Chapter 3 Portland, Oregon #2
“It is the same, and that was her point when she talked to you about this last year when you were still asking for refills. ‘An equal-opportunity ruiner of lives,’ she said. We have a family history with this shit. You should know better.”
He looks sad enough that I almost soften, but I know I should be stern. If anyone in this family can call Jules out on his bullshit, it’s me; I’m not deterred by his puppyish charm. We stare each other down. I beckon, nodding toward the bottle. “Hand it over.”
“Fuck no,” he says with a harsh little laugh. “This is none of your business.”
I shove my hand closer. “I wanna see the date on the label.”
He pockets the bottle. “Quit hassling me, all right? Fine—you got me. It’s expired. I’m dealing with a lot, so I have to get creative. And I use the old bottle so I can travel with it.”
He folds his arms across a tan torso littered with scars from various climbing accidents over the years. His jaw is hard. The glitter of his green eyes—like Mom’s, not mine and Dad’s—is inky-deep from his splayed pupils.
I cross my arms too, mirroring his stubbornness. “So, ‘creative’ means buying from some black-market lowlife with a pill press?”
“Don’t be dramatic. What do you care anyway?”
“Because, dumbass… if you overdose on fake pills made of fentanyl and chalk, it’ll ruin our parents’ lives.”
He looks down at his bare feet. “I… I use test strips,” he mumbles. “For fentanyl.”
“Gee, that makes me feel so much better about it.” My fist shoots out and I punch him on the shoulder so fast that he doesn’t have time to block it. “How much are you using? I have every right to be worried!”
“I’m not talking to you about this,” he retorts, rubbing his shoulder. “You’re just getting off on feeling superior. Rack up those points, Sage. Life is a zero-sum game to you. You don’t even like me, so why bother acting concerned?”
We fall silent, and for a minute I watch his stupid feet on the Italian tile floor. His left one is a funny shape because of the missing pinky toe. I hate to admit it to myself, but it really hurts to hear him say, You don’t even like me.
There’s a creak of footsteps behind me as someone walks into the kitchen, and I hear Priya gasp.
I spin around and find her standing in the black Petzl T-shirt Julian was wearing when he showed up.
Her mile-long legs are bare beneath, and she takes a quick step back through the archway, panicked eyes going from me to Julian.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I growl, smoothing a hand over my face. “Really?” I glance at my brother, who’s gnawing on his lower lip, studying Priya as if he’s not sure whether he should invite her over and throw an arm around her in a show of solidarity or avoid her like poison oak.
It wasn’t until this second that I realized just how much I’m not okay with the idea of them getting together.
Doesn’t fail-son Jules get enough already?
I’ve always suspected he’s my parents’ favorite, even though I’m the achiever.
He needs me so much, and you’re so competent, my mom once said.
I’ve never forgotten that. Why does being a fuckup make him special?
And now he gets Priya too? My best friend?
“Again,” I tell her coldly, “I can’t say much for your taste. And now he’s apparently a drug addict—even better! What a catch.”
She tugs the T-shirt hem down, but her pale blue panties are still showing. “He… he’s… I mean, he said his back is hurting tonight. It’s just medication.” She looks at him. “Isn’t it?”
I blow an impatient raspberry. “He may’ve thrown his back out fucking you, but that ain’t ‘medication’ in the bottle, honeybee. It’s street junk.”
Her big eyes are all concern as she focuses on him. “Julian, what does she mean?”
“It means,” I tell her, “that he’s perfect for you now. You can’t resist a stray in need. Time to get out a cardboard box and a blanket and nurse another one back to life.”
Immediately I know I’ve pushed too far. Her eyes go wide—first shock, then pain—and she flattens her lips in the way she does when she’s trying not to say something.
I recognize that I’m in the wrong and hate myself for how I lash out instead of letting people see it when I’m feeling vulnerable.
I open my mouth to take it all back, but the words are frozen in me.
