Page 10 of My Unfinished Heart

A few minutes later, Tristan and I are admitted entry to my brother’s room, and I sit down in my usual spot by the window while Tristan tries not to have a total breakdown at the sight of Connor. I admit, he looks pretty rough. The gaping, intubated mouth, the mass of black matted hair, the waxy sheen of his pale skin.

I’ve avoided looking at him for the most part. I feel bad for Tristan, though. I should have warned him.

When he starts moving strands of Connor’s hair around the bandages, putting it back where it might belong, I have to avert my gaze. Their closeness is now blatantly obvious, but there’s a deep affection there, too. I’m about to ask Tristan if he wants a moment alone with him, but he says, “I should have brought a brush.”

From the strain in his voice, I can tell how hard he’s trying not to cry. Same as yesterday with the lawyer, I feel like I should be offering him some form of comfort or words of reassurance. The burden of being the sole heir.

But I also don’t want to interfere with whatever’s happening between the two of them. I stay put, trying to mind my own business, and eventually a nurse walks in to push a button on something. Tristan backs away from the bed. He sits down next to me, with silent tears streaming down his face.

Normally, I wouldn’t do anything like what my arm is lifting to do, but he was there when I needed a hand yesterday.

I put mine on his back now and say quietly, “Hey…they say he’s gonna be okay.” Technically they haven’t said that, but no one’s acting particularly alarmed about my brother’s condition.

Tristan’s back shifts suddenly beneath my hand, and I wonder for a second if I’ve done the wrong thing. But instead of moving away or speaking, he turns toward me, hands reaching beneath my arms and past my sides.

It’s another hug.

Like random guys hug me all the time, my arms move, too, and they surround him until he fits himself back into place. It’s obvious he’s crying now. I mean, any normal human would in this situation. My hand strokes his back again and again. I feel his hands, too. Gripping my shoulder blades the way they did yesterday.

Telegraphing that he can stay here like this as long as he needs to, I settle back into the stiff couch with him still in my arms. Eventually, the shaking subsides, and he begins to relax. The way his lean body molds itself to mine is comfortable. Comforting, even. Before I get used to it, he pulls away. I pass him a box of tissues from the windowsill.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I keep forgetting you don’t know who the fuck I am.” He takes a few deep, shaky breaths and blows them out in little streams, trying to get himself back together. I watch as he pulls his shoulder length hair up and wraps it in a bun on the crown of his head, securing it with the hairband from his wrist.

I blink in disbelief.

His face.

Okay, from a purely aesthetic standpoint, Tristan is almost irrationally beautiful. As in it makes no sense to me how beautiful he is, and I should probably stop looking at him, but it’s hard. Like when I saw Van Gogh’s “Red Vineyard” for the first time. I’d been dying to see it, and when I was finally in front of it—how long was it before I looked away? Hours, maybe.

That’s what Tristan’s face is like for me. Like I could look at it for hours and still need to come back the next day to study it some more. Same as I did with the Van Gogh.

He scoots a little farther away, and I don’t blame him. I know I’m staring. “So, Seattle, huh? What do you do there?”

“I work at a museum. I just finished grad school.”

His eyes light up a little. “Yeah? What’s your degree in?”

“Art History,” I say. Speaking of my job, though, I should probably give them a call, too. I glance at the clock. It’s just past nine, so seven in Seattle. It can wait.

“And you still paint, I’m assuming?” He gestures to my hands. Oils don’t come off easy. It’s not on my skin so much as it’s on and under my nails. My hands never look clean, but they technically are—I just hate turpentine.

His hand hovers over one of mine. “May I?” he asks.

I nod, slightly concerned about the way he’s affecting me.

He lifts my left hand off my thigh, turning it over to reveal my blue-stained palm. His fingertips brush the heel of my hand, and a jolt of electric desire races down my spine. Yep. That’s more or less what I thought might happen.

They say you get addicted to meth the first time you use it. It’s a little how my skin feels when Tristan’s skin touches it—addicted in an instant. The confirmation of my obvious attraction to him makes my heart beat harder.

“You’re left handed?”

“Yeah.”

“So’s Connor. This is a lot of colors,” he says.

“I guess,” I manage in a half-strangled whisper. None of these feelings are at all welcome, but our gazes lock again, and I swear to God, my heart straight up stops. When it starts again, it races to catch up with the beats it missed.

He lets my hand go. His words rush forth when I hesitate. “It must be really triggering being here. But I mean—with the circumstances and everything…” His voice gets shaky, and he blinks his eyes a few times. “Archer, he really missed you.”