Page 45 of My Unfinished Heart

“You fucking asshole,” I say, residual terror spilling through me at how lucky he was that the cop only used a club. “He could have fucking killed you.”

“I lost my temper.”

My hands shake at the thought. At the idea of a world without him in it. “Not good enough.” I’m not even angry anymore. I’m freaking out, but it’s not coming across.

“No? What’s good enough for you, Archer?”

“Fuck you.” I honestly don’t know what my problem is. Yes, I would have liked him to call me for any other reason besides needing something—especially money. I would have preferred he told me about what he was arrested for the night at the police station where I sat with him for hours. I would have liked a chance to get to know him again, but he hasn’t offered me that. And now he’s telling me he could have been on the goddamn news as nothing but a mugshot and a villain. It hurts—knowing all this hurts and I hate it. I hate myself, and I hate him.

It looks like the feeling’s mutual.

“I don’t know what the hell I expected.” He stands up and puts his finger in my face. “You know what I realized six years ago? You’re not an asshole. You’re just a coward. Grow a pair, Brennan. Open your eyes for once and see what’s right in front of you. You fucking dick. Fuck you.”

And then—in a perfect imitation of me—he leaves.

I order a drink, still shaking enough that I don’t want to drive. The bartender asks me if I’m okay, if that guy was bothering me. I glare at him and tell him I’m fine. That it was personal.

I end up leaving before he can serve me, walking down the street for a few blocks while I try and catch my breath. Obviously, I’m gonna help him. Whether he would do the same for me or not, I don’t know, but I know that once upon a time, he would have. His mother would have, and if nothing else, I do still owe her. I can’t be the guy that got him kicked out of prep school and the one who put him in prison because I wouldn’t offer him the one thing I have in abundance.

I need an accountant or an attorney or something. I need people. I need fucking help.

I leave a message with Philip Haskell, the only other Austin contact I have in my phone asking if he could give me a call back about some financial and legal questions I have, then I head back to my car.

On the way home, with no plan and way too much emotion roiling through me, I get a text from Jayne asking if I want to go to the lake with her.

She says she’s got a friend with a boat.

There aren’t a lot of things in the world I enjoy more than paint and boats. I was on crew at Salisbury, and I’ve never turned down an invitation to head out on the water, whether it was a ferry ride across the Sound or a yacht party one of the rich kids in college would throw.

The idea of being on a boat on water today? That sounds pretty fucking nice. I can wait for Haskell to call me back on a boat just as well as I could at my house. And honestly, I think a distraction like what Jayne’s offering might help get my head out of this mess of a life I’m fucking up on a daily basis. And maybe Jayne could, too.

I don’t expect anyone to understand.

The next morning there’s a Post-It note attached to my bedroom door.

I stare at it for a long time. If it were an echo of my past that would be one thing, but it’s not an echo.

It’s a bass drum. Beating. Pounding.

Fucking with me.

After I un-rattle myself, I peel it off the door and read it again.

Can we talk?—11:00, back porch—Connor

I check the clock on my bedside table next to Jayne’s sleeping head. 11:02.

In terms of Jayne, I don’t recall exactly what I was thinking or not thinking inviting her back here. I do know we fucked, and we were too drunk for her to do anything but spend the night, but coming back here? That was a mistake.

She looks decently passed out, so I don’t wake her. After I pull on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, I close my bedroom door and stop by the kitchen to find the coffee already made. This could be worse.

I can talk to my brother. If I can pretend I’m not triggered as fuck by the note itself, I can have a conversation with someone who says he wants to talk.

I skip the coffee and go outside, nervous before I even lay eyes on him, but it’s not Connor I see when I get to the porch.

It’s Tristan.

Of course.