Does Julian have a serious problem? If he does, and he and Priya are together, what will that do to her? Uncle Russ’s girlfriend ended up circling the drain with him, caught in his downward spiral while trying to rescue him…
“Don’t be mean,” Priya says, her woundedness pivoting to anger. “What’s wrong with you? That’s not helping anyone, Sage.”
At her change in tone, my remorse twists into reciprocal hostility.
“It’s not my fucking job to help!” I snap. “People can only help themselves. Maybe you should consider that before signing on to babysit your new junkie boyfriend.”
Oh shit… Why am I making it worse?
As I storm out of the kitchen, my heart hurts.
I want to apologize, to tell them both that I’m just scared and I don’t mean any of it.
That Priya is a million times better person than I am.
For an hour, I lie in bed and run through speeches and pleas and apologies in my head that I’m too confused and ashamed to deliver.
Finally, I get up, deciding to pack my suitcases and take an Uber to the airport before Priya and Jules wake. I’m too mortified to face them in the morning, knowing how I’ve fucked up. I’ll see Priya on the plane, but… I’m not ready yet.
As I cram clothes into my suitcase, I try to convince myself this is all Julian’s fault.
None of this would be happening if not for his recklessness, right?
I know I should be understanding, like Mom was with her brother.
But what did Mom’s patience get her? Uncle Russ died.
I’m not giving Jules a free pass on being a trainwreck.
Haven’t we all done that his entire life?
Why does he get to be the favorite? Jetting all over the world rock climbing and flinging money around and getting laid, no real goals, no self-discipline…
The uncharitable thoughts play on repeat, mixed with spasms of regret that send me as far as my bedroom door to go apologize before I subdue the urge.
Heartsick and frustrated, I haul my baggage—literal and metaphoric—to the front door, once again the victim of my own stupid hotheadedness and pride.
When Priya arrives at the boarding area, her eyes look red.
I’m not sure if it’s because I’m an asshole or because she was sad having to say goodbye to my dumb brother.
Probably both. We exchange one wary glance, and because the only empty seats in the room are singles, she sits far away and I get another half hour of feeling miserable while she ignores me.
Once on the plane, I sling my carry-on into the overhead compartment, sidestep into my seat, and pop my sunglasses back on. Minutes later, Priya wrestles her bag in beside mine. In lieu of a greeting, she tosses something onto my lap. I pull my glasses off and inspect it.
Shit. A Violet Crumble bar—my favorite, and a little hard to find.
My guilt swells even more uncomfortably as Pri plunks down next to me.
I’m never sure if this habit of hers—doing something nice for me when I’ve been a total shit—is a genuine olive branch or a strategy to make me feel worse.
But it’s not like I can call her out on it if it’s the latter.
What am I gonna say? How dare you bring me candy after I acted like a monster?
I prop my sunglasses on top of my head and give Pri a weak smile as I hold up the Violet Crumble. “Okay, now I really look like a dickhead.”
“Even better,” she says, avoiding my eyes. “Because it’s not from me. Julian got it for you.”
I mash one hand over my face, sighing. “Wow. Okay.” I stare at the candy, then break it at the approximate middle before tearing the wrapper down the seam. “Want half?”
“I’m all right—no thanks.”
I pinch the wrapper closed and set the candy aside.
“You’re not all right. And I really apologize, Pri.
I was super shitty. It was a cheap shot for me to act like it’s a character flaw that you’re so fucking nice.
” My throat tightens, and I swallow. “I got punchy because I panicked when I caught Jules with the pills. Will you forgive me?”
She angles a side-eye my way, assessing me for sincerity. “Don’t I always?”
There’s an edge of bitterness to it that makes it clear this isn’t a casual way of saying, Yes, I forgive you. She’s gone straight to the heart of the problem, and my stomach twitches like the expectation of an undelivered punch.
“You do always—yeah. And maybe you shouldn’t.
” My voice cracks at the end. Pri shoots another guarded look my way, and I push onward.
