Page 30 of My Unfinished Heart

He hesitates for a second, then says, “Maybe you should let me do it. Oh, and hey. Listen—he doesn’t know that you and I… He doesn’t know I’ve talked to you. So, if you see me with him, can we…?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to hide anything from him⁠—”

“You don’t have to explain,” I say.

He exhales. “Thank you. Text him in a couple days, okay?”

“Okay.” I drag the word out, not ready for him to go. I can already imagine the silence of the house without him in it, and it’s no good. Not something I’m interested in. He’s starting to pass me in the hall, so I ask, “Any thoughts on what I should do with the rest of the stuff in here?”

He glances at me, less than a foot away. “I’d just burn the shit,” he says, heavy on the bitterness.

It surprises me. It’s the first time he’s expressed anything remotely negative about my family. Now I’m positive he knows more than he’s told me. Without thinking, I drop the trash bags and grab his arm to stop him. “Hey.”

Our gazes meet and lock together.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “That just slipped out.”

I give a small shake of my head. “Don’t be.”

Trusting a wild instinct, I pull him toward me, and we wind up with our arms around each other again, each of us gripping tight. I can practically feel his fingerprints branding me, and I’m just shy of digging my nails into him. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“You’re welcome.”

My pulse blasts like machine gun fire. Letting him leave was an unpleasant thought before, but now it feels like I’m about to lose something vital. Something I might really need.

His body shifts in my grip, not away, but closer, and it has my mind changing direction, too. I think about letting down his hair. I think about what his mouth tastes like. Arousal surges. Intense desire floods my core. I don’t think it’s subtle, but he doesn’t move away.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I think so.” There’s no possible way he doesn’t feel my dick hardening against his lower abdomen. I’m powerless to stop it, too. He smells too damn good. He feels perfect.

“What’s Perfume Genius?” he asks, referring to the t-shirt I’m wearing that his chest is pressed against.

“It’s a Seattle band.”

“Pretty much every time I see you, you’re wearing this shirt.”

“It’s my favorite.”

“Mine too.” He pulls away an instant before I do something incredibly stupid, and I swear it feels like he takes a piece of me I didn’t know I was using.

He gives me the smallest of smiles, and I feel a heavy pressure settle in my chest. It’s the way a hopeless crush feels. It hurts, but the pain feels necessary. Important. “I should go,” he says.

“I know.”

“Goodnight, Archer.”

I nod, watching him walk away.

I take it back. Coming home might be the worst idea I’ve ever had.

SIX

Fishbowl Theory