Page 156 of My Unfinished Heart

This past summer, I would have said hands down that I did, but now I don’t know. West and his gang of girls have sealed up a bunch of holes in my sinking ship. I’m not sure how they did it, but I know I’m not drowning anymore. “What do you think he needs?” I ask.

Connor’s smile suddenly fades. His forehead draws in. He gasps as another tear slips down his cheek. God, I fucking envy him. The way he lets his emotions sit out there for everyone to see just like Tristan does, but with Connor it’s more raw. It hit hard. I wonder if he knows how brave that is.

After a long pause, he says quietly, “You. Because I didn’t even consider that.”

“Hey…” I reach out for his hand, and he gives it to me. He places his in mine. It’s cold, and it’s small, and this tenderness I feel for him is nothing I’ve ever experienced before. It has to do with the ache in my heart, and it has to do with the regret in his eyes.

Eyes just like mine.

“You think I’m strong?” I ask.

“I know you are.”

“There are times when I think of you in that bathroom, and I puke until I pass out. I’m medicated, too. I see a therapist twice a week. The song you were playing that night…”

“Don’t,” he whispers, shutting his eyes. “I’m so sorry. You have no idea how sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I swear to God, I would have played the same song. I understood you that night. Completely. It might not seem like it after everything that’s happened, but we are connected, and what I’m starting to realize is that there isn’t anyone on earth who’ll ever understand me the way you do. I need that, bud.” I squeeze his hand. “I need you.”

“I need you, too,” he says. He puts his other hand on his heart. “I feel what you mean. About the connection. Thank you for letting me have that. It feels like what I’ve been missing.”

“I love you,” I tell him, meaning it—getting it—for the first time in my life.

Three days later, Connor signs himself out of Rivershore. He wants me to pick him up. The sun is barely hovering above the horizon when I pull up to the rehab center.

Kate starts texting me the second I get out of the car.

I pull my phone out of my pocket as I’m crossing the parking lot and re-engage in our ongoing emoji battle. I’m digging deep into the screens to come up with the most random one—one that will make her giggle.

I hit her with an octopus. She returns fire with an angry chicken.

I reach the steps of the building, hitting send on the ultimate random emoji—the paperclip—and smack directly into an oncoming person.

The woman takes the hit hard. She stumbles back, can’t manage to catch herself, and lands on her back. “Shit—I’m so sorry.” I squat next to her and offer a hand. I recognize the nurse who tried to kick me out the other night when I was on the patio with Connor. I can’t remember her name. Jamie? Jessie?

“It’s okay. I’m all right.” She takes my hand and lets me pull her up to sitting. I brush some leaves off her shoulders and back. She’s about my age with dark eyes that gleam like polished stone in the sunlight when she smiles. “Connor’s brother, right?”

“Yeah. Archer,” I say. We stand up together. I pick her bag up from the ground and hand it back to her.

“Jessica,” she says. “Thank you. Guess we won’t be seeing much of you anymore.”

“Hope not,” I say.

“Well, good luck. I like your brother. He’s a firecracker.”

I laugh. “He’s something, yeah. Thanks for the other night.”

“No problem. What fun are rules if you can’t break a few of them, right?”

I hear a short huff and then a much more familiar voice. “Isn’t she a little old for you?”

I look over Jessica’s shoulder and straight into Tristan’s eyes. I freeze as the whole world wobbles for a second. Every molecule of air in my body abandons ship, leaving me with none.

Jessica gives me an awkward nod. “Nice to see you again, Archer. Good luck.” Then she heads down to the parking lot. I’m left staring at Tristan, running through the conversation I just had with the nurse. Taken out of context, it sounds bad. Nice to see you again. Goddamn it. Did she have to say that? “She was just talking about⁠—”

Tristan holds up his hand to stop my words. His gaze hardens, and he shakes his head. He’s either letting it grow out, or he’s overdue for a haircut. It’s clean, but unkempt. He’s dressed in sweats I guarantee he doesn’t think are flattering because they’re so big on him. He doesn’t look the same. Not at all. “I don’t care,” he says. “Not my business.”

“I just came to get—Did Connor know you were gonna be here?”