Page 47 of My Unfinished Heart

“Is that what you think now?” he asks, his voice strained.

I honestly don’t know what I think now, and so I have no answer for him.

“I'm not twelve years old anymore,” he adds, his voice urgent, verging on desperate. “Archer, I might understand.”

There’s no doubt anymore that he’s trying to get me to tell my story. Share my truth. I admit, there’s a brief, fleeting moment where I toy with doing it. No details, of course, but the basics. When pressed in the past, I usually hint at gross neglect, but neglect doesn’t really explain my complete lack of remorse over hearing the news that my parents were dead. Neglect was not my mom’s MO with me. At least, not at the beginning.

But I can’t do it. Connor and I might share DNA, but I don’t think he grew up like I did. He’s broken, but I can chalk that up to the accident. His resilience is too lacking. He’s all defiance and defense mechanisms. There’s no guard. There’s no fortress around his bleeding heart.

It’s hard to say whether I resent him for that or not. I don’t think resentment is what this feeling is, but one thing I can say is that I’m not ready to share my secrets with him—and no way would I even consider doing it with Tristan here. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Archer, please.” He’s all but begging, now. “If you can tell me anything—anything that could help me⁠—”

Help him with what? His grief? I can’t do that. What I have to say would only complicate his already tumultuous feelings. I shake my head. I take another step back to get closer to the door. Tristan’s head turns. Our eyes met.

“What did she do to you?” Connor asks.

The question slices right through me. What?

I tried, didn’t I? I really tried to make everything okay. To wipe the slate clean and start over with my brother. But this I can’t do. Not in front of Tristan. Maybe not ever.

So I laugh, and I lie. “Nothing! I went to boarding school for Christ's sake.”

“Was that it then? You were pissed because they sent you away?”

That’s how I know. Right there. If for even one moment Connor could think that the only way I was abused was by being sent away, then she didn’t hurt him, and knowing that weakens my knees with relief. It’s all the more reason to leave the conversation here.

“Can we stop now?” I ask, happy to let him think he got to the bottom of it.

He’s about to say something—about to respond. I can hear the breath he takes to power his words, but that's when Jayne steps onto the porch in my Perfume Genius t-shirt.

I forgot she was here because she doesn’t matter.

But now…

Now, she matters, and I am such a fucking asshole.

I watch the three of them taking stock of the situation while I acknowledge my own self-disgust.

Jayne, next to me, slides her hand down my back, letting it settle on my waist. I jerk slightly at the touch, and her hand drops.

“Miss Beck?” Connor asks with wide, horrified eyes.

I scowl, looking from my brother’s shocked face to Jayne’s.

“Connor! Oh my goodness! Hi!” Jayne lights up and hurries over to hug my brother.

Tristan’s face…

Holy fuck.

“What are you doing here?” Connor asks sharply, pulling away from her.

Jayne straightens, and her face twists with a sharp look, making her look slightly short of pretty. “I spent the night,” she says with perfect condescension.

Connor looks at me with a glare that might as well be a punch in the throat. “What's going on?”

Tristan is moving. He’s leaving.