Page 174 of My Unfinished Heart

“It was the lyrics to ‘Escape,’” he says, letting his irritation show. “The fucking piña colada song.”

“This was not my idea. I was actually on my way to see you.”

“How did you know I was in town?” he asks.

“I was going to Houston. My bag’s in the car.”

“Why were you coming to see me?”

Okay. There’s no reason this has to be any different than showing up on his parents’ doorstep in Houston again. I can adjust. I was depending on the long car ride to give me some time to think about what to say to him and how, and what my expectations are, and you know…et cetera. But I’m a smart guy sometimes. I have a doctorate and everything. And this is about art. Kind of.

“I wanted to give you that.” I point at the portrait by the window.

“You wanted to give me a painting—oh…” He walks toward it. “That’s me, too.”

“Yeah. It’s you. Of you. For you. I hope you like it.”

“This is… it’s—I don’t know what to say.” He stops in front of the huge canvas and says, “I actually look kind of irritated in this one.”

“That’s not irritated,” I tell him. “That’s beautiful.”

He reaches out to touch the thick paint making up his hair. So many colors. So many hours I spent trying to make it perfect enough. “It’s really good, Archer.”

“Thanks.”

I walk over to stand beside him. “I call it ‘Optimism’.”

He lets out a short burst of a laugh which he quickly stifles. “Seriously?”

I smile. “Yeah.”

“Were you just gonna drop it off at my parents’ house?”

“No…”

He looks at me with interest. He’s had a haircut. His skin is glowing. Perfect. Noticing it sidetracks me.

“Were you—? I’m sorry—were you thinking you were going on a date?” I ask.

His cheeks darken, but he doesn’t bat an eye. “Yes.”

“And you just showed up at some strange address?”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m a big boy now. I can handle myself.”

“Yeah—except you got completely played.”

“Well, I’m young and single, and I’m stupid—shit happens.” He sighs, losing a bit of restraint. It’s the first time I notice how tense he is. He’s wound so tight, Connor could probably play him with a bow.

“You came all this way for a date with a stranger?” I ask, not ready to let him off that particular hook yet.

“Apparently not,” he huffs, focusing on the painting again.

“Who was this guy? What was he like?” I ask.

“He was the opposite of you. The only thing I’m interested in.”

“Yeah? What’s the opposite of me?”