Page 12 of My Unfinished Heart

I must be a pretty big asshole to walk out on my one remaining family member leaving total strangers to break the news that that guy—you know—the one who’s bolting down the hall away from you—that guy’s all you’ve got left in the world, kid.

The last words I hear before I hit the hallway are these:

“Connor, honey, you’re at St. David's hospital. You were in a terrible accident.”

A nurse—delivering the news that I can’t—stays by my brother’s side to sweep up the pieces of his shattered world.

It turns out a “next of kin” isn’t what my brother needs. Connor needs someone with a functioning heart.

And that’s never been me.

THREE

Strange Days

After I leave the hospital, I park my rental car downtown on Fourth Street and start walking. The heat is miserable under the cloudy sky, and there’s no rain to take the edge off. I need air-conditioning, and I need a drink. I need something to focus on besides this incredible apathy. It’s a total paradox. In the absence of everything there’s this vast emptiness that really does feel like something. That’s what’s inside me as I walk the streets of downtown Austin.

Sixth Street is nothing like it was when I left. I only recognize a few of the old places, but it’s the name of one of the newer ones that catches my attention. Strange Days.

Strange days, brother.

Bring on the night.

I don’t think this is a coincidence.

Strange days was something West and I used to say to each other senior year. Usually at the end of a day spent smoking weed out at the lake. Or after a cheerleader invited us to a party. Or when we had nothing else to say but still found the need to talk. It was our thing.

Strange days.

I think a lot about coincidence versus fate.

In life, doors open and close. Paths lay before you and you pick one. Opportunities arise, and you have to make some hard decisions about what you want versus what’s meant to be. You can tell when you look back on the choices you’ve made—the paths you took—that there were signs leading you in the direction you were supposed to go. And you either ignored them, or you didn’t. You’re happy, or you have regrets. But I think there is some kind of plan. I think there’s a reason why Connor woke up today and not yesterday while I was at the house. I’m on a path. And it’s leading me back to Westley Miles.

When I push through the door, the bartender looks up from wiping down the bar. His heavily tattooed arm stops moving. He flips his long dark blond hair out of his face, and he stares for a moment, squinting his eyes. The flash of recognition I expect, but the grin spreading on his bearded face is a surprise.

He stops his work to come around the bar and greet me. “Hey, brother.”

I’m anticipating a handshake, maybe a pat on the back. But instead, he gives me a hug.

I back out of it after a second or two. West and I were never the kind of friends that hugged. I blamed myself at the time, but I blame him today for forgetting.

“You all right?” he asks, too easily reading the overwhelmed look on my face.

“Yeah, sure, I just wasn’t expecting a warm greeting.”

“I don't mean that, brother, I meant…” His words trail off as his eyes scan the room. “I heard what happened. It’s been on the news.”

Oh. That. “Right. Connor’s pretty banged up, but it looks like he’ll be okay. And I’m fine.”

West regards me like I’m a ticking time bomb. Not wanting to seem too indelicate, I add, “May my parents rest in peace.”

“Or wherever,” he says. And what he’s thinking is what I haven’t said—may they rot in hell.

He and I share a look of perfect understanding like we’ve never spent a day apart.

“Is this your place? It’s nice,” I say, to change the subject and get some distance back.

“It is. Thanks. We’ve been open going on a year now.”