Page 66 of My Unfinished Heart

Smiling at him, I say, “Maybe give me a few minutes.”

Any awkwardness dissipates as he snuggles even closer to me. His fingertips on my back draw hearts and triple infinities in the shape of the small charm on the necklace I wear. Little Gordian knots. “I was nervous,” he says. “Completely overwhelmed…”

Meeting his sparkling eyes, I ignore the instinct I normally get—the one that tells me to shut down, don’t let this get to you. I ignore that for the first time in my life. Here is someone who just handed all his trust to me, and I can do that, too. For one night, I can be who he needs me to be. I can be his. And if he’s able to pry open my shut-down heart—even if it’s just for a few hours—then maybe it’s not really broken.

Maybe it’s just unfinished.

The sun rises. Morning comes and goes. My knee throbs and swells. Tristan’s phone vibrates constantly.

“I have to go,” he says after an hour of ignoring it. An hour where he lets me do what I’d wanted to do when I first came face to ass with him. He made me come with his mouth, and I made him come with my tongue and a few strokes of my hand. Neither of us has had a second of sleep.

But time is relentless. And it’s running out.

He lies sideways against the pillows, and I rest beside him, my hand always managing to be touching some part of him. Right now, it’s on his waist, and I’m memorizing every inch of his torso. He has moles, and I’m counting them. Mentally mapping them. He keeps talking. “As much as I would love for them to, my mom and dad aren’t gonna leave without me. My dad’s big on schedules.”

“You get along with your parents?” I ask because I’m still thirsting for anything I can know about him. Anything to bind us.

“Yeah. They’re great. Very liberal. Very affectionate. Very nosy.”

“Are they proud of you?”

“I don’t know,” he says, softer. “I think so. I hope so. I’m kind of a lot.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, Archer, I wish I had time to explain, but it’s kinda like I said—I gotta go.”

“Ugh. I know. Let me ride with you to your house.”

“Your knee, though.”

“I feel like I just need to wrap it or something. I’m sure it’s fine.”

He gives me a dubious look. He’s right to. I’m pretty sure my kneecap is broken.

“I’ll go to the doctor after I drop you off,” I tell him.

“You should. I’ll get them to send up an Ace bandage or something.”

“I can just use a towel.”

For that, I get a full eye roll. He climbs over me to call the front desk, saying things like, “right away,” and “it’s extremely urgent.” I can barely stand it—the way I still feel about him. If anything, it’s stronger and more pervasive than it was when he first kissed me.

I’m self-aware enough to know that sex is usually my endgame. It’s where my desire for someone either stabilizes or tapers off. As initially feared, that hasn’t happened here.

Five minutes later, with the bandage delivered, Tristan’s in the center of the bed, wrapping my knee, making bending it almost impossible, which helps. He tries to get me to take the Advil, but I don’t want to end up hunched over the toilet again.

“I pictured you a lot of ways, you know?” he says, picking my jeans up off the floor as he starts getting ready to leave.

“No…”

“When someone disappears, it’s normal, I guess…to imagine them. You’re not what I expected.”

“Santa Cruz surfboard painter?”

“I mean how you are. I didn’t expect you to be like this.”

“Like what?”