The bright, blinking lights of the Vegas strip beckon me, the scent of the perfumed air pumped into the casinos already creating that euphoric cloud.
I text the group chat with my mom and dad, telling them the dates I'll be coming to town.
Mom: Can't wait to see you!
Dad: We should put some money on the ponies while you're here.
Mom: Ron! Do not say that to your son!
Dad: What? He doesn't care, do you, Dominic?
Mom: Of course he cares!
I sigh. They can't help it. That's what two years of therapy has taught me. Mom will never stop reprimanding Dad as though he is a child, and Dad will never start acting like an adult. He will always be bad with money, chasing the next get rich quick scheme. Invariably, these schemes involve gambling of some sort.
Dom: I won't have time for that on this trip, but it will be nice to see you both.
Clear boundary lines, just like I've learned. They keep me from feeling resentful. I'll have to extend the developed skill to my interactions with Cecily in approximately one month.
Dad: Looking forward to seeing you, bud.
Mom: I'll make your favorite coffee cake!
I huff a laugh at the exclamation point at the end of her sentence. At the end of every one of her sentences. If one of her sentences weren't exclamatory, I'd be worried.
CHAPTER 6
Dominic
I land in dry,dusty Las Vegas and learn the airline has lost my luggage.
I'm put out for a second, but decide to take it in stride. I'm wearing a T-shirt and soft shorts, comfortable for travel, so I'll need to stop somewhere and buy clothing for a night out. And toiletries. I hate spending money unnecessarily. I make good money now, enough to keep me clothed and fed. Cold on warm days, warm on cold days. But the feeling of never quite having enough is pervasive, a holdover from childhood. Like a weed, the emotions that grow when you come from a place of lack persist. They have roots. Gnarled and stubborn.
I follow the signs for ride-sharing, then the Uber line. It is long, much longer than I anticipated, winding around the covered parking lot. I check my watch and worry my bottom lip. There is no way I'm going to be on time for the dinner reservation in one hour. And no time to buy clothing appropriate for the meal.
I look down at myself, surveying my clothing. I might be dressed casually, but the fabric is thick, and well-cut. Quality clothing—items that last.
That, too, is a product of my childhood.We don't have money for that.Money doesn't grow on trees.
We bounced around the Phoenix area, never staying in one place too long.The landlord's an asshole, my dad would declare, indignant. It was always their fault, according to him, but he never provided an actual reason for whatever they had done that constituted asshole behavior.
I send Klein a text and tell him I might be late. He informs me the restaurant won't seat us until we have our full party.
Great. Making our reservation at this fancy dinner hinges on me being on time, something I have zero control over at the moment. I'm already anxious about seeing Cecily, no matter how hard I try not to be. Lost luggage and a long Uber line is not easing my nerves.
By the time the Uber driver deposits me in front of the hotel, I have three minutes to make it to the dinner reservation on time, and zero time to appreciate the surrounding opulence. On the bright side, I don't have luggage to slow me down. Because it's evening, there isn't a line to check in, so the process is quick, thankfully.
I slip my room key into my shorts, shoulder my backpack, and make my way through a busy hotel lobby. It's a little like New York City, and I'm adept at navigating it. But you know who's not great at navigating it? All the people who are not from bustling, walkable cities.
The woman in front of me slams on her heels, spins, and deposits an entire cup of lukewarm coffee on my shirt.
For half a second I'm stunned, then I'm pulling the fabric away from my body, grimacing.
"Lo siento," she cries, her face aghast. It's obvious she feels terrible, and I don't have time to be mad. I nod curtly and move through the crowd, the strong smell of coffee filling my nose. I love an Italian roast as much as the next guy, but I don't wantto smell like it. The scent of coffee is so potent it's like I have inserted fresh grounds in my nose, and not even the perfumed hotel air can compete with it.
The thing about Vegas hotels is that they are huge. They go on forever, and in multiple directions. This hotel has an indoor fountain, botanical garden, twenty-foot tall chess pieces covered in moss like a living chess game, and elaborate handblown glass flowers hanging from the ceiling. I'd love to spend a single minute admiring the place, but I can't.
Two minutes late.
