23. Ian
23
IAN
I go straight to the bar from the house.
Where else is there for me to go?
I don't trust myself enough to leave town yet. Although I gave her an ultimatum, I'm not stupid enough to try and actually walk away from her until I'm certain she's safe.
So, as I walk to the bar, I try to keep from driving myself insane by trying to figure out what she's keeping from me or why she's keeping it from me.
If she doesn't stop me, I'm not going to beg her to. I'll stay around until I'm certain the risk to her safety is taken care of, then I'm going to have to figure out what I'm going to do next.
Something tells me it's not going to be taking my job back.
I'm not sure yet though.
The first thing I do as I enter the bar is order a glass of whiskey. I would take beer, but it's not going to do much for me. While I may understand Sarah's situation right now, it doesn't change the fact that she showed me to the door. Literally.
Did I first point out the door was there for me to take? Yes. But it was a bluff.
Taking a sip of my drink, I look around the empty bar and shake my head. I'm literally the only one here. What's someone going to think if they see me here? I don't know anyone around here enough to care so there's that.
As if prompted by my thoughts, the door to the bar opens, and in comes Christopher with a wary look on his face.
Just my luck, huh?
He walks up to me, his eyes pinned on the glass in my grip. Taking a seat without asking, he's soon beside me with a questioning look in his eyes.
Not wanting him to be the one to start the conversation, I speak. “Fancy meeting you here.”
He shoots me a look, his lips pressed thin. He has something to say, but he's not saying it.
“What? You're not going to say anything?”
Rolling his eyes at me, he looks away, the back of his neck red in probably annoyance or irritation.
“It's not my place to say anything.”
Definitely irritation.
“Is that so? And what exactly isn't your place to say?”
I'm pressing his buttons and I know it, but it's not coming from a place of antagonism. I just want to clear the air that I'm not an alcoholic without having to say it directly.
Turning back to look at me, he sighs. “Look, I'm not exactly in the mood for an argument, and just in case you haven't noticed, I came here, too. But it's not to drink.”
“Hmmm. So you're telling me it's not your place to judge me but you're judging me anyway, just not directly.”
“I'm not judging you,” he says exasperatedly.
“You said you weren't here to drink.”
“And you are. So, why don't you just say what this is about and save us both the stress of continuing this conversation.”
Fine, he's right. I may as well stop beating around the bush.
“Fine, you're right. I guess I just don't want you thinking I'm going to squander all the money on alcohol, that's all.”
“And like I said, it's not my place to worry about that. But I believe you.”
Something about the way he says he believes me irks me. Why would he believe me?
“You believe me? Why?”
Squinting, he peruses me with his eyes for a full minute, and I don't give him the satisfaction of cowering under his gaze.
Breaking our eye contact, he looks away and nods.
“Something tells me you don't want to hear this, but it's the truth.” He goes silent for a few seconds before he starts to speak again. “Your aunt trusted you, and that's why she left you everything, and while it's not my job to question her judgment, I actually agree with her decision.”
I know bullshit when I hear it, and right now this guy is feeding me a whole plate of shit.
“What makes you agree with her decision? Because you think I'm a good man?”
Chuckling, he gives me a side glance before placing his hands on the counter. He starts to open his bag.
“You're just going to pick at my words no matter what I say. Unfortunately, that's not why I'm here.”
“Maybe we should get back to why you're here then, although I do remember telling you that I would call for us to meet. But you're here anyway, so it's either you followed me here or you're here for a drink too, which you're too ashamed to admit.”
“Ashamed? Is it just me or do you make a habit out of trying to fight people who've done nothing to hurt you?”
Ouch.
That shuts me up, and I back down, feeling like a total asshole. Picking up my glass, I swallow down the remaining contents.
I don't bother to get another glass because I know it's not going to help anyone.
We both remain in silence, and I try not to speak again so as to avoid shoving my feet in my mouth again. But the silence becomes too much for me to deal with at some point, so I apologize.
“I'm sorry,” I say.
He nods and gives me a small smile. “I get it,” he sounds genuine.
But that's the thing, though. I don't think he gets it. I don't think I get everything that's going on here.
“Do you?”
“Yeah, you're overwhelmed, and you're acting on that. It's understandable.”
A wry chuckle escapes, and I blow out a long breath.
Overwhelmed is the last thing I'm feeling right now. I'm out of breath. It's like I'm just not allowed to take a break with the way I keep getting sandbagged with problems left and right.
The thing about this inheritance though, is that it's not a problem.
It's a miracle.
It just feels too good to be true.
