Page 116 of My Unfinished Heart

“Where does he think you are right now?” I ask.

“I don’t know. He was in his room when I left. I assumed he was asleep.”

“Is that why you got here so late? You waited for him to go to sleep? Tristan, you need to tell him about us.”

He gives his head a firm shake and flashes a warning look at me. “I’m not ready for that.”

“Do you want me to do it, then?”

“No. And I’m very fucking serious.”

A combination of things is driving me crazy. First, he’s being vague. Second, the way our relationship apparently revolves around Connor’s sleeping schedule, and third, that he’s refusing to fix it. “Something has to change.”

“Archer, you’re fine. Whether or not you’re going to see me on a Tuesday is a better problem to have than whatever he’s going through.”

“Don’t you think I should be the judge of that?”

For that, I get an actual glare. “No. I get to be the judge of it. I’m the only one who knows you both.”

He’s not wrong. I have nothing to add except, “Is there anything I can do to help? I’m here if either of you need anything.”

The expression on his face looks as confused as it would if I suddenly started speaking Farsi. “What do you mean—like—you would talk to him?”

“Yeah, if you think it would help. You don’t have to look so shocked.”

“I am shocked. What’s changed?”

“Nothing.” I’m having trouble meeting his eyes. Something about the subject matter has me plummeting down a familiar well of shame.

“You could do it, you know? If you can get past all his sound and fury.”

I do want to do this for him. For both of them, but just the thought is intimidating. “Any tips on that? I’ve never done very well with sound and fury.”

“He’s your brother,” Tristan says, like “the ocean is deep.”

“I’m not like him.”

He pushes my hair away from my face, staring at me with a depth of understanding that’s almost impossible to comprehend, and he says, “Of course you are.”

TWENTY

Baby Boy

Tristan and I have a few lunch dates over the next week. We meet for breakfast once, too. And while he doesn’t spend the night, and we don’t have actual intercourse—although we come pretty close in my car one afternoon—it’s the best week of my life.

It’s hard to believe the reality of him is better than the fantasy. He’s charming, almost beyond belief, and smart. Like, crazy smart. I got a glimpse of that side of him a long time ago, but getting to experience it on a daily basis makes me happier than I’ve ever been.

When we talked about him spending a weekend with me, I brought up going to dinner at Helen’s. I’ve never seen Tristan so nervous.

He was nervous when I first brought it up, he was nervous all day Saturday, which actually made the day a lot of fun, and he’s shaking when we walk up Helen’s porch steps.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine.”

“Why are you shaking?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve never brought a guy home with you before, right?”