Page 165 of My Unfinished Heart

"You're older than I was led to believe," he adds.

"I, um..." Do I really look that old?

"Not your fault,” he adds. “Nobody tells me much of anything."

He opens the door a small amount more, and I see Tristan. He’s passing through the entry hall and glances my way. One look from him lights me up inside—same as it always has.

He balks at the sight of me. His lips part, and his brows come together in confusion, thrown off balance and disoriented as he takes in my presence on his porch in Houston. I might as well be in a tree.

“Tristan, you have company,” Gary Chase says to his son.

"Don't let him in. I'll talk to him out front."

Mr. Chase steps aside, letting Tristan pass and shutting the door behind him.

Tristan gestures to a padded bench on the far side of the porch. I go with him to sit.

My palms are sweating, and my brain is a series of sparks and short circuits as I try to piece together a way to talk to him, some group of words I can say that will get my point across. But I’m too close to him. I can smell the same scent on him from four years ago, and I can see his face from back then—his urgent eyes in my mother’s kitchen when he was only seventeen.

You have to try harder...

One of the most difficult things I ever do in my life is stop myself from taking his hand, but I’m not ready yet to feel him pull away.

“You could have called,” he says, his voice flat like he doesn’t care, but there’s hopelessness in it, too.

“No, I couldn't have. This isn't a phone conversation. I don't want there to be any misunderstandings."

He turns to face me, and there’s nothing but brutal honesty in his gaze. “Archer, I know you drove a long time to get here, but I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to hear you talk. I don't want closure. I don't want an explanation or excuses. I want to go inside and try to forget this ever happened.”

I’ve worked way too hard on myself these last few months to give up on this now, though. “Please just hear me out.”

“Fine. What do you need to say?”

“That I'm sorry.”

He gives his head an exhausted shake and looks out to the road. It was the wrong start. I should have opened with something else. I practiced in the car so this wouldn’t happen. This is my one chance—one moment I’ll live or die by.

“Please look at me,” I say.

He closes his eyes instead. "I forgive you. Okay? I accept your apology. Thank you. Is that all?"

"No. Do you even know what I'm apologizing for?"

"Does it matter? It doesn't change anything. You moved on. I moved on. What difference does it make?"

"I haven't exactly moved on."

He laughs. It’s a short, cynical laugh. "Well, you can. You're free now. I’m done getting in the way of your happiness.”

I frown at him. What the fuck is he talking about? “Wait⁠—”

He speaks before I can finish putting together my reply. “You know what I've been thinking? About you and me? I don’t think it was ever you ripping my life apart. I think I was the one ripping yours apart.”

"I don’t think of it like⁠—”

“You’re happy now," he argues.

I’m not, but I don’t say that. Maybe I should. Instead, I say, “Well, a lot’s happened. I have a therapist, I take medication. Connor’s doing great, and we’re speaking to each other again—a lot of good things. But none of them happened because you and I weren’t together.”