Page 7 of My Unfinished Heart

Or they were.

I’ve ruined a large surface area before it occurs to me that maybe Comet, rage, and Scrub Daddies aren’t meant for use on granite. Oh well. Fuck you, mom. I almost laugh.

My shower is less funny, though, and finding a place to sleep is damn near sobering. My old room has been turned into a craft room. No surprise there. No bed either. Connor’s bed has an open violin case on it, which I don’t want to touch, so I move on to what used to be a guest room.

Reality smacks me in the face once again.

Yesterday I learned four people died in the car wreck that put my brother on life support. My mother and father, the driver of the oncoming car, and the kid who lived in this bedroom. They were all just words—theoretical—when I skimmed the obituary. But they come back now. Bryan Jacob Brennan, age 6, attended St. Stephen’s School.

A St. Stephen’s pennant hangs on the wall opposite the door because four days ago I had two brothers.

Today I have one.

Four days ago, I didn’t know.

Today I do.

The numbness returns as I stand on the threshold. I don’t enter the room because there are pictures on the wall, and I’m not ready to know what he looked like. I already know he played baseball, and that’s horrible enough. A tiny glove holding an orange and white ball rests on the floor next to my feet. It’s the saddest fucking thing imaginable. If they hadn’t died, would I have ever known? Would I have ever stopped moving on for long enough to look back over my shoulder and check?

Had his life been okay? Or was it like mine? Is he better off where he is?

I close his door the same way I closed Connor’s, shutting everything his room contains away both literally and in my aching head.

Too wired now to sleep, and unable to handle any more blindsides, I park myself in the lounge just off the kitchen and tune the TV to ESPN. In summer, there’s always a baseball game somewhere. The sounds of the game and the familiar voices of the announcers drown out some of the strangeness of being back in this place. I have no idea who’s playing.

I call Carrie out of habit and wind up stalling out after I get the word “hey” out of my mouth.

“You gonna tell me where you are?” she asks after a few seconds of waiting for me to say something else.

“Austin.”

“Okay. I’ll bite. What’s in Austin.”

“This is where I’m from. My hometown.”

“Oh. I guess I didn’t know that,” she says.

“I’m sorry, Carrie,” I whisper, something inside me crumpling under the weight of all the things I’ve never told her. Things I still won’t tell her because they don’t belong outside of me. They’re not safe anywhere but stuffed inside my chest.

“Is everything okay?”

“My brother’s in the hospital.”

“Oh.”

She didn’t know I had even one brother. Somehow I’ve managed to be in a monogamous relationship with this woman for nearly two years and let her believe I materialized fully formed in Seattle as an incoming college freshman with no past, no family, and no baggage. In my own defense, our conversations have never been exactly deep or reflective. She’s an artist, I’m an artist. We exist in the same circle of friends, and we’re physically attracted to each other. Enough life happens between us that the past rarely comes up besides the occasional random anecdote.

“He’s gonna be out of it for a while, and there’s some family stuff I need to deal with, but I wanted to let you know where I’m at, and I’m sorry I won’t be able to make your show this weekend.”

“Oh, Archer. Don’t worry about that. Are you okay?”

“I’m…” A billionaire? Confused? Terrified? Alone? “I’ll be all right.”

“Do you, uh…want me to see if I can come down there?”

Her question surprises me. It’s honestly the last thing I thought she’d offer, which I guess is weird when we call each other girlfriend and boyfriend, but those are just words, aren’t they? Labels we’ve placed on a relationship that’s chill and consistent. Going through something together doesn’t really feel like us. Do I want her here, though?

I cover my eyes with my hand when I realize the truth—the answer.