“Look, I know that me being a disaster is, like, a feature not a bug for you, in a weird way.” I offer a shrug, smiling.
“Keeps you pretty busy, right? Always looking out for me, and for everyone. But… do you think people won’t love you if you’re not doing something for them? ”
“Of course not! Jesus. I’m… I just like to help.”
“I know, and I probably take that for granted.” My hands tangle in my lap. “It’s okay to tell me to fuck off sometimes. To stand up for yourself.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Uh-huh, sure. Worked great last night! I tried to push back and you stomped off and then went to the airport without me.”
I fix Priya with a sober stare. “I left because I was embarrassed.” My voice is a ragged whisper, absorbed by a perky announcement spilling through the intercom. “I know I’m reactive. But… like, it’s my job—the aggressive reflex.”
Her dark, soft eyebrows rumple. “I get it. But you can’t do that with people. We’re more complex than cars.” She takes my hand and squeezes it. “You’re not gonna lose me. But I worry that your stubbornness and hot-tempered pride is someday going to cost you.”
I give her a wry look. “You mean like a partner? Fuck that.”
“You think you don’t care. But Julian has a point about you always needing to win.
Relationships—whether it’s partners, friends, or family—aren’t about winning.
If you screw up in a race, you analyze the mistakes and bring what you learned to the next one.
But that’s not always possible with people.
Sometimes they don’t give you another chance. ”
I sit with what she’s said, focusing on the stream of passengers creeping up the aisle toward their seats. Priya lets my hand go.
I peek at her. “So… are you and Jules an actual thing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Because he really might have a problem. With the, uh, you know what.”
She shakes her head, eyes closed. “He says he doesn’t, and I believe him. And you’re evading the issue.”
With a frustrated sigh, I twist toward the window and push the shade up, staring out at the tarmac, the cloudy sky, a worker in a Day-Glo vest pushing an empty baggage cart.
My head is noisy and my heart is heavy. After a minute, Priya taps me on the shoulder.
I wriggle around in my seat to face her again.
“Hey,” she says. “Can you do me a favor? Tell Julian you’re sorry too?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
She waits. “As in… now.” When I scowl, she adds, “This is me sticking up for myself, remember? You said I should.”
I dig my phone out of my pocket. “Okay, technically you’re sticking up for him, but whatever. If it’ll make you happy.”
“And because it’s the right thing to do.”
“Yeah, okay. That too.”
I tap my contacts and scroll down to his number. Priya watches me like a teacher supervising detention. She notices that I have him listed as “Foolian” and makes an exasperated growling noise.
“Seriously, Sage?”
“What? It’s funny! He probably has me listed in his phone as something way worse.”
Her jaw shifts. “Change it. Words mean things.”
“Shit, all right, all right.” My thumbs fly over the keyboard. “Done. Happy?”
“Happy enough.”
I type, Hey, Jules. I apologize for losing my shit last night. I pause, considering a few things to add, something supportive or concerned or maybe funny so it can all blow over, but in the end, I just write, Thanks for the candy, then tap the send arrow and shove my phone back into my pocket.
A flight attendant pulls the first-class curtains closed and I remember that douche Alexander Laskaris making his lame quip about people who fly in coach.
It’s the perfect icebreaker to change the subject with Pri.
“Humility,” I say in an exaggerated posh English accent, lifting one hand as if holding a teacup with my pinkie out, “is for peasants.”
Priya cracks up. “Oh God—him.” She makes a face. “I almost forgot he existed. Did you have to remind me?”
I grab the Violet Crumble bar and offer a chunk. “Truce?” I ask.
“Truce.” She takes the candy and delicately bites off a brittle corner. I gnaw at mine too, swiping at my shirt as flakes of honeycomb rain down.
“So, Laskaris is meeting us in Bahrain,” I say around a mouthful. “Wanna help me figure out some stuff to torture him?”
My best friend’s warm brown eyes light up. “You’re on.”