Page 138 of My Unfinished Heart

“You okay?” I ask.

“I mean, it took him long enough, but I was expecting it.”

I put the phone down and help him clear the table. “Do you want me to go with you on Saturday?”

“Sure. What a fun date.”

I’m not entirely sure I should say anything else, so I shut up.

But then Connor texts me.

Connor

You win, I lose.

Our fate. —Connor

“Wanna try to decipher this one?”

Tristan stares at the screen for a long time, his grip on my phone so tight, his knuckles lose color.

“Okay, I don’t like this,” he finally says, his body now rigid with unease. “I’m going over there.”

“What? Now?”

He nods, shoving my phone against my chest.

“He said tomorrow.”

Tristan is adamant. “Will you still come with me?”

Someone has to be the voice of reason. “Maybe he’s just asking for space.”

“No. That’s not what that was.” Tristan’s tension is almost visible—it radiates from him like an aura. He makes a noise of frustration and raises his voice. “I know him. Something’s wrong. We need to go. Right now.”

He and I go back and forth about it for a few more minutes, until his urgency changes. He’s done talking. He’s in the bedroom, looking for his shoes, ready to leave without me. I watch him stumble, trying to get into his slip on shoes—even his feet are shaking. I start to get nervous. Tristan’s rising anxiety infects me until I’m almost sick with it.

I drive. We get to Connor’s house just before ten.

The house is dark, inside and out, but Connor’s car is in the driveway as I follow Tristan inside. He turns on a lamp in the living room. The place is clean. Spotless. Nothing is out of order, and when he and I share a look, I can read his thoughts. This is all wrong.

In our silence, I notice the music creeping quietly into the room, coming from some other part of the house.

“Connor?” Tristan calls out.

Nothing.

Tristan heads toward the kitchen, but I follow the music. When I recognize the song, something in me collapses.

Coldplay. Chris Martin’s haunting voice singing about how all of us are done for.

Chills sheet my arms as I step into the bedroom hallway and see the dim light bleeding from around the edges of the slightly open bathroom door. Another cold shot of fear spills through me, and I hesitate.

“Connor?” I ask, my voice not loud enough. I clear my throat. I knock softly, careful not to move the door. “You in here?”

I expect a “go away” or a “get the fuck out of my bathroom.” Or maybe I don’t expect it.

I want it.