Page 69 of My Unfinished Heart

It goes on like this for several more minutes. “Calculus and French. You’re taking Calculus, too, right? You’ll be fine. Yeah, I’ll help, but you won’t need it.”

I emerge from my room, ready to leave, just as Connor’s passing by. He stops and stares up at me.

It’s still summer in Texas, but he’s wearing tight black jeans and combat boots. Connor never leaves the house in anything but pants because it’s the only way to cover the foot-long, inch-wide scar on his leg. Here at home, I’ve seen him in shorts a few times, and I got a good look at the scar one afternoon when he was on the porch swing in the sweltering heat. It still looks like it hurts.

Seeing him all fixed up for school takes my breath away. His beauty makes me nervous. I don’t want to let him out of the house with that glossy raven-black hair, the kohl-lined eyes, the pretty piercings in his lip, making him look both fierce and delicate. When I look at Connor, I can almost see the twelve-year old I left behind with the messy brown hair wearing jean shorts and Minecraft t-shirts. That’s the boy I want to protect.

This young man—this present-day Connor—he needs some protecting too, but he’s made it clear I’m not the person for the job. All these thoughts as he says to me—and into the phone, “Good morning. Don’t you look sharp?”

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to figure out what his angle is.

“Tristan, you should see my brother, looking all respectable. He hasn’t shaved, though,” he says into the phone while he scans me from head to toe, and I stand there like I’m stuck in cement.

I can hear the sound of Tristan’s response, but not the words.

Connor makes a whole show of peeking past me into my room. “Nope. No girl. Looks like he spent the night alone for once.”

I want to kill him. I want to take him by his skinny neck and shake him until—at the very least—he drops the fucking phone.

Not since that one time with Jayne has anyone spent the night in my room. Connor knows that as well as I do. I’m so angry my hands twitch.

Connor gives me an evil smile and a wink. “Tristan says hi.”

I can’t speak. I’m too pissed. I give him a menacing glare and step around him.

“Guess he doesn’t feel like talking,” Connor’s saying as I turn the corner to get away. Then I hear him say, “I have to go. Let’s get out there and have an amazing senior year. Happy birthday. I love you too.”

I freeze with my hand on the doorknob. Connor rounds the corner and stops when he sees me. “What are you waiting for?” he asks, in a much ruder tone than the one he used on the phone.

How do I ask this? I’m searching for the most innocuous possible combination of words. “Tristan’s birthday is today?”

He glares at me. “Why?”

“How old is he?” I ask, unable to manage any subtlety.

“Eighteen. Why? Did you think he was as old as Jayne?” Connor’s looking at me like I’m the scum of the earth, and I admit, right now, I feel like it. “Look, if you’re not gonna open the door, can I? Please?”

He’s gonna have to, because I’m gonna need a minute.

Today is Tristan’s eighteenth birthday.

My stomach rolls. I start to sweat. I’m breathing too fast. I walk back into my bedroom, set my bag down on the bed and loosen my tie. I pace.

He lied.

Why?

Fuck.

I start thinking about Tristan in a way I haven’t really let myself since that night.

The argument about the Advil.

The way he washed my face.

His fearlessness.

The depth of my overwhelming infatuation with him.