Page 114 of My Unfinished Heart

“Never,” he says. “Also, ew. Gross.”

I close my eyes, tension releasing itself from my muscles, and my breath coming out as a relieved sigh.

Tristan laughs. “You’re fucking adorable.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said that about me.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever let anyone else see it, but that could just be my ego talking. Any more questions, or can I take you to bed?”

“More questions,” I say.

“Hit me,” he says patiently.

“What’s he studying?”

“Music. He’s second chair violin in the university symphony orchestra. He’s wonderful.”

He never once played that violin when he lived here. I always wondered if he only had it because he liked the look of it.

Tristan’s hand lifts to touch my face. My eyes close as he strokes me from forehead to chin. “He told me when we were little that he wasn’t allowed to talk to you.”

That puts a lump the size of the moon in my throat.

He runs his thumb along my cheekbone, his voice getting softer…everything about him getting gentler. I keep my eyes shut and don’t say anything. It’s hard enough to deal with the oppressive weight settling on my chest.

“He said your mom told him you hated when people talked to you. That it made you yell and scream and break things.”

A bitter smile turns up the side of my mouth. I blink my eyes open and look over at the TV. “Yeah—I was an unpredictable psychopath as a child. That’s why they had to send me away. Thank God for modern medicine. Changed my life.”

“She did tell Connor that, you know? That you were unstable and too violent to be around him. That you were where you needed to be to get help.”

Nauseated, I close my eyes.

“The first time I was at his house—your house—I was seven, and he told me you were there. I was scared because of all the things he told me she used to say. You came into the kitchen when Connor and I were playing Operation, so things were already very tense, but you just nodded at him, didn’t even look at me, then you got a drink out of the fridge and disappeared again. Not scary at all, it turned out. Connor even said so. He said, ‘I’m pretty sure my mom is lying about him.’”

“Comforting,” I mumble, shifting awkwardly where I sit.

“Hey—fast forward. Do you really remember that day Connor and I were in the pool?”

“A little.” I don’t remember the day in the kitchen he mentioned, but I was eighteen and heading out to West’s when I ran into them in the pool on my way out the back gate. Connor was twelve then, and I was making it a point to watch out for him, even if I could only see him a few days a week. I watched for changes. For signs of distress. I never saw any.

Tristan says, “You didn’t say anything, but you knelt down and smiled, started splashing us, and we all laughed. Connor told me that day he’d talked to you a few times, and that his mom was full of shit. Because you were always so nice whenever he saw you. He liked you.”

I face him. I cushion what I’m about to say with a smile. “You know, you should warn me before you start dissecting me. So I can give you my informed consent.”

“Sorry.” He blinks three times fast. “If I’m crossing a line just tell me.”

“You crossed it three minutes ago.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“You were talking really soft like you were trying to hypnotize me. I kinda wanted to see if it would work.”

“Is it too weird? That I knew your family?” he asks.

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.”