Page 21 of My Unfinished Heart

I give up. Fuck this conversation. Fuck him. I stare out at the road, coming to a stop at a red light.

“Something creative, right? Art?”

“Good guess.”

“You have paint all over your hands. Doesn’t take a genius.”

“I work at a museum.”

“What kind of museum?” he asks. “What do you do there? Give tours?”

I sigh. “Kind of.”

“What’s ‘kind of’ giving a tour like?”

My jaw tightens. “I write and narrate audio tours at an art museum.”

“Oh. You’re that guy,” he says, like he has me all figured out. “Is that your dream job? Is that what you wanna do for the rest of your life?”

I’m in no mood to discuss my dream job with him. “I don’t know,” I mumble.

“Well, you should probably figure it out. You’re not getting any younger. Oh, wait—I forgot. You’re the heir. You’ll never have to work again.”

The thin thread of sanity holding me together snaps. “Listen—about that. You should know I’ve put the house on the market.” The words come out before I consider the consequences, but once I say them, there’s no going back.

“What?” he asks, his voice suddenly thin and high. “You can’t do that!”

“Why?” I meet his eyes briefly.

“They’re not even buried yet.”

“Well, they will be soon, and I don’t want the house.” What Tristan said was true about the funeral home. Literally all of it. I did not buy the plot they tried to sell me next to my parents, but I was assured there was plenty of room if I change my mind.

“Give the house to me,” Connor says.

I look back at the road and turn onto our old street. “Why the hell would you want to keep living there?” I ask, unable to comprehend the concept of wanting to be surrounded by those walls when everyone else who once lived there is dead and gone.

“I've lived there my whole life. Archer—hang on⁠—”

“I'm selling it. We can get another house.” The offhand comment shocks us both.

“Who the fuck is we?” His voice is edged with anger.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to stay composed. “You and me. Us.”

“You’re staying?” He sounds horrified.

I feel suddenly like my fate is sealed.

“There is no fucking way.” He whips around and spits out, “I am not living with you. Anywhere. Ever. So stay or go. Do whatever you want, Archer—just like always. I can take care of myself.”

I have to remind myself again that I’m dealing with an eighteen-year old who’s lost nearly everything he once called his. “Can we talk about this?” I ask, as the house comes into view.

“I don’t wanna talk to you anymore,” he says. “You’re a fucking stranger. My entire family is dead.” He says it like he’s only just now realizing it.

“Mine too.”

He laughs—a loud barking laugh. His tone is patronizing. “Right. I’m so sorry for your loss, Archer. This must be so hard on you.”