never met him. Ian always had an excuse for why he couldn’t accept the numerous invitations my parents extended in the beginning, and I always believed him, and defended him when my parents voiced their concerns.
These conversations with my mother and father took place over the course of a couple of weeks after I moved in with Ian, the civility and reasonableness deteriorating with each subsequent conversation.
That was three months ago, and I hadn’t talked to my parents since then.
. . . . .
I was exhausted by the time our flight from Atlanta landed in New York. It wasn’t too late in the evening, but I was always tired after a trip. That’s also why I didn’t eat much, despite Ian’s encouragement. I took a few bites of the potatoes, but that was all I could manage.
Later, after taking a shower and getting ready for bed, I didn’t see Ian anywhere so I walked out of the bedroom, looking for him in the den, the kitchen, and finally finding him in his home office.
I never went in there much. It was the smallest room in the penthouse, but still larger than some apartments in New York City. Like the rest of the place, it contained modern furnishings, Ian’s favored style. It was always as clean as the rest of the house, but Ian forbade the cleaning lady from going in there, opting instead to clean it himself.
The door was open just a sliver, which was more than it usually was.
Ian’s desk faced the window so he would have a view of the city skyline—I guess so he could sit there and dream of one day owning the entire city. Looking in from the doorway, I could only see the chair and the back of his head. He would almost always turn around, either having heard me or caught my reflection in the window.
But that didn’t happen this time. I stopped before my hand could even touch the door.
I could hear Ian’s voice. He sounded angry, frustrated, and anxious.
“Let these fuckers roll the dice and try it. I’ve got enough money to fight it.”
There was silence as Ian listened to the person on the other end of the line talking.
“Fuck.”
More silence.
“How long before this gets out?”
What the hell could he be talking about? I wished he had the other person on speaker. My curiosity piqued, I was holding my breath to stay as quiet as I could so I could hear everything.
“ How did…you know what? Let’s not talk about this on the phone. I’ll come and see you in the morning…Right…Okay, see you then…I will.”
I heard the beep as he ended the call.
I stood there for a moment, debating whether to go into his office or back to the bedroom.
“Fuck,” he said, again, and I looked into the room. He had his head in his hands, looking down at the desk.
I didn’t want him to know that I had overheard anything. I’d caught snippets of many stressful conversations coming from that office before, but there was something different in Ian’s voice this time. This wasn’t just anger. It was fear.
I softly walked across the hardwood floors back to the bedroom, got into bed, and waited. And waited. And waited. The last time I looked at the clock, it was just after 1 a.m. I’m not sure what time I fell asleep.
When I woke up in the morning, Ian wasn’t in our bed. He was still in his office, in the same position, but sleeping. Having had my own troubled sleep, I figured Ian had had an even later night, and certainly more stressful from what I’d heard, so I didn’t wake him.
I went through my morning r outine, getting ready for work. I rushed through my shower, dried my hair, put on my make-up, and dressed in the clothes I’d picked out the night before.
Before I left, I looked in the office and he was still in the same position—sitting in the chair, slumped over, head resting on his arms on the desk.
Fear struck me. Had something terrible happened? So awful that he would commit suicide?
As quietly as I could, I crept into the office, got about five feet away from him,
These conversations with my mother and father took place over the course of a couple of weeks after I moved in with Ian, the civility and reasonableness deteriorating with each subsequent conversation.
That was three months ago, and I hadn’t talked to my parents since then.
. . . . .
I was exhausted by the time our flight from Atlanta landed in New York. It wasn’t too late in the evening, but I was always tired after a trip. That’s also why I didn’t eat much, despite Ian’s encouragement. I took a few bites of the potatoes, but that was all I could manage.
Later, after taking a shower and getting ready for bed, I didn’t see Ian anywhere so I walked out of the bedroom, looking for him in the den, the kitchen, and finally finding him in his home office.
I never went in there much. It was the smallest room in the penthouse, but still larger than some apartments in New York City. Like the rest of the place, it contained modern furnishings, Ian’s favored style. It was always as clean as the rest of the house, but Ian forbade the cleaning lady from going in there, opting instead to clean it himself.
The door was open just a sliver, which was more than it usually was.
Ian’s desk faced the window so he would have a view of the city skyline—I guess so he could sit there and dream of one day owning the entire city. Looking in from the doorway, I could only see the chair and the back of his head. He would almost always turn around, either having heard me or caught my reflection in the window.
But that didn’t happen this time. I stopped before my hand could even touch the door.
I could hear Ian’s voice. He sounded angry, frustrated, and anxious.
“Let these fuckers roll the dice and try it. I’ve got enough money to fight it.”
There was silence as Ian listened to the person on the other end of the line talking.
“Fuck.”
More silence.
“How long before this gets out?”
What the hell could he be talking about? I wished he had the other person on speaker. My curiosity piqued, I was holding my breath to stay as quiet as I could so I could hear everything.
“ How did…you know what? Let’s not talk about this on the phone. I’ll come and see you in the morning…Right…Okay, see you then…I will.”
I heard the beep as he ended the call.
I stood there for a moment, debating whether to go into his office or back to the bedroom.
“Fuck,” he said, again, and I looked into the room. He had his head in his hands, looking down at the desk.
I didn’t want him to know that I had overheard anything. I’d caught snippets of many stressful conversations coming from that office before, but there was something different in Ian’s voice this time. This wasn’t just anger. It was fear.
I softly walked across the hardwood floors back to the bedroom, got into bed, and waited. And waited. And waited. The last time I looked at the clock, it was just after 1 a.m. I’m not sure what time I fell asleep.
When I woke up in the morning, Ian wasn’t in our bed. He was still in his office, in the same position, but sleeping. Having had my own troubled sleep, I figured Ian had had an even later night, and certainly more stressful from what I’d heard, so I didn’t wake him.
I went through my morning r outine, getting ready for work. I rushed through my shower, dried my hair, put on my make-up, and dressed in the clothes I’d picked out the night before.
Before I left, I looked in the office and he was still in the same position—sitting in the chair, slumped over, head resting on his arms on the desk.
Fear struck me. Had something terrible happened? So awful that he would commit suicide?
As quietly as I could, I crept into the office, got about five feet away from him,
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