Page 83 of My Unfinished Heart

West turns to me, then back to the window overlooking the class. “Really? Him?”

We haven’t talked at all about my sexuality since I first told him. It hasn’t come up. Not once. So we certainly never discussed what Tristan looked like. The way West is looking at me now, though, makes me think Tristan isn’t what he expected. If I had to guess what West thinks my type is, it’s probably someone more like Liam, and he wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Tristan occupies his own category. Made for me.

I shake my head at the stupid thought. It was invented out of a painful infatuation that lasted a few months at a time in my life when everything was confusing and frankly awful. Tristan wasn’t, though, something in my brain whispers at me. Tristan always made perfect sense.

Tristan looks as changed in the past three years as West does, but not in the good, healthy way.

“He’s cute,” he says.

I can’t put words together enough to disagree with him, but Tristan is much more than cute. His dark golden curls are cut into a short style that accentuates everything unusual and outstanding about his face. It’s almost like he was hiding behind his hair before, and somewhere along the line realized he should be showing off that immaculate bone structure and those turquoise eyes. The brown cardigan West referred to is falling off one shoulder revealing the white tank beneath it. His jeans are baggy, and he’s in white sneakers. He looks thinner. Breakable in the same way I used to think Connor looked breakable. So fucking beautiful it’s hard to tolerate.

My best friend’s presence next to me is the only thing keeping me from running down the stairs and making a complete ass of myself. Seeing him again is like a barely mended wound in my chest just ripped open, and everything that was damaged by his existence in my life begins to throb and ache again. I can’t breathe because it hurts so much—this evisceration.

He takes a seat five rows from the front and close to the aisle. He tugs the sweater up to cover his exposed shoulder and tightens it around his torso, like it’s cold in the lecture hall.

“You okay, brother? You look pale.”

I don’t feel so good either. I turn and look intently into West’s eyes. His brow furrows with real concern as he holds me up with his strong stare. He puts a solid hand on my upper arm and takes a deep breath, indicating that I should too.

I try. I’m not sure what’s happening inside me. It isn’t good, whatever it is. It’s some process that should probably be medicated.

“So…when you said nothing happened between you two…that was all bullshit, right?”

I can’t answer that except with a minute shake of my head that means nothing. West interprets the response in his West way and says, “But you’re with Jayne now. World kept spinning. We all moved on, right?”

“Yes.”

Yes. He’s right. I live with Jayne. I also have a guy on the side West knows nothing about and doesn’t need to. I was angry. I ghosted Tristan. I let go, and I moved on. I wish I could say I forgot all about him, but let’s be real. I think about him all the fucking time. Not so much when I’m with Jayne, but when I’m with Liam for sure. “I’m just surprised to see him. Wasn’t expecting it. Caught me off guard.”

West nods slowly, a look of careful appraisal on his face. “So, teach your class, tell him it’s nice to see him again, and keep living your life. He’s just a guy you knew a long time ago.”

Nice to see him again.

It’s more polite to say that. Jesus, I’m fucking spiraling.

“Right.” I nod, even as panic continues to burst through my open chest wall. My broken promises. My lies. They’re coming home to roost and lodging in my throat.

West reaches over and switches the projector on. We both look out as it lights the screen at the front of the auditorium with my favorite painting. A Monk by the Sea by Caspar Friedrich. In it, a small man stands before a looming gray sea covered with oppressive clouds. It’s sobering and heartbreaking. It’s exactly how I feel right now. Sobered, heartbroken, and oppressed.

“You mind if I give Jayne a call? I wanted to ask her about something,” West says.

“I don’t care,” I reply, attempting to straighten my tie.

“You want help with that?”

Jesus, it’s like he never left. “When did we get married, exactly?”

“All right, all right.” He backs off. “Have a good one. We’ll catch up later.”

“Goodbye, West,” I say pointedly.

“Let me just say one more thing.” He hasn’t moved an inch. We’re still abnormally close, facing each other in the small room.

“Fuck. What?”

“You’re all right.”

“That’s what you wanna say?” I ask, agitated. “Was that a question?”