Page 97 of My Unfinished Heart

He frowns at me like he wants to say something, but he remains quiet.

“Go ahead,” I tell him.

But he only shakes his head. His lips press together, and he looks away, out at the lake. Just like in the painting. Just the exact same way he looked out at the city when we spent the night at The Four Seasons. I should have known he wouldn’t be happy to see me.

But he’s not letting go, and the Gordian knot still hangs from his neck on the black, silk cord.

“Are you here by yourself?” I ask, encouraged by the necklace if nothing else.

“I’m with Connor.”

Of course he is. “Can I walk you back to him?”

“I know the way. Did you need something, or are you just saying hi?”

“Do you have a minute to talk?” I ask as I try to gauge how best to go about convincing him to give me one more chance to get this right.

“I should get back.”

“Please don’t.” My hands tighten on his waist. He looks down at them as though he has no idea what’s touching him. “I need to talk to you.”

“Since when? About what?” he asks. The words have an edge to them.

“Do you want me to get into it now, or can I call you?”

The shift in his expression is a brutal assault. “Call me?”

I take in what’s left of the air on earth. “Can I?” I ask again.

“I don’t know. Can you? I’ve had the same phone number since high school. I pay the bill every month.”

I deserve that. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

He shakes his head. One quick shake and done.

“Then I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Sure you will.” He puts his hands on my wrists and pushes them down, breaking my hold on him.

“Okay, fine—fuck the phone. Come over tomorrow. Four o’clock. I’ll be home. I haven’t moved.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” he asks.

“Because I assume I can’t come to you. If you want to meet somewhere else, that’s no problem. Just name the time and place. You don’t owe me this. That’s not what I’m saying at all, but I would really, really like the chance to talk to you.”

His gaze narrows. “About what?”

“I mean I have a lot to say, but if you have some things to say, then that too. Everything. I want to talk about everything.”

“Fuck,” he whispers, looking down at the ground and shaking his head. Then I think I hear him say, “Fine.”

“Yeah?”

His head whips back up, and he’s basically glaring at me like he can’t believe I got him to agree to this and honestly, I can’t either. “Yes.”

“Okay. Four o’clock.”

“Four o’clock. Worst fucking hour of the day, but whatever.”