Page 162 of My Unfinished Heart

We stare at each other for a long moment.

“Why?” I prompt.

“He had to go out of town. He wanted me to come check on you.”

“Out of town? Why didn’t he just tell me that? I’ve been trying to call him all morning.”

“He mentioned that. You can put your phone down. He’s fine.”

I wait for West to elaborate. When he doesn’t, I lose my patience. “Well, where is he?”

“He's looking for Tristan.”

I sit up straight, alarmed. “Meaning he doesn't know where Tristan is?”

“Like I said, he’s looking for him.”

“Did he not come home last night? Has he called the police?”

“Relax, Rambo. Tristan texted to let him know he's okay, but he didn't say where he went. Connor’s trying to find him.”

“Out of town?” I need to think, but the gears aren’t turning as well as would be helpful.

“I'm not really supposed to say any more than that.”

As I lean toward him, my elbows braced on my knees, my head falls into my hands. I’m unwilling to hold it up anymore. “You’re keeping Connor’s secrets now? I'm not gonna race off after either one of them, all right? I just want to know they’re okay.”

“Sounded to me like Tristan went to Houston.”

“Why?”

West shrugs. “Fuckin’ social media.”

“Fuck.” My pulse hammers in my neck like my carotid is about to blow apart. “So, what do I do? Just wait?”

“Come home with me. We’ll cook and play some board games with the girls or something.”

“I can't handle all of you right now. No offense, but your voice is grating on every nerve in my body.”

He laughs, slapping my knee. “Then I'll make us a couple of steaks out here and keep my commentary to a minimum.”

I tell him I’m not hungry, but West cooks the steaks anyway while I stare at Sports Center in the living room, not really following the discussion. I keep picturing Tristan driving down an endless highway and berating myself for how wrong I’ve been.

In my life, I’ve been right about a lot of things. I was right to move to Seattle. I was even right to move back to Austin. I was right to give away my father’s stock and to climb Tristan’s tree in the middle of the night.

But there are so many other things…so many things I got all wrong.

I didn’t have a terrycloth mom. I had a real one. Helen is made out of as much flesh and bone as I am or West is, or any of us. I do know what it means to be loved and to love someone back. West doesn’t feel sorry for me. He isn’t out there cooking steaks for me because I’m some charity case.

In all our time together, he’s needed me as much as I’ve needed him. No matter what happened to cut the knot that ties us together, it never worked. Or maybe it’s less of a knot than it is a heart string.

Or maybe it’s a fishbowl.

Maybe it’s just love.

The unconditional kind.

I get up from the couch and go outside where he stands by the new grill. Referring to it, he says, “This baby’s nice.”