Page 148 of My Unfinished Heart

“He sounded all right. I wouldn’t really know.”

“Neither would I.” I sigh, exhausted. I lean my head back until it hits the rim of the tub.

“You know, it’s not too late for you two,” he says.

“I don’t know about that.”

“You don’t think you could have like—a do-over?”

“A do-over?”

“He reached out, right? Hey. You’re not who you think you are, brother. You might be damaged, but you’re not broken.”

“Your mom talked to you?” I ask.

“Who you are has never been a secret to me. She just didn’t know how to talk to you about it.”

I scowl at him. “You knew?”

“Sure I did. She spun it like we were long lost twins. I’ve never been as excited to see anyone or as nervous as that first day at Cardigan when you came into our room. I do remember one thing, though, from when we were little.”

“What?”

“You couldn’t pronounce her name. Called her Nellen. Then Nell.”

“She introduced herself to me as Nell on Parents’ Weekend.”

“Of course she did, brother. She wanted you to remember, too.”

“Jesus.” I kick out at his foot. “Why did you never tell me?”

“I don’t know. If you think about it from my perspective, it was a little embarrassing. The first time I called you brother, you looked at me like I was a freak.”

I take a long look at West now, the strong features of his face as fierce as they’ve always been, but soft and familiar in their steadiness. “It just surprised me.”

He keeps his eyes trained on his dark phone screen, smudging the surface with his thumb. “It’s how I felt,” he says quietly.

“But I was such an asshole.”

“You’re still an asshole.”

“And you’re still here.”

“I know I’m no picnic either. But I know you pretty well, and I know you think you’re doing the right thing by your brother and Tristan—taking yourself out of the equation, but what you’re really doing is the same thing you did when you got home, and not to rub salt, but look how that turned out.”

Shame hangs my head because I know he’s right.

“If your brother ever mattered to you, he needs to know. He deserves that. His life hasn’t been anyone’s fairy tale.”

“And that’s my fault too.”

“Fuck, dude. If you think you owe him an apology, then you need to say you’re sorry. Step up to the fucking plate.” He gestures toward the toilet, his sleeve brushing my face. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Okay.” I say, pushing his arm back down. “You’re right.”

When I get to Rivershore on Thursday, it’s almost six. A short woman wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a badge on it shows me to a visiting room that opens up onto a deck where other residents and visitors hang out, smoking cigarettes and catching up. It’s a nice place. Lots of natural light.

I wait on a couch inside. I’m not sweating, but I’m nervous. Now that I know the amount of damage I can do to Connor, it makes this potentially one of the most pivotal conversations of my life.