I have a ring in my pocket, and Mötley Crüe tickets are waiting for us in Connecticut because I didn’t want to wait an extra few weeks for them to play a closer venue. “It’s okay to be happy,” I say to myself, and then I’m on my way to our apartment.
Portia’s in her office, so I knock.
“Yes,” she says as I open the door, but she doesn’t stop typing.
“Do you trust me?” I say.
“Um . . .” She finishes recording her thought and then spins around in her swivel chair. “Did you just ask if I trust you?”
“I did.”
“Would I be living with you, if I didn’t?”
“So you trust me.”
“What is this?”
“Just yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, save your work. Put on your retro jean jacket, pack an outfit you would have loved to wear in 1983, an overnight bag, and let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Nineteen eighty-three? What are you talking about?” she says, but she’s smiling. “Are you serious? Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise. Trust me. You’ll like it.”
She laughs, wraps her arms around my neck, gives me a long kiss on the lips, and says, “The edits are coming out all shit today anyway. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”
One of the best things about Portia is that she never makes me wait—she’s always on time and doesn’t spend hours primping in mirrors and asking me over and over again if she looks fat or what outfit she should wear, like Danielle always did when I was living with her and Tommy. She’s not vain, but she isn’t needy either.
In my truck, as we jump onto the New Jersey Turnpike, she says, “So where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise!” I say. “Can’t say.”
She reaches over and grabs my hand. “Chuck Bass. My hero. I needed a surprise today. How did you know?”
Just riding in the truck, holding Portia’s hand, driving north on a Saturday—I’m not even thinking about the concert—makes me feel like my life is okay, that I’ve finally dug my way out of the mistakes of my past.
After an hour or so, Portia says, “How far north are we going? Are you taking me for a night in New York City?”
I just smile.
When we pass New York City and continue on up into New England, she says, “Are you sure this truck of yours will make it wherever we’re headed and back again?”
“The old man’s Ford will do us proud,” I say. I put more than a few hundred into it a few weeks ago when I had to replace the water pump, and the mechanic talked me into doing other stuff while he was in there. He also listed a few other potential down-the-road problems that I couldn’t afford to fix without asking Portia for money, because I needed to purchase Mötley Crüe tickets and a diamond ring. I feel ashamed to be driving Portia around in this old piece-of-shit truck, especially knowing that her first husband was richer than Donald Trump, but it’s definitely been reliable so far. And I love my job, even though the math regarding my hourly wage—if you were ever sadistic enough to do it—has me making something akin to minimum wage.
Portia playfully squeezes the inside of my thigh.
I raise my eyebrows. “You keep doing that, and I can’t guarantee your safety. Driving while under the influence of Portia Kane is illegal in the state of Connecticut. I could lose my license.”
“Well, then, no en route blow job for you.”
“We definitely can pull over,” I say, and then we both laugh in that good easy way.
When we stop for gas and sandwiches, she says, “I don’t know where we’re going, but I like today.”
“We haven’t even done anything yet.”
“Yes, we have. We’ve taken an unexpected drive north.”
“I was expecting it.”
“You planned it for me, which makes it all the more special. How did I find you? How did I get so lucky?” Portia looks up at the sky. “Thank you, Khaleesi.”
“Khaleesi?”
“Inside joke. From a former life.”
“Okay.”
“A life that sucked much worse than this current life.”
“So this life sucks too?”
“Today is already the best day I’ve had in years.”
I watch her take a bite out of her tuna on rye and think even the way she chews is sexy.
Then I start to worry that maybe I am rushing things by popping the question today.
“Are you okay?” Portia says to me. “You look a little worried.”
“Just want to make sure we get there in time. I’m going to blow your mind, baby. Just wait and see.”
“I love when you get all nervous and cute,” she says, and then finishes her sandwich.
When we’re maybe fifteen minutes away, I open my window and turn on the vent, because I’m sweating again.
“You okay?” Portia asks.
“Yep,” I say. “Still okay.”
When we pull into the Mohegan Sun casino and enter the parking garage, Portia says, “Are we going gambling? I didn’t know you liked to play.”
“I don’t. I never gamble.”
“Oh, good, because we are entering a casino. What’s going on? There are casinos in our home state. A little place called Atlantic City. Have you heard of it?” she says.
“Indian chief in a headdress walks into a restaurant and says, ‘I have a reservation,’” I say.
“Okay, now I know you are nervous about something, because you are making bad—and slightly racist—jokes.”