Page 118 of My Unfinished Heart

“Okay, I think I’m good.” I reach for the door. “Cat person. You might be right.”

He gives my hand one brief squeeze before letting it go.

When I open the door, the smell of chicken frying kicks my salivary glands into overdrive. Helen Miles is a great cook, and her fried chicken is my favorite. But Helen is not the one skidding around the corner into the entry hall.

The young girl who appears lets out a gasp when she sees me, drops the book she’s holding, and her lightly freckled face turns a startling pink. She can’t be more than ten years old. “Who are you?” she asks, blatantly staring at me, specifically, her eyes huge behind her glasses.

“Who are you?” I counter.

She takes hold of the long brown braid hanging over one shoulder, her little fingers worrying the ends. Her response is barely a whisper. “Elizabeth Holloway.”

“I’m Archer. This is Tristan.”

“Oh my goodness.” Then she’s gone.

I look at Tristan. He frowns at the place the little girl just vacated, before turning to look at me. “Are you aware of the effect you have on small, impressionable children?”

“Do I scare them?”

Tristan smirks. “That’s not what that was.”

The door to the kitchen swings open, and another stranger appears. This one is even more startling than the last, but at least she’s an adult.

The woman standing before us is probably my age. She’s porcelain white, and her hair is dyed the color of ripe cherries. Both her arms are tattooed sleeves in the most vivid colors. She’s an illustration. She’s anime. Her large, bright blue eyes look—concerned. I have to be in the wrong house.

“Archer?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” I take a step back. “I feel like I showed up on the wrong day. Is Helen here?”

“She’s cooking. It’s not the wrong day. We just weren’t expecting you.”

I frown, beyond confused.

“I’ll let Helen know you’re here.”

The colorful stranger goes back through the kitchen door, and I turn back to Tristan. His unease shows on his face. “Who was that?” he asks.

“I have no idea.”

Helen finally comes out of the kitchen. Her expression is mild, like nothing off the wall is happening.

“Well, there you are. Welcome.” She moves to hug me before I can say anything. When she’s done with the hug, she pulls away and begins picking at my hair, parting and re-parting it. This is not the first time she’s ever done this, but today is not the day for it. She brushes strands off my forehead and glowers at some piece she finds particularly offensive until I bat her hands out of my face.

“Nell. Please.”

Helen shrugs. “It’s no use anyway. You need a haircut.” She pivots around to give Tristan her full attention. Tristan—my shining light in the void—dressed in a white short-sleeved button down and perfectly respectable jeans looking like he’s standing in front of a moving train.

I introduce them.

Tristan holds out his hand for Helen to shake. “Thank you for having me. Archer says so many wonderful things about you.”

“Does he?” She casts a dubious glance at me. I would give away my house to know what she’s thinking. Her dislike of Jayne was instantaneous. But she looks at me now like she’s seeing me for the first time. I swallow hard under the scrutiny, and she turns back to Tristan with a pleasant smile. “Tristan.” She says it like it’s a complete sentence, and then she’s silent for the longest moment in history.

Tristan’s cheeks darken, and I study Helen’s familiar face, not able to read it anymore now than I ever could. It can look incredibly sour when she’s not actively smiling. Tristan glances up at me as the moment grows more and more awkward.

Helen’s gaze flits back and forth between the two of us. I wait with mounting anxiety—not because I need her approval, but because I need her to make Tristan feel welcome. Someone in this crazy house needs to. If she doesn’t, I’ll have no problem leaving—even at the expense of the fried chicken and knowing what the hell is going on.

“Are you frying chicken?” Tristan asks abruptly.