“I don’t want you to pity me. I don’t want you to wear that ring just so I’ll feel better.”
“I don’t pity you. I love you. There was never any question about that. I just wasn’t sure I was ready to get married again—officially married.”
“Why?”
She looks into her wine for a moment. “Because our life together is going really well. I didn’t want to tinker with it, you know? I wanted things to stay just the way they were for as long as possible. And maybe I want to accomplish something first—at least one thing, as a single woman.”
Portia runs her index finger around the edge of her wineglass for a few seconds. “But now we have a real chance to make sure a good little kid has a shot at a good decent normal-ish childhood. We didn’t ask for this situation, but here it is, and we have a choice.”
“So you put the ring on for my six-year-old nephew, not me?”
“Don’t be an asshole, Chuck.” Portia smiles in a way that makes it impossible to take offense.
I stare at the kitchen ceiling. “You know, when I was up there today, speaking about Danielle, I thought about using again. For the first time in years, I wanted a fix. Even though junk killed her. I wanted to get high. I also wanted to kill Randall Street. I seriously want to kill him.”
“So what’s keeping you from getting high, throwing away all the work you’ve done?” Portia says, avoiding the second part of my confession.
“You. And Tommy. And the idea that I might be a good teacher. The Official Member of the Human Race card Mr. Vernon gave us. Choosing to be the person we want to be, right? But I can’t do this alone. So I have to know right now, Portia, are you in or out?”
“I was always in, Chuck. Always.”
“Then why’d you put the ring on today?”
“Because it’s just a ring, okay? If it helps you and Tommy feel more secure, I’ll wear it. But I’m in regardless. I was before I put it on. I’m wearing it for you too, in a show of solidarity. Maybe mostly for Tommy, because I know what it feels like to be alone as a kid—like you have to take care of yourself and the adults in your life. It’s fucked, okay? I didn’t want Tommy to feel doomed. And I wanted you to feel strong. Because you’re never going to use again. We’re going to make a good life for ourselves. We’re going to make it together.”
I look her in the eyes. “Portia, I knew she was using again. Some part of me knew.”
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You didn’t. Maybe you suspected.”
“I should have saved her. She shot up for the first time with me. Did you know that? I introduced her to heroin.”
“That was when you were addicted. You were sick. And you also reached out to her when you were healthy. Tried to help. She refused your help. And she left you with her problems, which you don’t even see as problems because you are a good brother and an even better uncle. So don’t do this to yourself.”
I shake my head and stare at the table. “I don’t know if I can raise him. I’m an ex-junkie with monstrous student loans. I don’t have any answers.”
She holds up her ring finger. “You’re my fiancé. And what did I tell you in the truck? We’re going to figure it out together.”
“You sure picked a winner to fall in love with, huh?”
“You are a winner, Chuck Bass. I don’t marry losers anymore. Been there, done that. This time around, it’s only winners for me.”
I marvel at this woman who can take control when needed.
“I just feel so guilty,” I say, shaking my head. “How did I miss the signs?”
And then I’m crying again and Portia is holding me, kissing my neck and whispering reassuring words.
CHAPTER 30
A few awful weeks go by. I feel mad, powerless, like I might explode, although I mostly keep it together for Tommy and Portia—and I wait.
Then, late one Tuesday night after Portia and Tommy are asleep in bed, Jon Rivers the cop—in plain clothes—picks me up and takes me to the Manor. We get a booth by the jukebox. He orders a Bud bottle, and I have an ice water with lemon. Once Lisa serves our drinks, she returns to staring at her phone on the other side of the empty barroom, and Jon says, “He’s clean. I’m sorry. No record. Nothing prior to suggest that he’s dealing. No way we can pull a warrant to search his place. The diary’s not enough.”
“You found nothing else?”
Jon takes a sip of his beer. “He very well might be a small-time drug dealer, but it doesn’t look like he’s selling now. Maybe he’s laying low. Maybe he only deals to friends and was smart enough to take a vacation after your sister’s overdose. Off the record, I had a contact watch his grandmother’s place for a week. He’s there, but nothing’s going on. Nothing illegal at all.”
“He killed my sister,” I say.
“From what the neighbors and Tommy said, Randall Street wasn’t even in the apartment when Danielle OD’d. We have nothing on him, Chuck.”
“You know he gave her the drugs.”
“I know what your sister alluded to in her diary and how you feel about it. But we can’t exactly bring her in for questioning. And—believe me—I sympathize. But I also can’t bust into his grandmother’s house and arrest him just because you want me to. That’s not how the law works. I’d need a warrant. And for that we need more evidence.”
“What’s the point of having cops if they’re never allowed to catch the fucking bad guys?” I say, and then immediately feel embarrassed, because I know Jon’s already done more than he probably should.