“No,you’re not.”
Sighing,he pushed a hand through his damp hair. “I’m happy for them, seriously. It’s agreat thing. But, I dunno, I guess maybe I’m jealous or some shit.”
Warmthnipped at my heart and ovaries, as I asked, “You want babies?”
Heshrugged. “I love kids. I always have. But that shit isn’t in the cards for me.I’m, you know, me. No kid would deserve me as a parent.”
Thewarmth I’d begun to feel was put out with a brisk chill. “That’s really …final. And sad.”
“That’slife, sweetheart. We make our choices, you know? Zach chose to get his shittogether and have a family. I chose to buy some coke after bein’ sober for along time. Now, our lives are in different places, and there’s no disputing whothe fuck-up is.” He winked and tapped a finger to his chest. “Spoiler alert,it’s me.”
Iknew he was talking strictly about himself. I knew it wasn’t meant to be a jabat me. But it still felt like a slap to my face, and I displayed as much byshaking my head.
“Youdidn’t make that choice. Youneededit. You can’t help that you’re—”
“Donot say I can’t help that I’m addicted, Andy,” he growled quietly, so nobodywould hear. “Ididmake a choice, and I fuckin’ own it. But you’re rightabout one thing; I did need it. And right or wrong, that’s the way it is fornow. Maybe one day, if I don’t end up dead in a ditch somewhere—”
“Okay,stop,” I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking my head as the float moved lazily overthe water’s surface. “I don’t want to think about that, okay?”
“I’mjust speakin’ the truth, sweetheart.”
Chokedup, I nodded and blinked rapidly, turning back to him. “I-I know, but …” Ipulled in a deep breath, glancing back at the happy crowd on the deck. “I loveyou. And I can’t think about you not being there, okay? If you die, I’ll die.”
Hisexpression was flat, studying my face for a minute, before saying, “I love you,too. And I’m not goin’ anywhere. I was just sayin’.”
Weclimbed out of the pool, to congratulate Zach and Greyson, and to tell Jenna tocall if she ever needed anything. Then, in somber fashion, we headed upstairsto our room to dry off and fall asleep after a long, emotional night that hadended on a far heavier note than either of us would’ve liked. And all thewhile, with every move, Vincent stood, watching and waiting.
AllI hoped was that he was here to give his son a message and not to take himaway.
CHAPTERTWENTY-NINE
ANDREA
I usedto see the junkies stumbling into the hospital or being wheeled in after anoverdose. I would wonder how they got themselves into that situation, and howthey could function in the real world while being a slave to a substance. I’dlook down on them, with the belief that I was above that sort of lifestyle.Like it could never, ever, in a million years happen to someone like me.
Now,cutting my own lines on our coffee table covered in Chinese food cartons, itoccurred to me, with startling clarity, that it had, in fact, happened. Becausedrug addiction doesn’t care where you’re from, what color your skin is, or howmuch money you have. It doesn’t care if you’re living in the slums of Brooklynor in a cushy house in suburban Long Island.
Ifit wants you, it’ll grab you. Now, it had me, and it was holding on tight.
Vinniewas slumped on the couch beside me, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. Ichecked his chest to make sure he was breathing, and released a sigh of reliefwhen I realized he was only sleeping. Sometimes his depression won out and itdidn’t matter how high he was; he still fell asleep. Because sometimes, it wasbetter to be asleep, than it was to be sad and stoned.
Mybuzz had begun to wear off and there was no way I was going through the rest ofthe night with his father’s somber expression keeping me on edge. So, withVinnie’s old gift card, I finished lining it up, nice and neat, just the way hedid. I got to my knees, and before I took the hit, I glanced at his father.
“Pleasego away,” I whispered, hoping he’d listen. “Whatever you have to say to him,you’ll have to go to someone else. It won’t be me. I can’t do it.”
Hedidn’t listen, he never did. But in the past, he’d simply stand there, staringvacantly at his youngest son, until I was too high to notice his presence.Tonight, however, I was presented with an image through the static; a stillpicture of Vinnie, laying on the floor of the apartment. Motionless andbreathless.
Lifeless.
Igasped, as tears immediately sprung to my eyes. The image faded and my visionfocused entirely on Vincent and his firm stare, still aimed directly at Vinnie.
“I-Ishe going to die?” I asked, my voice small and weak. But I was answered withsilence, of course I was, and I wasn't in the mood. “What the hell is the pointof doing this to me if you can't even fucking talk? Huh?”
Vincent'sgaze shifted to meet mine. There was no other movement, no otheracknowledgement, and my frantic agony only escalated.
“Oh,God, fuck you. Fuck all of you. If you're not going to help, then just go thefuck away!” My eyes dropped to the rows of white powder and driven bydetermination, I said, “You know what? I'll justmakeyou go away.”
Isnorted one line, two lines, and then, I waited, watching as the drugs tookover and took him away. The apartment was quiet again, with no more static andvisions, but that sight of Vinnie, laying on the floor, remained. And thedespair I felt in that moment was so much greater than the high I wasdesperately trying to reach.
