Page 161 of My Unfinished Heart

“Too late for what? He's not married. He's not dead⁠—”

Connor shakes his head in a somewhat patronizing way that crawls right up under my skin. “Brother, go back to your happy place. Go back to that little place in your head where the world is better off with the two of you apart. Go make yourself at home. It's over.”

“That's not what he wants,” I say.

“Oh? How would you know? Do you have the slightest clue what you did to him? You straight up rejected him when he hadn’t done anything wrong. You surgically removed him from your life.”

“I fucked up. I made a mistake⁠—”

“I tried telling you that. We all told you that,” he yells gesturing toward the kitchen.

“Where is this coming from? At one point, you said he needed me. What about that?”

“He did need you. But you never fucking came.”

I shove my hands through my hair and try to think, but he’s fucking right. He is always right. It’s really annoying.

“You’ll be okay,” he says. “He will too. But it’s time to let him go. For real this time.”

I am so sick of those words. I am so fucking sick of letting Tristan go.

I’ve spent years of my life trying to do it, but here I still am with him attached to my heart and soul.

“Don’t, Eliza! No!” It’s West’s gruff voice coming from the kitchen. Connor and I watch as Eliza skids down the hallway with Joey’s phone in her hand. She hands it to me.

I frown, looking at it. Instagram. It’s the picture Joey took ten minutes ago in the kitchen with Connor tagged in the caption. And Tristan’s reply.

Look at you… #Perfectfamily #homeatlast

I hold it up so Connor can see. “He’ll be okay? Really?”

Connor reads the screen. He shifts nervously from foot to foot and glances up at me. I regret my harsh tone the instant I see his face.

“I need to go,” he says.

“Wait—Connor. Listen—this is my fault. Let me go talk to him.”

“Your fault?” he asks, confused. “You’re not even on Instagram, Archer. That was directed at me. It had nothing to do with you.”

I know Tristan well enough to know it has plenty to do with me.

“I’m going home. I’ll call you later,” Connor says, and he leaves.

I don’t sleep well. Too many margaritas and images from The Omen swimming around in my head make my thoughts confused and slightly horrifying. Connor doesn’t respond to any of my attempts to contact him. Before he and Joey left with the girls, West told me to give it a couple days. Connor’s fine. Everyone is fine. Get some rest.

But I keep thinking of those words.

Look at you…

I’ve come between them again. One way or another, my needy ass keeps insinuating itself into their friendship, making both of them miserable. It’s why I broke up with Tristan in the first place—so this wouldn’t happen—so I wouldn’t hurt anybody anymore.

When I get up the next day, my self-loathing is as bitter as the taste in my mouth. It’s been a while since I’ve had so much to drink, and I’m feeling every ounce of it this afternoon.

After a shower, I go out to the patio and resume my obsessive texting and calling of my brother. I’m about to go over to his house when West comes creeping through the back gate. I don’t get up when he approaches the porch, even though he’s juggling two grocery bags as he tries to open the screen door. Once inside, he sets the bags down and takes a seat in a chair facing me.

“Your brother sent me,” he says.

“Yeah?”