My Unfinished Heart

Chapter 1

ONE

Light and Shadow

Austin, Texas

June

The lawyer and I are not alone on the hospital cafeteria’s patio. I finish my coffee as he maneuvers a file out of his briefcase and tries to find enough space for it on the small table between us. I glance again at the young man sitting three tables away.

Because we’re the only three people outside on this scorching summer morning, I’ve noticed him. A lot. And the glances he keeps sliding my way.

It’s possible that anyone sitting on the patio this morning besides me and the lawyer would be a welcome distraction, but this particular person has almost too much of my attention. The angles of his face are spellbinding.

I remember my tenth grade art teacher lecturing the class about training ourselves to view the world and objects we see around us in lines and shapes, light and shadow.

I also remember wondering who doesn’t already do that?

Who was she talking to? Not to me. I’ve always seen the individual leaves on the trees before the forest takes shape.

This young man is ovals and triangles and a curly bracket that makes up his upper lip.

His eyes are ellipses. His hair a series of arches and bends.

And he’s color, too. Gold and light bronze for his hair.

Aquamarine for his eyes. Pale rose for his lips, and his smooth skin the color of untouched desert sand.

So many of his details have me distracted.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Brennan.”

Now that he’s speaking, I return my attention to the lawyer. With all the files situated, his expression is solemn. I give him a slow nod and wait, glad I’m not the one in a three-piece suit. The long-sleeved t-shirt I’m wearing is hot enough.

Philip Haskell clears his throat and places his hand on a stack of papers. “This is your father’s will. I can read it to you, or I can give you the highlights.”

“I’ll just take the highlights.” I’m not expecting much. Twenty-five grand in a trust, if that. Maybe a car or some old furniture in a storage unit.

“I’m not sure you’re aware, but your father did name you as sole heir, which means—”

I wave my hand to slow him down. “Wait, stop.” That last thing he said was a huge leap from my low expectations. We need to back up.

Haskell pats beads of sweat from his brow with a paper napkin. “So, you were unaware…” He takes a fortifying breath. “Let’s zoom out.”

I regard the middle-aged attorney through narrowed eyes.

“Since your mother also passed, what would have gone to her, goes to you.”

That can’t be right. “Are you sure you have the right will? There’s no way my mother would sign off on that. Also, I’m not the sole anything. I have a brother.” Barely, but still. He’s technically alive.

Haskell opens his mouth to respond, but another hand lands on my shoulder.

When I turn to see who it is, it’s him. The guy with the distracting face.

His round cheekbones are pink-splotched, and his aqua eyes are lighter up close than they seemed at a distance.

Greener, but somehow still blue. I don’t recognize him, but the way he’s looking at me tells me I’m familiar to him.

“I’m sorry to interrupt. I’m Tristan,” he says to me, moving his hand off my shoulder for me to shake.

I take it. “Archer.”

He nods like this isn’t news. “I’m Connor’s friend.”

I zoom out on him, too. Tristan is young—or younger than I am.

Late teens, I’m guessing. He’s wearing wide-legged baggy pants like a skater would and a short-sleeved linen button down, which is see-through enough to show the white tank underneath.

His hair is nearly shoulder length. Dark blond.

His voice is on the softer side. Between that and the fluid way he carries himself, I clock him as gay, which tracks from what I deduced about Connor several years ago.

Boyfriend is likely a more accurate descriptor as to who Tristan is to my brother.

“I don’t expect you to remember me,” he says. “I just wanted to see if maybe I could help. A lot’s happened since you left.”

I glance at Haskell who looks grateful someone intervened before I started casting more doubt over whether he brought the right paperwork to this unfortunate meeting. I gesture toward the chair Tristan is gripping. “Have a seat.”

He blows out a nervous exhale and quickly sits, scooting his chair closer to mine, giving the illusion he’s on my side.

“Phil Haskell.” The attorney introduces himself to Tristan, leaning to shake his hand as well.

“Tristan Chase,” he says.

“Tristan Chase,” I say, trying to decide if it rings a bell. Sort of? I’m picturing water for some reason. But also, his eyes are sort of the color of a swimming pool in the summer.

