Page 85 of My Unfinished Heart

“I know,” I say, as my eyes scour every inch of his face. His edges are sharper, but he’s the same guy. The same one I’ve thought about every single day for the last three and a half years whether I wanted to or not. Whose photograph is bent and faded in my wallet.

His cheeks darken, and he looks away.

“When did you get back to town?” I ask.

He frowns, looking up at me again. “Archer, don’t,” he says, like it’s the stupidest, most irritating question in the world. He cuts his eyes up and across the room—an eye roll.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know.”

“Know what?”

His glare is ice, freezing me in place. “I’ve been back for like—years.”

“What?” Wait, what did I ask him? What are we talking about? “What?”

“I've been living with Connor. I moved in with him right after I graduated.”

He might as well have slapped me in the face.

“You didn't know,” he says, rather than asks.

I shake my head, unable to form any words.

He has some nice ones for me, though. He’s probably been waiting three years to say them. “Jayne never mentioned it?” The words are all bitterness and disappointment.

Each new land mine exploding around me creates tension in my chest that threatens to suffocate me. He’s right in front of me, but he’s more gone than he’s ever been.

“I guess not,” he says, answering his own question.

My stomach twists, and dizziness spins the lobby around. I have to sit. This is too much. This week and West and Tristan and the PhD and that lying gold digger who’s been living in my house for three years—it’s all too fucking much.

I lower myself onto the stair where he sits, but I keep a healthy distance.

I have no heart or words or breath.

“Surprise, I guess,” he says.

I can’t respond. My mind is blank—erased clean as my essential truths march out the door while this new reality steps in to survey the damage and set up camp. My elbows are on my knees, and then my head is in my hands, my body collapsing by degrees. “This is so fucked up.”

“Really? I mean—it looks like you’re doing fine. Pretty girlfriend, prestigious career, a PhD.”

I don’t bother raising my head. “How’d you know about that?”

“Instagram,” he says. “Your girlfriend shared your story.”

Chilling words. I say that because they leave me cold.

“I’m sorry” isn’t good enough. Maybe no words ever will be to make up for all the mistakes I made with him. So, I do the opposite. I rub my face with my hands then turn to look at him. My jaw is both clenched and trembling, already regretting the words I’m about to say. “You should probably drop the class.” My voice comes out weak. I clear my throat and avoid his puzzled gaze. I say it more clearly the second time. “I need you to drop the class.”

His eyes widen. I can’t tell if he’s offended or hurt. But what does he expect? Does he think I can just grade his papers like he’s any other person? That I can pretend what happened between us didn’t mean anything? That it wasn’t completely fucked up? That it didn’t completely fuck me up?

“Sure,” he says eventually. “No problem. It's just an elective. I mean—I don’t need it.” It feels like he’s talking about me. Like I was just an elective, too. It doesn’t seem to bother him much. None of it does, which drives home the point—we were nothing to each other.

We are nothing. Just lies, hormones, and empty promises.

But then his pale turquoise eyes take me in. His teeth grab his bottom lip and hide it in his perfect mouth. For a single second, it’s like no time has passed. It’s just him and me on a concrete walkway in the middle of the night with lips that ache from kissing.