Page 38 of My Unfinished Heart

If my brother had shown up by himself today, I probably would have let him go. I like to think I would have tried as hard as I’m about to, but I don’t know. There’s only so much a guy can take before he gives up.

But I don’t want Tristan to see me give up. Me with my prodigy art skills and my master’s degree. I don’t want the guy in the Perfume Genius T-shirt to let him down either. So I clear my throat, avoid any physical contact with him, and follow my brother.

I find Connor on the back porch, smoking a cigarette. He’s looking out into the yard, no longer crying, but his face is still wet. I stand in the doorway, afraid to get too close—afraid he’ll leave, but my hands flex with the need to brush the tears from his cheeks.

It’s time for me to fix this. I might be the only one still alive who can.

“I get that you don’t want anything to do with me, Connor. I really do. But I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m sorry if I fucked up your room, and I’m sorry about the house. I know it’s not remotely the same, but this isn’t easy for me, either.”

He sniffs and wipes at his face.

“That being said, I want you to live here. We don’t have to eat dinner together or watch movies on the couch. You don’t have to like me or approve of me or even talk to me if you don’t want to. I know I’ve done everything wrong so far, but I want to try⁠—”

“I was gonna live here with Dad.” His voice is low, nearly despondent as he stares out at the untended lawn.

“What?”

“When he moved in, I was gonna leave Mom’s house and live here with him. I think things would have been good. I would have been close enough to keep an eye on Bryan and finish school. Anyway, that was the plan.”

Well, Jesus. I wish someone would have told me that.

I swallow hard. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

A long silence passes where I wonder why he felt like he needed to keep an eye on Bryan. That one comment opens a vault of questions I’m still not ready to hear the answers to. But I take Connor’s lack of argument to mean he sort of accepts my apology.

Eventually, I speak again. “I know this isn’t how things were supposed to be, but I think we can be okay. Maybe he would have wanted that?”

He slowly turns to face me. The grief in his voice sends chills all up and down my arms. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

What am I feeling? Relief. A little. And dread.

More relief. But a shit ton of dread.

I imagine in other big brother-little brother moments like this, the deal gets sealed with a hug or some other similar show of gratitude and affection.

I get a puff of smoke and a shoulder bump as he walks past me into the house, not quite stable on his injured leg.

When I go back inside, he and Tristan are headed out the front door. Connor doesn’t look back at me, but Tristan does. He gives me a thumbs up and a bright smile like this all went great. He mouths the words “Thank you.”

I don’t know what there is to smile about, but he looks so beautiful when he does it. He’s utterly magnetic. Even after all that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, I can’t look away.

That guy…

I’ve never wanted to know anyone as much as I want to know him, but I also know I’m walking a plank. And each step I dare to take toward him, the closer I’ll come to falling. What I need to do is get off the plank and back onto the boat.

But I’m beginning to realize something.

The problem with staying on the boat.

All I can think about is the plank.

I’m painting my bedroom walls light gray. I’ve always been a messy painter—with oils, with acrylic, with flat wall paint, so I wear the same clothes every time. An old white t-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans I’ve had since high school. Every color is represented somewhere on my body and my jeans, but mostly my hands. I would use turpentine to clean them, but I learned a long time ago that being an artist with paint-smeared hands gets me a decent amount of attention when I’m looking for it. Carrie liked it, and Jayne was intrigued as well. And then there was Tristan who touched my hand that time in Connor’s hospital room and made my heart nearly stop. So, I stick with soap and water.

While I wait for the first coat to dry, old Pearl Jam blaring from my bluetooth speaker, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. It’s past midnight. I slept all afternoon to give the guys space while Tristan helped Connor settle in, so now I’m wide-awake, asking myself if I should paint the ceiling, too.

Noises come from the kitchen, loud enough that I hear them over the music.

Drawers open, items shuffle, cabinets close. I shut my eyes and wonder what he’s looking for. A minute later, he’s still banging around. I get up, positive I can locate whatever it is sooner than he can.