Page 16 of My Unfinished Heart

My mounting anxiety breaks through the wall I’ve tried to build around it. “I mean I don’t want to be here. I don’t belong here. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t fucking be here.”

His head rears slightly back at the rising volume of my voice and the maddened gesture I make toward the floor, but he keeps his cool. He pats the seat next to him then reaches for my hand. “Sit down. Come talk to me.”

Taking his hand, I follow his instructions exactly. I sit down and start talking, aiming all my words at his insanely perfect face. No one should have to watch my guts spill, but he’s here, and he’s listening, and so they do. My hands move like I’m painting a wall-sized landscape as, once again, I tell him things I’ve never told another soul. “I totally fucked up with Connor. He’s never gonna want to see me again, and I have no idea how to help him, and I hate this house. I have the worst memories imaginable here. I still have nightmares about it. I can’t sleep here—” I shake my head. I try to catch my breath and moderate my tone. “And I have no idea how to plan a funeral or sell real estate. In terms of the funeral, what do I do? Send out invitations? How does it even work? I’ve never even been to one, and I’m not—Never mind. I’m just saying, I don’t want to be here.”

“I get it.”

Frustrated, I give him a look. “No—you don’t. Nobody ever actually gets it.”

“Sell the house, Archer. Just get rid of it.”

“I’m not sure I can⁠—”

“Of course you can,” he says, all sincere earnestness and his hand on my knee. It’s that—his hand—that snaps me back into sanity. “And for the funeral,” he continues in that low, even voice. “You go to a funeral home, give them way too much money, and they take care of everything. They’ll even try to get you to plan your own funeral while you’re there, so you know—two birds.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“My grandfather died last year.”

“Sorry,” I say.

“Thanks.”

I blow out a huff of air, and he sits back, taking his hand with him.

“Also, just—fucking sorry in general,” I say.

“Hey, it’s all right. You’re not the only one melting down this week. Not by a long shot. But seriously. Just sell the house. Get rid of it if you don’t want it. A good realtor can handle that, too.”

I nod mindlessly, grateful for the green light he seems to be giving me. I’ll take what I can get. Anything that tells me something I’m doing or feeling is the right thing. “Do you know where Connor’s gonna stay?”

“Are you going back to Seattle?”

The lawyer asked me the same thing, and I didn’t have an answer, but now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I almost shout, “I live there! I have a life there. I have a job and friends and a girlfriend and an apartment—all my stuff is there.” I point in the general direction of the Pacific Northwest.

“You have a girlfriend?”

I frown, thrown off. Completely derailed, actually.

“I mean, I’d just think she’d be here with you given all that’s happened,” he adds quickly.

I start a few words without finishing them, but finally manage, “She’s not that kind of girlfriend.” I haven’t spoken to Carrie since that one call where I let her know where I was. I can’t even remember how many day ago that was. Three? Five?

Tristan’s eyes narrow, and he appears to study me a moment. I heat up a little under the scrutiny. He sits straighter, like he’s decided something about me. “What?” I finally ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “Connor can stay with me, but I’m leaving for school at the end of summer. He’ll need a place to go when I leave.”

“He can’t go with you?” I ask.

“He hasn’t graduated yet,” Tristan says, with a steady voice and gaze. “His mom held him back in third grade. Sorry. Your mom.”

I’m not even a little surprised.

“But you’re the same age?”

He shakes his head and says without blinking, “I’m older.”

This is news. “By how much?” I ask.