Unbreak My Heart(24)

Nah. I’ll mention it the next time she emails me.

I head into the second bedroom. There’s only room for a low futon with a white mattress on hardwood slats and a slim three-drawer bureau. I hesitate again before I enter the room Ian used, unsure whether the ghosts from his life here will swallow me whole.

But for some reason, seeing the bed neatly made, like he did it at home, doesn’t hurt. It feels strangely comforting, maybe even calming, to see he was the same here as he was there. That’s the brother I know.

I close the door, and I’m about to head to the bathroom to inspect the medicine cabinet when I notice the entryway table tucked in the corner of the living room.

There’s the World Series cap Kana mentioned in her note, the crossword puzzle books, a John Legend ticket stub from last fall, and a magnet from a bowling alley back home—Silverspinner Lanes. I pick it up, flip it over, but there’s no secret code on it, no key to tell me why it’s here. There’s only a simple answer—he probably tossed it on the desk when emptying his pockets. But why was this in his pocket, especially while on an international flight?

I set it down and grab the stack of cards.

The first card is a picture of a black-and-white cat. I know instantly it’s from Laini. She always loved tuxedo cats.



Dear Ian,





So glad we did that!! xoxo





Love, Laini





Did what? What did she do with Ian? She never mentioned the visit in her emails to me, and I hardly talked to her at the memorial service. I hardly talked to anyone at the service.

Under that card is another one, with a photo of a serene tropical beach on the front. Inside it is a sheet of stationery.

I unfold the paper and read.



Ian—you’re probably too old for this, but we left you money anyway. Don’t ONLY order pizza when we’re gone in Hawaii! Get salads and veggies too! And look out for Andrew. Summer before college and all that—make sure he throws ZERO parties at the house! Also, we love you both so very much.





P.S. Did I mention to look out for Andrew? That boy is our troublemaker.





Love,

Anna and John

better known as . . .

Mom and Dad





I lean back in the chair and laugh at the word troublemaker. I was their second straight A student, and I threw zero parties in high school. I smile widely, picturing my mom writing this note to her twenty-two-year-old son, telling him to look after her eighteen-year-old.

Maybe this letter should make me sad, but it doesn’t. I like the humor, and the unsuccessful directive to eat veggies.

I didn’t eat a single stalk of broccoli when they were gone, and I have no regrets over the lack of greens that week.

I set down the note, wondering briefly why Ian brought these bits and pieces of his life to Tokyo.

My eyes drift to a framed photo on the corner of the table. It’s Ian and Kana posing in front of a temple, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. Hers is tight around his waist. He wears the World Series cap—it’s the photo mentioned in the letter. He still looks well. Or, well enough.

When I pick up the Lucite frame to peer at it more closely, I feel more photos behind it. Sliding them out, I flick through the shots of Ian and Kana around the city, then I freeze.

Holland gazes back at me, walking away from the camera, her hair blowing in the breeze, but she looks over her shoulder at the lens. A smile has started on her face, as if the photographer captured her unexpectedly—unexpectedly laughing, smiling. She’s in a park near a cherry blossom tree.

I turn to the next shot. It’s Holland too, in a different outfit, shrugging happily as if to say, “Fine, take my picture outside this pachinko parlor.”

The last shot of her mocks me too. It’s a close-up of her face. She’s holding a mic, singing at a karaoke bar.

My fingers shake, and my stomach churns.

Why the hell does my brother have these shots of my ex-fucking-girlfriend hidden behind the pictures of his girlfriend? He never told me he spent so much time with Holland here.

She neglected to mention that little fact too.

Even when I asked her the night we kissed at my house.

I jam my hand through my hair, remembering the words she’d said before we tumbled onto my couch, grinding against each other.

He wasn’t there to see me—he was there to see her.

But he did see her.

He saw her often, it seems. I remember, too, the tears in Holland’s eyes after she read Kana’s letter. Other memories pop up like in a Whac-a-Mole game. Holland reading a book to Ian. Holland at the house for hospice care.

I try to whack them away. But they mock me.

Seething, I stare at the snapshots, burning holes in them with my eyes.

I drop the photos and walk away. I can’t believe this. I refuse to believe what my mind is trying to make of these things.

No, just fucking no.

There’s no fucking way.

I pace, shoveling my hand through my hair as I try to apply all my skills to this evidence like a good lawyer would.

There is no evidence of contact. There is no evidence of love. There is no evidence of anything more than friendship.

These are only snapshots, and the best-case scenario is she hung out with Kana and Ian.