“Las Vegas?” He pulls out his phone. “When?”
“Tonight.” The words tumble out.
He types for a moment. “Red-eye leaves O’Hare at ten PM. Gets you into Vegas around two AM their time. Want it?”
Do I want it?
I just caught my boyfriend eating my best friend’s ass. My mother is dead. My life in Chicago is a smoking crater. And I’ve always wanted to see Vegas. The nightlife, the energy, the complete opposite of my boring, painful existence, even if it’s just for a night.
“Yes. Book it.”
He grins and types away. “Done. Confirmation will be sent to your email. Congratulations, Savannah!”
I stumble back to the bar, clutching the envelope like it might fly away. The bartender is waiting with a shot glass.
“On the house,” he says. “Congratulations.”
I down it.
“Can you take a picture?” I hold out my phone to a woman sitting next to me. “I need proof this happened.”
She laughs and takes several shots of me holding the envelope and cash, grinning like an idiot. I look drunk and happy.
I pull up my voice memo app and hit record, stepping away from the noise.
“Future Savannah, you just won a trip to Vegas. First class. Plus twenty-five hundred dollars. You’re leaving tonight because…” I pause, trying to organize my tequila-soaked thoughts. “Because you’ve always wanted to go. You’ve always wanted to experience the nightlife, see what all the fuss is about. And because staying in Chicago right now feels impossible. So you’re going. The flight leaves at ten PM. It’s eight thirty now. You need to go home and pack.”
I save the recording and request an Uber.
My house is dark when I get there at 8:50 PM. I flip on the lights and head straight upstairs, pulling out the small carry-on bag from my closet.
I throw in the basics. Underwear. Toiletries. My phone charger. Then I see it hanging on the back of the door.
The dress I was supposed to wear tonight. The pretty one I bought specifically for date night with Mason. It still has the tags on it.
I rip the tags off and shove it into the bag. If I’m going to Vegas, I’m wearing this dress. Just not for him.
By 9:15 PM, I’m back in an Uber heading to O’Hare. The driver tries to make small talk, but I’m too busy watching the city pass by.
The airport is busy despite the hour. I make it through security with twenty minutes to spare, and I’m slightly out of breath when I reach the gate.
The boarding announcement comes at 9:45 PM.
This is really happening. I’m really going to Vegas.
At 10:00 PM, I board the plane, and I have to admit, I’ve never been in first class before. The seats are huge. Like, almost bed-sized. There’s extra legroom and pillows that look comfortable.
I find my seat, 3A, and freeze.
There’s a man sitting in it.
Silver-streaked hair. Large hands resting on a laptop keyboard. He’s wearing a suit, and even from here I can smell something expensive. Cologne, maybe. Or just the scent of wealth. His shoes are polished to a mirror shine.
This is exactly what I expected people in first class to look like. A quick glance around confirms it. Everyone here looks like they belong in a boardroom or a country club.
I don’t belong here at all.
“Excuse me.” My tone is harsher than it should be, but I’m drunk and exhausted, and today has been a nightmare. “That’s my seat.”
