Page 98 of My Unfinished Heart

I almost laugh. He’s sort of right. “I’ll see you then.”

He’s turning to walk the opposite direction, but he gives me a short, “Mmhm,” and I know he’ll be there.

When I make it back to Gretchen, she takes one look at my face and asks, “What happened?”

“I just ran into someone.”

“Was it an ex? You look soft of—distraught.”

Distraught is one word for it. “It was Tristan. Did I ever tell you about Tristan?” I already know I haven’t even before she shakes her head.

“Then I guess I probably should.” I sit back down with her and break it to her gently.

It’s almost four, and I’m expecting Tristan any minute. I’ve been cleaning all day. Myself and the house. I’m exhausted and yet totally unable to relax.

My ringing phone startles me, and my heart plummets into the depths of hell because I know—I am sure it will be Tristan calling to cancel.

But it’s just Helen. Checking in, asking how my birthday went.

“I’m seeing Tristan tonight,” I say without putting too much thought into the can of worms I’ve opened up.

“Did you get a haircut?”

I frown. “No.”

She makes a hum of disappointment.

Outside the living room window, an unfamiliar silver Toyota pulls to a stop.

I hear my own anxiety in my voice. “He’s here. Any last minute tips?”

“Well, since it’s too late to do anything about your hair, you just be humble, be kind, and share your heart, because it’s a good one.”

I smile from the warmth her words put into my chest and the faith she still has in me. “Thanks, Nell.”

“Anytime, baby. Good luck.”

I go out front to meet Tristan, a strange mix of excitement and dread making it impossible for me to wait another second. I don’t pay much attention to what he has on other than the white slip-on shoes. I just know—whatever it is—the outfit is fitted and short. I can see so much of his legs I have almost no breath to greet him with. “Hey,” I say, because it’s kind of the sound a breath makes.

“Hi,” he says, with only minimal eye contact.

“Come in?”

He nods.

I put my hand on his lower back and walk him inside. We stall in the living room, so I have to rely on my manners to get me around the awkward corners. “You want a drink?”

He nods again.

“What do you like?”

“Wine?”

“No problem.” Gretchen loves wine, so I have plenty. “Red or white?”

“Red, if that’s okay.”

He comes with me to the kitchen and sits down at the small glass table while I pour us each some Cabernet.