Chapter 20
Ian
I was at home. It was late, and I was waiting for Kate as I sat alone in my living room.
She was supposed to be there soon, but I couldn’t calm down long enough to be happy about it. I was troubled, to be perfectly honest. Troubled beyond belief at what Amelia had said.
I couldn’t help but wonder exactly what the evidence was. What the hell did BioResearch have that I didn’t know about?
I didn’t know who to ask. I didn’t know who would tell me. If anyone.
Amelia sure as hell hadn’t been any help, and I knew Ben wouldn’t help me. The only way I’d ever find out, I ventured to guess, was if it came out during a court-appointed meeting.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Kate had told them I had gone back on my word and we were back together. I was assuming, not considering that I hadn’t heard anything from Ben and Michael about it all.
I wondered what would happen when she did tell them.
Maybe the evidence did matter, after all; maybe Amelia knew it mattered and knew that things were still up in the air.
“Or maybe you’re being really fucking paranoid…” I growled out loud to myself.
But I couldn’t help it. I felt uneasy about the future. I knew that BioResearch had something on us already; but for some reason, it was just now starting to click. I guess it was partially from Amelia’s smugness and how sure she was that we’d be ruined, or in her words “taken down”.
It wasn’t exactly news, but it was definitely the wording — the new swing on it all — that made me nervous.
I hopped up from the sofa and began to nervously pace around the entire length of the open concept suite, which is something I’d actually already been doing a lot of ever since I’d gotten home a couple hours before.
I only stopped when I passed in front of a photo for the tenth or eleventh time. The more times I passed in front of it, the more I felt the need to look at it. Until my feet had actually stopped moving.
I sighed, and took it in.
It was of my dad. An old photo. One that had always been in the apartment, ever since I could remember. And before that, it had laid atop the same shelf it was on now, which was something that my dad had owned since before I was even conceived, I was pretty sure.
I had kept it, all this time, as a sort of ritual.
It was a picture that had always been around — no matter the home we lived in.
It was always just there…
My mom had always liked it, and Dad had never moved it — not even after she died.
And neither had I.
It made me feel almost like I was always at home whenever I saw it, and to be honest it made me feel closer to him. Even now, when I was confused and unsure if I even wanted to be close to him or not.
It was like he was always watching.
“I feel like I’m over my head,” I whispered, looking at the photo, talking to it like I was talking to my dad. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
I sighed, tears forming and tugging once again. I hated to cry.
“I just don’t want the responsibility of MTS. I never have.”
“I don’t want my family and Kate’s family history to affect our future together.”
“What should I do?”
All the questions were starting to compile, and before I knew it, I was basically full on sobbing in front of a picture.
I grabbed the photo from the shelf, and walked over to the table with it. I was contemplating packing it up and storing it away. I really didn’t need the temptation, or the distraction for that matter.
But when I went to put it down on the kitchen table, I felt a small bit of paper sticking out of one corner of the frame.
My face scrunched, and I tugged on it gently as to not harm the photo, only to realize that it wasn’t part of the photo at all. Instead, from what little I could see, it had hand-written lettering on it. It was something that was placed behind the photo.
“What the…?” I whispered, before fingering the frame’s tabs and removing the back.
When I did, the paper fell out, almost immediately. My eyes scanned it. It was old, fragile, crinkled beyond belief, and the ink had been smudged a bit, but I could still make it out.
The writing was gorgeous. Feminine and neat.
“Dear John,” it started and I couldn’t help but smirk at the pun. But the more I read, the more I realized it wasn’t a pun at all. It really was a “Dear John” letter — it was just to a man named John.
I ached, when my eyes scanned further down. Not just an emotional pain, but a physical one. It hurt all the way down to my damn soul, and my stomach was incredibly sore. Like someone had just punched me in the stomach. I was nauseated, even. It felt like I could throw the fuck up at any moment.
Not because I felt for him.
My mind started to drain completely, almost leaving me null and void of anything.
Which was probably a good thing.
I preferred not to feel emotions.
I grabbed the photo and crumbled the letter in my hand, angrily, and pulled away from the table and suddenly began pacing once again.
Everything had grown quiet all of a sudden. I mean, I knew no one was there. It was usually quiet, but this time, it was more than just quiet.
It was so quiet that it was eerie.
Everything was still, and something bad was happening. I was starting to think. I was starting to let my mind whirl and spin and land on every single issue that I had on my plate until I growled out in an anger stronger than any that I’d felt for a long time.
It was so quiet that it was almost like of those deadly calm sort of nights where you get hacked and slashed to bits.
I passed the hallway, still pacing. Until a knock at the door brought me back to reality.
I rushed to the door, knowing it had to be Kate.
With bloodshot eyes red and swollen from crying, I swung the door open
“What’s wrong?” she asked immediately.
I grabbed hold of her forearm and tugged her inside before my foot made contact with the door behind me.
It slammed shut, and as soon as I heard the click of it, I started to shake and before I knew it, I was sputtering out at a mile a minute.
I kept shouting, “I found it in the back of the picture frame!” over and over.
“Ian. Honey!” she yelled. “Slow down! You look angry, and if I didn’t know any better, I would think you’re angry with me by the look on your face. Slow down and tell me what was in the picture frame