Page 60 of My Unfinished Heart

My eyes close as his lips feather past mine. Once again, I ask, “What does that mean?”

The kiss that follows is sweet and soft. His hands are warm and his body is firm in my arms as I lift him up, putting our weight on my good leg.

“Are you always like this?” he whisper asks.

I sigh, my forehead resting against his. Never, I want to say. Not even sometimes. But it turns out it’s a really complicated question. “I’m sorry if it’s too much,” I whisper because it’s a secret. For his ears only. “I’ve never felt like this before.”

He stares into my eyes, glowing again. Maybe it’s just the bathroom light shining through his hair. Whatever it is, he’s exquisite. I’m so lost in him, you’d need a search party with bloodhounds to find me.

I need out of this tangle. With true sobriety settling in, all these emotions are making me uncomfortable. I lower him to the ground because my knee is killing me, too.

“I need a minute,” I say.

He steps away from me. “Another one? Would you like me to go?”

“Of course not, but…”

He waits, standing straighter, poised to flee, shoring up his own defenses.

“Can we talk for a few minutes?” I ask. “Get some fresh air or something?”

His smile is tight and slightly false. “Whatever you need, Archer.”

We leave the bathroom, and he opens the patio door, waiting for me to limp past him. I ease into one of the chairs, and he sits across from me, his feet on the seat, knees bent to the side, regarding me with suspicious eyes. “Sober yet?” he asks.

I’d be wise to choose my words carefully. “More or less.”

“Are you slamming on the breaks because you’ve lost interest, or is it the fact that you slept with Jayne Beck last night?”

Whoa. There’s the elephant. “Neither,” I say, which is the absolute truth.

He continues, his tone as direct as his words are straightforward. Like no more bullshit. “Connor’s pissed. You know they’re friends, right? Connor and Miss Beck. Jayne. She’s his orchestra teacher, and they’re always texting about orchestra shit. For a teacher, she really has no boundaries.”

I don’t say anything because when you’re in a minefield, you should always avoid sudden movement.

“You’re not with her are you?” he asks.

“No, it was—” I’m about to say one night, but that always sounds shitty to say. I’m at a loss for words after that.

“I want to know, but I don’t,” he says.

“Then let’s not.”

“Does she mean something to you? Please just tell me. Be honest. It’s okay if she does, but it would make me wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“Whether I do. Whether I could,” he says.

“I told you she’s not the one for me.”

“And you think I am?”

I lean forward, elbows on my legs. “Is there a better way for me to say it?”

He glances at me, then away, eyes drifting over Austin’s glittering skyline. “I don’t know.” He presses his lips together and shakes his head quickly. This image of him questioning everything creeps into my memory and takes hold with claws. Another painting for another time.

Without looking at me, he asks, “Have you been with many men? Or mainly women?”