Page 94 of My Unfinished Heart

Anyway, it worked while it worked, and when I think back on the night he gave me his card, I probably would have been happier if I’d called him instead of Jayne. If he’d moved in with me instead of her, I doubt I’d be where I’m at now.

But there’s a reason I wanted Jayne that night. Because I wanted to stop feeling. I wanted to stop wanting. I wanted to shut down, and like Helen said, Jayne allowed it.

It’s late afternoon, and I’m still in my studio, drinking again. I need to get rid of all the paintings of West. I don’t set them on fire like I want to, but I lock them in the closet so I never have to see his face again.

I don’t know what to do with the oil painting of Tristan. I prop it on the windowsill and stare at it, drinking one shot of excellent bourbon after another.

It’s a painting of a memory of him, when he sat across from me on the hotel balcony. He was looking off into the downtown lights, wondering whether what we had was real or if he was my consolation prize. It’s a memory of the moment I first felt him slipping away. It’s one of the best paintings I’ve ever done. It’s almost perfect.

I’m getting up to take it to the closet to join the others when there’s a knock on my door. It could be Liam, but my money’s on West. He’s the only other one who knows about this place since it’s right above the bar.

I nearly don’t answer. I shouldn’t. That bastard’s lucky I don’t tear his fucking throat out. I have never hated anyone—not even my mother—the way I hate him today. And I have never been this close to the edge.

He holds both his hands up in an irritating version of self-defense. “I just wanna talk, brother.”

“Don't call me brother. Do you know what you did? Do you know?” I shout as I back him into the hall.

“I know, Archer, I know. Give me a few minutes, okay? Let’s go inside.”

I take the last step left to take between us, my face inches from his. “You don't get to have time with me right now. You don't get forgiveness for this. You don't get to explain yourself. You don't get to call me brother. Not anymore. Do you understand?”

He glares at me, silenced.

“You don't get to know me. Anymore.”

“Archer, I'm sorry. I really fucking mean it.”

“It's done. You need to go before I call the police. I'd hate for you to have to go back to prison.”

His jaw tightens, and he swallows hard. “I need you to hear me out.”

“I don't give a shit what you need.”

“I'm gonna make you listen to me, asshole.” He shoves me away, which isn’t hard because I’m drunk and out of control. “Get inside.”

“Fuck you.” I stumble back into the studio, and he slams the door behind us.

“You’re a fucking mess.” Whatever he’s about to say after that, he shuts off as he passes me by, crossing the room to the painting of Tristan. He stares at it for a long time while I approach him from behind. I let him drink it all in one last time, then I turn the canvas to face the wall.

“I didn't realize…” he says.

“What?”

“That you're in love with him.”

“Love?” I laugh. “What's love? Is it my chest getting ripped open? Is it a knife in my back? A pillow over my face? What is love, West? Explain it to me. I obviously don't fucking get it.”

“You’ve been with Jayne a long time. I thought it'd be you and her forever. I thought she was the one for you.”

I laugh out loud.

“You mentioned him one time,” he says, gesturing at the canvas.

“When he showed up in my class the other day—did it actually seem like I was indifferent? That I could just pass him over to you? And since when are you into guys? Like what the fuck? Do we even know each other?”

“Look. Sam Kincaid got around, and I’ve got layers.”

I normally would have laughed at that. It’s funny. But not in this context.