“Tell me one thing, did she tell you why she decided to give me everything?”
He's startled by my question, and he struggles to come up with the answer.
“You don't know,” I say bitterly.
“No, she didn't tell me. But that doesn't mean I don't know,” he instantly refutes, his stance shifting to defense.
“So, what do you know then?”
“Well I know she cared about you, and you're here because she believed you're the right person to take over. So the right question is, what are you going to do? Prove her right or wrong?”
I can't help the laughter that escapes me. It comes deep from my belly and through my chest, leaving me breathless. When I'm done laughing, I have tears in my eyes, and it's not from happiness, but I don't let them cling to my lashes for longer than necessary.
Clearing my throat, I speak. “You know what's funny?”
“I have a feeling you're about to tell me,” he responds grimly.
“Well, it's the fact that I've been doing some research of my own lately, and I guess what I found?” He doesn't say anything, so I continue. “I found out that this business, I mean everything I've been handed, has always been in the family. It's been passed down from one person to the other for many generations. So me being here is not about my aunt believing shit about me. It's because she couldn't find anyone else but me!”
“And why are you telling me all this?” he asks quietly.
“Because you're the one insisting on painting her to be a saint,” I snap.
A poignant silence falls over the atmosphere.
The bartender chooses that moment to pick up my glass, his gaze flitting over us questioningly. He asks if I need another glass; I say no.
“You asked why,” Christopher says just as the bartender leaves us alone.
Not exactly, but I nod anyway.
“She was my wife.”
Whoa.
What the hell?
“How's that even possible?” I snap in disbelief.
He wants to pull something on me, and it has to be this?
“How's it not possible?”
“Well, for starters, you never mentioned anything about this when you called claiming to be her lawyer.”
“I am her lawyer, and what would it have changed if I told you we were married?”
“It would have helped me decide whether I wanted to have anything to do with this or not! If you were her husband, why am I the one getting her properties and not you?”
“You said it yourself, the properties remain in the family. Besides, I don't care about any of it. It wasn't why I married her,” he finishes with a shrug.
Shaking my head, all I can say is, “Wow.”
It's one thing to find out that they were married, but him still being her lawyer after her death and trying to ensure that her wish is honored must only be for one reason.
I need to stop being a dick.
“What do you have in there?” I say with a sigh and gesture toward the bag he was trying to open before.
“You don't want to ask me any other questions?”
Oh, I have a lot of questions that I want to ask him, but none of them are relevant. Except maybe one.
“You guys didn't have any children?”
He shakes his head with a sad smile. “We were only married for a year before we found out she was dying. And then she found out about you too, and I'm not saying this to change your mind about her, but when she found out about you, she wanted to reach out. She just decided against it because she wasn't sure you would want her in your life or to even put you through the pain of losing her a few months later if you accepted her.”
Bowing my head in shame, I feel like a piece of shit for saying so many awful things about her when she had nothing but good intentions toward me.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper remorsefully.
“It's alright, you didn't know.”
It's no excuse. It makes my mind flash to Sarah, but I push out thoughts of her as fast as they enter my mind. I don't need to go down that lane right now.
“So what were you saying about the inheritance?” I ask, changing the topic to what brought him here.
While now may not be the time we planned to meet, we're both here, and there's no point delaying the inevitable.
Smiling, he opens his bag, brings out his documents, and launches into explanation.
It would appear that he really found a way for me to access the properties without necessarily having to stay a year.
Most of the properties and finances were signed under her company's name, and like everything else, stated I need to live in Glazer Ville for a year to access them. However, they didn't apply to the company's managerial position, which the owner would automatically take. Since I am technically the owner of everything she owned and automatically the company's manager, I now have unlimited access to all of the company's resources.
“Christopher, this is genius,” I say when he's done explaining.
“I know. All you have to do now is sign the document, and everything is yours.”
For the first time, I allow myself to smile at the prospect of owning billions of dollars. A few seconds of scribbling on papers, and I officially have access to everything.
Shaking Christopher's hand, I thank him for everything. We exchange our goodbyes.
Just as he turns to walk away, I call his name. “I'd like for you to be my lawyer.”
He smiles and nods. “In that case, I guess this isn't goodbye.”
“No, I'll see you soon.”
As he walks away, a strong feeling of loneliness takes root in my belly because, while I may now have all the money I need in the world, I don't feel good about my life's situation, at all.
Nothing's changed.
Justin is still dead.
Sarah is still not trusting me with her secret.
I'm still angry at her.
And I still don't know what the hell I'm going to do with my life next.