Page 70 of My Unfinished Heart

“Bad timing” now seems like an utter fucking understatement.

He was seventeen.

And I should have known. I should have known the same way I know right now that if he hadn’t lied, I never in a million years would have let him get so close. Because I never wanted to feel this—a sense of loss I can only describe as hopelessness.

The text I’m about to send reads: We should talk. Happy birthday by the way.

And then I delete it.

Because he doesn’t need it, and neither do I. It’s time to cut the ties and let him go. He’s gone. The memory is already ruined, and I’ll only fuck it up more with my sense of betrayal and regret. He’s way too young, and you’re too old, is what I tell myself. I also tell myself other bullshit like it doesn’t matter. He got what he wanted. Now he’s gone.

He’s a liar, and I’m an asshole, and this?

This is the sound of the ball dropping at my feet.

After my first day back at work, I head to Strange Days because West and I are in the ultimate game of phone tag. Seeing him in person is the only way to put an end to it. I park behind the back entrance. After checking his empty office, I make my way out to the bar. There’s only one couple here, and they’re drinking beers at the pool table.

West is behind the bar with an iPad looking over the alcohol stock. I should probably ask him what he’s doing and how, since I own the place now. I hope it won’t involve too many spreadsheets.

I lean across the bar to get his attention. “West.”

He turns around, and relief spreads across his face, which is nice to see—that one person in the world is happier when I show up.

He’s the only one working this early, so he stays behind the bar, and I take a seat. Once he’s made some cocktails for another couple who wanders in, he comes over to sit with me. “I have a court date.”

“When?” I ask, unease growing in the pit of my stomach.

“Two weeks. September 10th.”

“Fuck. That was quick.”

“Yeah, well, that’s one thing your money bought me. We can get this shit over with sooner.” He swallows and looks away. “You think you can come?”

I’m sure I’ll have work that day, but I nod. “Of course.”

His posture relaxes into something more casual. He leans against the bar, his gaze moving back and forth between me and the front door.

“How’s the knee?” he asks.

“Getting better.”

“How was school?”

“It went all right. Bartender, are you gonna pour me a drink or what?” I ask.

“What'll you have?”

“I think I’ll start out slow tonight. So, double scotch neat.”

He grins. “It’s gonna be a long night, isn't it?”

“Maybe,” I say.

After all, how many drinks do I have left with him? How many more songs will we listen to in the back office? Will we get to watch the playoffs? Two weeks is no time at all.

We order a pizza after the other employees arrive and take it to his office where we continue to drink steadily.

He asks how things are going with Connor staying at my house. Skipping the part about Tristan, I tell him we had a semi-polite conversation this morning.