Page 52 of My Unfinished Heart

“Tristan what?”

“Why?” I ask, annoyed that he’s closing in on it.

“What's she like?”

“Like my brother’s best friend.”

West inhales through his teeth, a sharp inhale that sounds like a hiss. “Best friend? Shit.”

“Yeah.”

His deep, rich laugh echoes all around me. I hate the sound of it right now, but it’s familiar—almost a comfort. “Does Tristan seem…interested?”

I’m drunk enough to tell him it’s not a girl. The problem is, he’s too drunk to get it. While I might be in the mood for a meaningful conversation, I’m starting to think it shouldn’t necessarily be with him.

“Fuck you, shut up.”

West passes out in his office while we’re listening to Radiohead, but I can’t sleep here. I end up sitting for a while, listening to him snore and thinking about how he doesn’t really look that different after all. The tattoos, grown out hair, and even his fuck-you wardrobe tell a story of a person who’s still finding himself. Someone, despite how it always looked on the outside, feels things deeply and gets lost. He loves hard and is equally hard on himself.

I hate that I wasn’t here for him, and it makes me think of the one who’s about to get away.

For a second, when Tristan and I were on my kitchen floor, I’d truly believed he was there for a reason. Is that a feeling I can trust? Or was that just my loneliness talking? The only thing I know for sure is there is every chance in the world I’ll never see him again, and that’s the thought forcing me up from the chair.

I left way too much unsaid between us. I’m not finished talking to him yet. More accurately—the conversation we started on the hospital patio back in June—it’s not over. We keep getting interrupted. Tonight, I’m determined to see where this ends. If it’s goodbye, it’s goodbye. Fine. Whatever. If it’s not—we’ll see.

Either way, I need to know. And I owe it to him to give him a better goodbye. I chug a large bottle of water as I wait for another rideshare to pick me up.

Ten minutes later, I’m getting dropped off in Barton Hills. I walk past Tristan’s house, then walk past it again.

I admit that from time to time, I’ve done some strange things—I’ve had kind of a fucked up life—but I have never, before or since, done anything as crazy as I do tonight.

My only excuse is that I’ve had a lot to drink today. My thoughts are clear enough, but there’s a discernible lack of judgement and impulse control.

I’m sorry about all this. There’s a part of me that really regrets it.

It involves a kumquat tree and cuts all over my face and body.

It involves stalking.

I’m a stalker now.

From the midsection of the kumquat tree, I find what I’m looking for.

Tristan’s second story bedroom window.

It literally could have been anyone’s window, and even in the state I’m in, I understand how lucky I am that it’s his, and he’s alone inside it.

The room has been stripped of whatever character it may have once had. Only boxes are left, empty shelves, and a bed situated just beneath the window I’m looking through. On the bed, in a flickering circle of candlelight, is Tristan. He’s on his back with headphones on. His hands are folded over his lower abs and his legs are crossed at the ankle. His eyes are closed, but the tap of one of his fingers against the back of his other hand tells me he’s not asleep.

He’s a fucking vision. I could paint this. I’m sure at some point, I will.

His boxer briefs are black tonight, and he’s shirtless. As previewed, two silver bars decorate his dark pink nipples, and the sight of them is maddening. It kills me. I’ve said it before—I don’t know that I’ll ever stop saying it—he is so fucking beautiful. Perfect. Like he was made for me to worship.

I rest my forehead against my hand and stare at him for the longest time. Like if I look at him long and hard enough, I can keep him here—like I can make him stay. Not once does it cross my mind what a sick, perverted asshole I am.

His finger stops moving, and he reaches for his phone on the mattress beside him. He sits up, his back to me, sliding the headphones off and turning toward his nightstand to set them down. He pushes his hair back from his face as he leans closer to the candle to blow it out. Before he can do that, I tap on the window.

His body goes completely still before he slowly turns his head to look my way. His wide, terrified eyes meet mine.