Page 46 of My Unfinished Heart

Of course he’s here. Because I’m not in a fishbowl anymore. I’m in a fucking aquarium.

“Good morning,” Connor says, appearing from somewhere in Tristan’s shadow. He speaks with what seems like forced pleasantness, possibly for the benefit of his friend, because I doubt it’s for me. They’re at the door leading to the backyard, facing each other, leaning on either side of the frame.

I take them both in with quick, assessing glances. Connor is dressed in his usual. All black, barely any skin showing. Tristan is the opposite. Red shorts with a five-inch inseam and a thin, matching zip up jacket, unzipped over a white tank. His hair is wet, pulled away from his face like he just came from a shower at the gym. The sight of his sculpted legs—even his fucking feet in slides—has me rethinking my entire existence.

“Hi.” I step onto the porch but keep my distance from both of them.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” Connor says after a moment's thought. “When you came back to town, and I was in the hospital, I wasn't in a good place. I think I may have been unfair. Tristan thinks I was.”

I don’t move. If I nod, that would be wrong. If I tell him it’s no big deal, that would be a lie. So, I stand still and listen.

Connor looks at me like he can see straight through me. “Thank you for letting me stay here. It won’t be for long. As soon as I turn nineteen⁠—”

“You can stay here as long as you need.”

He scowls and looks down at the deck. His lips flatten against each other, and his thin body moves with his deep breath. I glance at Tristan, but he’s studying Connor, too.

“When did you start caring what happened to me?” Connor asks softly after he gathers his thoughts.

“You’re my brother.”

“When did that start mattering?”

“It’s always mattered.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t. Don’t lie. Don’t make it sound like I ever factored in, because I didn’t.”

“It’s not a lie, and I’m not saying you factored in. You’re right. The last time I saw you, you were a kid.” There. I said it.

Cold hard truth.

As an eighteen-year old desperate for any kind of life different than the one I knew, I didn’t consider my twelve-year old brother, who wasn’t allowed anywhere near me, before I left home. Yeah, I’m such a fucking asshole.

Connor glances at Tristan. It seems like they have an entire conversation in two seconds of eye contact. My brother takes a deep breath and turns a determined face to me. “Archer, if I’m going to live here, I want to understand.”

“Understand what?” This conversation is agitating me. Being both desperate for my brother’s forgiveness and irritated by his existence makes me less kind than I should be.

“Why you left the way you did. Why you didn’t keep in touch.”

“Connor—”

“I’m serious. Please. I need to know.” The longing in his eyes for some kind of connection with me is more than I can take right now. I look to Tristan again because I don’t know what to say. I think, maybe if he’s on my side, maybe I can find the right way to do this.

But he won’t turn his face my way. He stares down at the space between his foot and Connor’s. With nothing but my own iron guard to protect me, I wall off the truth.

I hear my voice like it’s coming from another man. The kind of man who knows the value in keeping things simple. “I left to go to college. I didn't call because there was no one to call. ”

“Not even me,” Connor says, rather than asks.

“You were a little kid.”

“Not last year I wasn't. Not even the year before that,” he says.

“You wouldn't have known me.”

“Because you never gave me a chance.”

“I thought it'd be better that way.”