Page 109 of My Unfinished Heart

“I have to brush my teeth!” He hurries out of the room, still naked.

I shake my head and go after him. He’s not getting away that easily.

I find him at the bathroom sink. “You’re using my toothbrush,” I note.

“I didn’t know who the other one belonged to,” he replies, his mouth full of toothpaste.

My eyes land on Gretchen’s pink Oral-B. Shit.

“About that⁠—”

He puts his hand over my mouth and spits into the sink. He hands me my toothbrush when he’s done rinsing it, then straightens and looks at me, taking his hand off my face.

Hooking his fingers through the waistband of my boxer shorts and tilting his face up to mine, he says, “I can’t believe I’m standing here. With you. Looking like this.”

“You look amazing.”

He shakes his head. “I meant you. You look…” He shuts his eyes and shakes his head. “Anyway, wow. So, your phone wasn’t broken. You have a new girlfriend.”

“Tristan…”

“It explains why you never came looking for me. Good thing we keep running into each other, I guess. Lucky you…”

Christ. “Do you have a boyfriend?” It’s probably the closest I’ll get to asking him what the hell the deal is with him and my brother these days.

A dismayed twist of his mouth is the response I get for that.

“I mean it’s not like I’m the only person you’ve ever been with,” I say. Even if he hadn’t told me his number, it was clear he has a lot more experience in the bedroom now. It’s probably not the right thing to say, given the toothbrush situation, but I guess my chest still has some things on it.

He gives me a curious look I can’t fully interpret. “Are you planning to break up with her, or are you wanting to date us both for a while? See which of us you like better?”

I blow out an unsteady breath and draw in a fresh one. This is to avoid grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. There’s no way I wasn’t extremely clear about what I want. “I already know who I like better.”

“So you’ll break up with her?”

“I already did.”

He brows draw together, genuinely confused. “Then why did you just say you have a girlfriend?”

“I didn’t, I—you—” Guilt floods me. The toothbrush was a mistake. I cleaned the bathroom. I took two showers yesterday. I brushed my teeth at least four times. Why didn’t I throw it out? What else will he find that could push him away again or break this fragile trust? How many more ways will I have to learn I’ve fucked this all up before we even had a chance. This is a disaster, and I don’t have any idea how to fix it. I’ve wanted this chance with him so much for so long that the thought of losing it over a fucking toothbrush has me about to lose my shit.

“I what?” He waits for me to string some words together—the expression on his face an impatient mix of confusion and expectation—huge expectation I doubt I can live up to. Anxiety rises like steam inside me. This is where things get a little emotional on my part.

And when I say a little, I mean I completely break down. All the years I’ve spent disappointing him are like a pillow smothering my face, and I panic. There’s far too much to atone for. There’s no way I’m capable of making it up to him.

My unhinged fear bursts forth in a slew of haphazard words. I crowd him, putting my hands on his face and making him look at me. “It’s over, Tristan. I only want you. Tell me what to do. Tell me how I get to keep you. Tell me how to make you trust me. Just fucking tell me, and I’ll do it. I promise you, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything. I can’t lose you again.”

His eyes go wide with alarm, and there’s another cracking open inside of me. It makes it so hard to breathe. I can’t believe I just said all that. Just fucking spilled…everywhere. My eyes sting, and I blink them over and over to beat the burning back. The broken person I really am—the one without a clue how to care for anyone—the coward who runs from everything that might hurt—the poisonous person I kept hidden from him as well as I could—stares back at him now, completely exposed.

I let go of him. This was not supposed to happen. I leave the bathroom, struggling with a feeling I haven’t felt since I watched that blanket burn and wished it was me in the fire instead.

Tristan finds me in the kitchen, leaning over the sink, my knuckles white where I’m gripping the edge of the counter. I’m shaking. I’m sweating. I’m salivating excessively and swallowing convulsively. I’m pretty sure I’m about to throw up.

He puts his hand on my back, moving to stand next to me.

His warm touch slows my pounding heart. The vice around my lungs lets up enough for me to take a deep breath.

I promised myself this wouldn’t happen. That I would fight for him. That I wouldn’t let what happened to me come between us ever again. I’m not useless. I’m not helpless, and I need to be strong here. Overcome. Show that I’m okay, and I can handle a fucking toothbrush and a dream coming true. This isn’t attractive. It isn’t manly. It’s weak.