Page 111 of Unalive On Air

My heart leaves my chest. Simply falls through my ribs and drops to the ground. He might as well stomp it and kick it aside whilst it’s down there.

“I understand.” I swallow the wave of emotion fighting its way up my throat. “You have a right to know. You deserve to know.” My lip wobbles. I snap it tight. My eyes burn. I blink back the tears.

“Gary,” he says, and I could die all over again at the sound of my name on his lips. “It’s not because of that. Unfinished business. I mean, it sort of is. It’s difficult to explain. I want to know, but I’m not worried. I’m staying because I should be here for you when . . . the fallout hits.”

I lower my voice. “Do you know who it is?”

He whispers in reply. “I think so.”

Everyone in the room seems to draw closer to us, but nobody says anything.

“And in case I’m wrong . . .” Trystan slots his hand into the back of my hair. “I don’t think it’ll matter.”

“It won’t?” I ask.

“Because . . . because . . . that’s not what my unfinished business is.”

I can’t speak, can’t say anything, only stare right into his soul.

“It’s you, Gary. You’re my unfinished business.”

For at least ten seconds, I’m dumbstruck. There are a billion and one questions I have for him, and I guess the most pressing question is the first to fall from my lips.

“What the fuck?”

He laughs. “It’s kinda wild, but I’ve never been in love with someone before, and I had no idea it would feel this way. Do you remember when I said that if I had unfinished business, I would know unequivocally what it was? That it would be a burning urge within me to do something, and my soul wouldn’t be able to rest until it was done?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Well, surprise! It’s you.”

Distantly, I hear Jeanie clapping. I’d forgotten that they were in the room with us.

I close my eyes, inhale deeply, exhale, then open them and refocus on Trystan. Okay, Gary, don’t freak out, but everything you’ve ever dreamed of is actually happening right now.

“When did you . . . how long have you thought that?” I ask.

“Well, I was thinking about you sitting on that chair there.” We both look over at the seat beside the bureau, and Stove surreptitiously climbs out. “And I started to panic, like hyperventilate, and Josh asked me what was wrong, and I realised that you solving like, eight murders might actually be your unfinished business, and what if that had been the last time I saw you because you’d moved on without me?” He swallows, sobs, swallows again. “And if that was going to be the moment you moved on, I wanted to be right here with you.”

My emometer cracks. Tears run down my cheeks.

“That wouldn’t happen,” I say through the searing pain at the back of my throat. “Because . . . you’re also my unfinished business.”

Trystan just stares at me, his hand still cradling my jaw.

“I’ve known that you were my unfinished business since that time we lay on the sand and talked about the constellations,” I say.

“Since then?”

“Yeah. I didn’t say anything because, come on, look at you, look at me. I never stood a chance.”

“Bad, Gary,” Jeanie yells, throwing her sleep mask at me. “What did we talk about?”

“I’m sorry,” I say without taking my eyes off Trystan. It’s not that I want to be so self‑critical, it’s just that after a lifetime of being told by various people I’m not good enough, it becomes much easier to believe.

Mum, Dad, Barry Prestwich, the Swindon Sounds execs, all the girls and boys at uni I ever tried to get close with. The common denominator there was always me. They couldn’t all be wrong. Could they?

I know without a shadow of a doubt that my unfinished business is loving and being loved back with equal measure. Hearing Trystan say those three words to me might just be the moment I evanesce forever.