Page 43 of My Unfinished Heart

His answer is another whisper. “Promise?”

“I will if you will.”

“I swear.”

Letting my mouth graze his chin, I murmur my response. “Me too.”

His head tilts—it falls against mine. And I fall too—into the deep water of him. Into the rising tide. The plank isn’t the problem anymore. The water is the problem. The depth of it. The inevitability of it.

I touch my lips to his cheek—not quite a kiss, just my mouth on his smooth skin. But then he turns, and our lips meet. Pure fire lights my veins, and I slide a hand into his hair, readjusting, needing this—him. Just once before he’s gone.

At that exact moment, there’s a cough from the other side of the house. Connor.

Tristan startles and pulls away.

It startles me too. Into reality.

It’s a slap in the face, but I need it. To wake me the fuck up.

He turns, rising to his knees, his eyes full of alarm, his body tense and rigid. “I'm sorry. I’m so sorry. For making such a mess.”

I avoid his eyes as well as I can and say, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”

“No, just tell me where your broom is.” He glances around at all his fallen hair.

“I don't have a broom.”

“Your vacuum then.”

I shake my head. I don’t have one of those yet, either, but it’s on the list.

“Dustbuster?” he asks, and he sounds desperate.

“Tristan, I’m sorry,” I say, meaning for my lack of a Dustbuster and my hands and my mouth and for everything—the mess I’ve made.

“Archer, I—Fuck.” He sighs. He gives up. “Goodnight.” He stands, and he’s gone.

I put my head into my hands again. Rationalizing.

Trying to make sense of the existence of someone like him in my world.

Am I really supposed to let him go? If I am, then why? Why was he just right here?

Because sometimes it’s so fucking hard…

Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s right from what you’ll regret forever.

EIGHT

Perfume Genius

I get a text from West the next day asking to meet up for lunch. It’s past noon when I finally get out of bed, and a quick walk through the house lets me know Connor and Tristan are long gone.

The memory of last night puts me in a terrible mood. I felt too much, and I went too far. I don’t know who the fuck that guy was on the kitchen floor last night, but I know I don’t trust him not to get attached. And by that guy, I mean me. In the blinding light of day and the emptiness of my house, I remind myself why it’s important to keep my distance. I am not cut out for closeness. It’s never turned out well for me.

A case in point:

Just after noon, I meet West at Deep Eddy Cabaret, a dive bar on Lake Austin. He’s more unsettled than I’ve ever seen him, his knee bouncing rapidly, his eyes avoiding mine with deft and consistency. He’s wearing jeans, Vans, and what looks like a bowling league shirt. It’s navy blue with burgundy piping. A long wallet chain hangs from one of his belt loops and rattles with his frenzy of subtle movement. His hair is back in the little bun again, his beard untrimmed.