Page 145 of My Unfinished Heart

“I love you. You know that, right?”

I do.

I go home and sleep some more on my couch after I have a couple shots of bourbon. Loud banging on my door wakes me. Fighting against the hangover headache, I get up to answer it. It’s dark out again.

When I see Tristan standing there, my instinct is to pull him close and worry about the rest later. But I stop myself, because Connor was right. In clean clothes, fresh from a shower that washed all the blood away—he is so much more than I ever deserved.

So, I stand still. “How is he?” I ask.

His jaw tightens. “Can I come in?”

Reluctantly, I step out of the way and let him pass, closing the door behind him. I take a deep breath before I follow him into the living room where he collapses on the sofa, waiting for me to do the same.

But I can’t.

“Please sit,” he says, as I stand there, not looking at anything in particular.

I rub my eyes with both hands. “How’s Connor?”

“Sleeping. But he’s okay. I mean—” Tristan sighs. “He’ll live. Sit with me.” He pats the cushion.

I don’t move.

“Archer, I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds fucking exhausted.

“Don’t be.”

“I am. I don't know why I went off on you last night. I didn't mean⁠—”

“You did. You meant it,” I say.

His eyes blink up at me. He looks afraid. Of me. “I barely remember it. If I told you this was your fault, I didn’t mean it. This wasn’t you⁠—”

“Please stop, Tristan. Just stop.”

Because I haven’t made a move to get any closer, he stands and approaches me. When his hands brush my arms, I back away.

“Don’t do that. Please…” he says, anxiety wearing his voice too thin.

I speak before he has another chance to. I’m not going to stand by while Tristan tries to take any responsibility for this. “You weren’t wrong. This was my fault. This was me, not you. You’ve been there for him every hour, every day, always, and he needs you. He needs you more than I do.”

Tristan draws in a sharp, quick breath, like I punched him in the stomach. “But I need you.”

“You don't. You need something different. Something so much better.”

“No,” he says, the word fierce and certain. “No, no, no. I need you. I love you⁠—”

“Fuck that.” I shout at him, causing him to jerk. “I took advantage of you, and now I’m ripping your life apart.”

“You’re not!” He reaches for me, but I sidestep him so I won’t feel his skin on mine.

I see it again—the sick film in my head—the two of them on the bathroom floor. I drive my nails into the back of my neck to make the image go away. But it won’t go.

I was poisoned, and it turned me into poison. “Please leave.”

“Archer, no. I can't. I won't.”

“GO,” I shout. Then quieter, “Tristan, I want you to leave. I mean it. I’m not fucking kidding.”