Unbreak My Heart(9)

The firm I now own, since it was his, and what’s his is mine.

I curse as I lift the barbell.

I fucking hate owning all his shit.

I fucking hate needing to deal with all that stuff: with the firm, with the damn baseball cards, with the mutual funds, his red sports car, and the apartment in Tokyo our parents had owned. Ian spent a lot of time there during the last year, when he was in remission, seeing a doctor occasionally and seeing a woman too—Kana, the caretaker for the apartment and my brother’s girlfriend.

He met her a year ago and asked her out that same night. He always said she was worth flying all those hours to spend weekends with, sometimes longer.

In the end, their relationship was short-lived, just as he’d predicted.Because his was a short-lived life, and now it’s entirely up to me to decide what to do with the apartment in the Shibuya district of the neon city.

Do I keep it? Sell it? Rent it?

Selling would be easy—the place is smack dab in a trendy part of the metropolis. But renting could net a hefty monthly windfall too.

I switch to the dumbbells, working on triceps, then biceps, thinking of the empty apartment. Maybe I should treat it like an investment, and to do that, I should evaluate it closely. God knows I have the time. Yeah, I have a job whenever I want to start, but no one needs me to run the corporate law firm. I simply own it. The other lawyers there are aces at making that place go, go, go every day.

Maybe I should jet over to Tokyo for the summer.

I love that city, but I hate that city too. I can’t think of Tokyo without Holland reappearing in my thoughts. It’s what wrenched us apart three years ago when she went to nursing school there.

I finish my reps and head inside, Sandy at my heels. I grab my phone, click on the folder with Holland’s pictures in it, and open a shot of her.

It’s a selfie—she’s in Shibuya Crossing, the famous intersection where six roads collide. A gigantic Chihuahua stands on his hind legs on the billboard behind her, and night has fallen. The text message with it said: I’m here, and I should be happy, but I miss you so much.

I run my thumb over the picture. The three months we were together were so much more than a summer fling. We’d toyed with the possibility of doing a long-distance relationship, but we both had school—years of it. In the end, we’d faced the hard truth and decided that it was best to focus on studies and maybe, if fates aligned, see each other again someday.

No promises, but no doors closed either.

I thought—foolishly—that somehow everything would work out.

But distance has a way of smothering love.

Now, there’s hardly any distance between us. She’s mere miles away, and maybe that’s why it’s easier to text her.



Andrew: The reception was great. My speech lasted all of two minutes.





Holland: Was it supposed to be that short?





Andrew: I think the goal was ten or fifteen. I cut to the chase and then walked out. It was a true mic drop moment. But at least my hair looked good.





Holland: Your hair looked great. Sorry the reception sucked. I’m with London, making lasagna. Want to join us?





My shoulders tighten, and I stare at the last message like it’s mocking me. Holland’s hanging with her sister. Her sister is cool, and they love each other like crazy.

No fucking way can I be near that.

Shame, because her lasagna is epic.



Andrew: Nah, I need to mow the lawn. But thanks.





The lawn looks perfect, courtesy of Mrs. Callahan, and Holland knows it because she was here hours ago.

Instead of seeing them, I take half a Vicodin and watch a documentary on baboons, but I can’t stop thinking of Tokyo.





6





Holland



I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know Andrew.

Our parents were friends, thanks to the Japan connection. When Andrew was younger, his folks were expats in Tokyo, helping run an American company overseas. Mine were in the military, but they’d bonded as Americans working in a foreign country and having roots in Southern California.

When we were both kids, our parents relocated back to the States. My family lived in San Diego, and his settled here in Los Angeles. Growing up, I saw Andrew a few times a year at family get-togethers.

I’d have been a liar if I’d said I wasn’t attracted to him. I might have dreamed about him when I was in high school. I definitely fantasized about him when I was in college.

Time and distance were never on our side though—until the summer we both graduated from college. I had an internship in Los Angeles. For one perfect season, we were in the same place at the same time, and the funny thing is it all started with a possum.

I found the creature under the couch at my apartment. The first thing I did was call Andrew, since he lived so close and I don’t do rodents. He told me to grab a broom, then he said, “Screw it, I’m coming over.” A few minutes later, he swept that possum right out of the house and into the backyard. I slammed the doors shut then insisted on cooking him dinner.

Over pasta primavera we reminisced, chatting about barbecues our parents had hosted and when we’d hang out by ourselves playing video games or watching movies.