Page 172 of My Unfinished Heart

The door opens, and West puts a heavy boot on the driveway. “You look like you’re taking a break from an ass-whipping.” He left just as Eliza was presenting me with the chess board and a challenge.

“More like execution by firing squad.”

“Sorry I missed that.” He hands me the bags of food as he gets out of the car. “You all right?”

“Eliza said I should paint Tristan a picture.”

“She’s a romantic. I think it’s possible to read too much.”

“You think it would work?”

“Well, I’m not sure about that, but it’s better than sitting around talking about it all the time. Right?”

“Am I boring you?”

He laughs. “No, brother. I just wish I could help.”

“What would you do?” I ask.

“If it were me?”

“Just tell me what to do, brother. I’m at the end of my rope.”

“I like Eliza’s idea. Paint him a pretty picture, hand-deliver it, and let the chips fall.”

“So, I should go back there?”

“Unless you think you can get him to come here, which is my vote, personally. Let Kate work her magic. No one can resist Kate.”

I laugh. “I need all the help I can get, apparently.”

The kitchen door bursts open, and West and I snap our heads around to see Joey in all her technicolor glory. Her blue eyes are wide, and she’s already talking. “I just had the most genius idea ever.”

“For what?” West asks.

“For getting Tristan back.”

When I hear “The Piña Colada Song” playing in the kitchen, I know I should turn and run.

But hey. I’m out of options.

They pretend like they care what I think, meaning that I’m told the plan. I shoot it down in less than a heartbeat, and they all carry on as though no one suggested a thing.

I spend most of the week at my studio painting the portrait. Oblivious.

All I know is the week after Thanksgiving, I’m heading back to Houston with the 24 x 36 oil on canvas to give it one last try. Go out in a blaze of glory.

I’m zipping up my overnight bag the morning of the trip when Connor texts me.

Connor

Did you finish it?

Me

Yes

Connor