Page 48 of My Unfinished Heart

My mouth opens to stop him—to say something to him. My body slants in his direction, ready to go after him, but Jayne starts talking again.

“Archer and I went to high school together. Is he your brother?”

“Yes, he’s my brother. Are you sleeping with him?”

“Whoa, hey. He and I are old friends. Can we just chat for a second? We’ve barely talked since the accident.” With her hand on Connor’s shoulder, she gives me a look.

I have no idea what the hell is going on, and right now the only thing I care about is keeping Tristan from getting away thinking—whatever he’s thinking. “Take your time.” I head inside.

Tristan isn’t in the house, but I find him out front staring at the street like he’d rather be anywhere else.

He glances at me when I move to stand in front of him. His pale gaze hits me like the blade of a flaming sword. I have to work hard not to let it cripple me. Really hard.

“You’re fucking one of Connor’s teachers. You know that, right? Way to win big points with your brother.” Then, as he probably can’t stand the sight of me any longer, he turns his face away.

He has an amazing profile, too. I rub my neck and follow his gaze. We stare down the empty street together. “No,” I say. “I didn’t know that.”

“Classy.”

“Tristan—”

“What?” The sharp word rips through the humidity and slaps me across the face.

It should sting, but it’s the kind of sting I’m numb to. “I’d say it’s not what it looks like, but what the fuck difference does it make?”

“Is that what you came out here to say? That it’s not what it looks like? You can do better than that, Archer.”

Maybe I can. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Hm.” He looks at me again, and there’s a lot there to sort through. Disappointment. Regret. Anger. Hurt. But something worse, too. Something that weighs more, though it shouldn’t weigh a thing. Apathy.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

His gaze is level and cool when he says, “I’m not the one who needs an apology.”

“Right.” But I am. I am so fucking sorry. I shut my eyes a moment, inhaling the humid, summer heat, remembering that day on the hospital patio when we were both confused and counting on each other—two strangers—to get through a nightmare together. With that quest complete, what else is there to do but part ways?

I back off. Without another word, I head inside. Whatever he thinks about me is totally fucking justified.

Connor bursts through the door as I walk up the porch steps. He’s furious, and while I’m angrier at myself than anyone else, I can’t stop myself from lashing out. “Your friend's ready to go,” I say as we pass each other.

“So am I.”

“Good talk,” I say.

“Fuck you.”

When I get inside, I’m met with the sight of Jayne on my couch, her feet propped on the coffee table as she examines her nails. Not a care in the world. “I guess I never got a chance to say how sorry I am for what happened to your parents.”

I nod, stealing the sympathy I have no right to.

I feel a sort of despair that this is what I’m left with, but also relief.

Because it’s better this way.

NINE

The Art of Effective Stalking