Page 9 of My Unfinished Heart

Tristan doesn’t even blink. “Yeah?”

So maybe my childhood home doesn’t read hellscape to anyone but me. “So, my dad moved out, but my mom still lived there?”

“He officially moved out a few months ago. Right after Christmas.”

I fail again at trying to conjure an image of my father. The words come without my even thinking. “You know I honestly can’t even remember what he looked like. I never saw him. He worked so much. It was always just her.”

“Will there be a funeral?” Tristan asks.

Fuck, I guess that’s on me, too. “I, uh…I haven’t really gotten that far.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “No, I totally understand. I can’t imagine what this is like for you⁠—”

“It’s not like anything,” I say quickly.

“Hm?”

“It’s like—nothing.” I take a deep breath, shutting up.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like you needed to explain yourself. I’m available, though. If you need to like—put a funeral together at the last minute.”

I half laugh. “Thanks. You and Connor…you’re close?”

“Yeah. Very.”

I nod. “You seem great.”

He gives me a confused frown, and there’s some amusement in it, too. “Thanks?”

“You’ve been together how long?”

“Kindergar—wait—no.” Tristan waves a hand between us and gives his head a shake. “He and I are just friends. Platonic only.”

“I’m not judging, believe me, I⁠—”

“I’m not worried about your judgment. I’m saying Connor and I are just friends. We’re both gay, yes, and I get people make assumptions about that, but we don’t like each other like that.”

“Got it.” He couldn’t be making himself any clearer. He doesn’t even sound defensive. More like he has to explain this to people a lot.

“We’re very close, though,” he adds. “If he wakes up…”

“When,” I remind him.

“Yeah, when, and if you’re still around, you’ll see.”

“Okay.” It’s easier to agree rather than pick apart all the things he just said. “Let’s get you in to see him.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to. I don’t mind being out here.”

I’m already standing. “Come on, I’ll talk to the nurses. They like me.”

“I’ll bet.”

His annoyed tone gives me pause, but he’s too busy gathering his things to notice. He picks up a small fanny pack and stuffs his air pods and phone into it. He plucks out a hair tie and slides it over his wrist before running a hand through his hair, then he nods at me like he’s ready.

He might have slept in an ICU waiting room, but he already looks way more put together than I do. He follows me through the doors of the unit where I explain to the staff who he is—an extremely close friend of the family—and ask that he be allowed to visit Connor whenever he wants, given the circumstances.

The charge nurse agrees without any pushback.