I watched only a little while ago has disappeared, leaving no trace he existed at all. Because maybe he didn’t.

If I weren’t so angry…

If I weren’t so shut down…

Maybe I could go over and talk to him.

Maybe I could convince him to let me give him a hug.

Maybe it would make us both feel better.

But I am angry. And I am shut down. And I leave him there all alone staring at nothing, the smoke from his cigarette lifting into the air and wafting away on the cold breeze.

The Monk by the Sea.

SIXTEEN

Out

Cue existential crisis.

The dissertation is done. West will take over the bar. I can’t stand the sight of my “girlfriend,” and my best friend shoved a knife in my back.

What will become of me? And I mean that exactly how it sounds.

The past few years I’ve managed to hold myself together with projects and plans, papers and payrolls. Always having something to do—a fire to put out, an article to find, a painting to finish—I’ve depended on it. The deadlines kept me moving forward. And now that it’s over, and I’m standing still again, it’s like I’m a semi-solid mass—you know, like goo. I’m goo in a can. And the can just up and disappeared.

I am oozing into the world without another vessel to contain me. I am a slimy, sticky mess that’s going to be very hard to clean up if anyone ever bothers to try. I don’t even know where to start.

Helen’s house smells incredible Saturday evening. Freshly baked rolls, garlic, citrus disinfectant. It’s familiar. After spending all day at my studio alone, this is nice. I get one foot into the kitchen before she pulls me into a warm, soft embrace. “How are you, baby boy?” she asks.