He nods. The expression on his face is poised and receptive, but his red-rimmed gaze is heavy with the weight of what’s brought all of us together today.

“How long have you known Connor?”

He turns in his chair to face me, his knees grazing my outer thigh. He folds his hands in his lap. “Um. Since elementary school.”

Haskell interjects. “Why don’t I give you two a moment?”

When I nod, he excuses himself and escapes into the air-conditioning.

Alone now, I stare at Tristan beneath the scorching sun. The bright morning light makes his wavy, shoulder-length hair gleam like spun gold. He’s not currently crying, but it’s clear he has been. Just in case, I hand him the napkin I have clutched in my fist.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

“We’ve met before?” I ask.

“Not formally. I mean, there was one time you splashed water at me in a pool when I was a kid, but we weren’t technically introduced…”

The image and impressions piece themselves together. “Was that you? I actually do remember that.” I had few enough interactions with my brother growing up that the memories of each time remain fresh, but not the names of his friends, I guess.

Our eyes meet solemnly. Something clicks.

It’s not recognition. It’s more like a connection, and something more I can’t put a word to.

It’s also not a feeling I’ve ever had with a stranger before, so it’s hard to call it anything.

He gives me a tentative smile, which makes me wonder if he notices, too.

I give him a closer, longer look. I definitely don’t recognize him, but he’s something to look at.

Every feature on his face seems sculpted almost to exaggeration, but then it was like the artist managed to show some restraint, leaving him unusually beautiful. Very attractive.

His small smile trembles before he glances away. “Are you confused about the will?”

His question draws me back to the brutal reality. Sole heir.

“How did you know?”

“I overheard a little. For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s a mistake. Your mom and dad were getting a divorce. With the way things were since Christmas, I wouldn’t be surprised if your dad cut her out entirely.”

How could this guy possibly know all that? Although, he’s probably wondering why I don’t. “Then what were they all doing in a car together three days ago?”

Tristan presses his lips together, and his eyes well up.

This time his chin trembles, and he bites down on his full lower lip.

I except him to cry, so I am not at all prepared for what actually happens.

In an instant, his arms are around me, and he’s trembling with the effort to keep his tears inside.

My face is covered in the golden haze of his hair as I try to figure out what to do with my hands.

Unsolicited hugs and I don’t do well together. I find them unnatural and suffocating. Unwelcome. Tristan’s hug isn’t any of those things. It’s like rain on parched earth. My body wants to soak it up, but my hands have no idea what to do.

Ultimately they settle on the middle of his back.

I’ve had a lot of upheaval these last three days since I learned my father and mother were killed in a high speed car accident.

My brother Connor was the only survivor of the collision.

He’s in a coma now, in the ICU, “critical but stable,” whatever that means.

I arrived in Austin last night after a nine-hour journey from Seattle with multiple stops and fell asleep on the couch in my brother’s hospital room.

The lawyer’s been blowing up my phone since he first got in touch with me, trying to find a time to meet, and now this. Another person consoling me over the loss of people I’m not mentally or emotionally capable of missing.

“I’m so sorry,” Tristan mumbles against my shoulder.

I’m not sure if he’s apologizing for the loss of my parents or the hug. “Thanks. It’s okay.”

As a rule, I can’t stand being touched by strangers, but since he seems to really need this, I don’t move away.

The truth is, I don’t mind it. He’s somehow managed to fit himself against me like a weighted blanket, settling into the hollower places and warming the rest. Allowing my head to rest on top of his, I take a deep breath that smells like a hospital with a hint of coconut.

Through Tristan’s loose, frizzing waves, I notice Haskell’s hesitant approach. I give him a slight nod, wanting to get his part of the day over with. I pat Tristan on the back, a signal that I’m done.

He sees the lawyer and tries to pull himself together, and I’m so busy watching him dry his face, I don’t notice he’s also reaching for my hand.

His grip is sudden and tight. He needs this.

I’m no longer so sure Tristan’s reasons for sitting here have all that much to do with how he can help me. I’m fucking numb.

I let him hold on to me, though. In his defense, this is all pretty heavy for a sunny summer morning. I can hold this guy’s hand. He’s clearly going through a lot, and I’m not exactly in my happy place, either.