Here's the deal. Emily was a life planner, extreme. But once we roamed wild in Vegas, things went…well…differently. We all believed that the Sin City experience was a helluva lot more fun when the plan came to us, instead of vice versa.
Though I did question that rationale, given my history.
My phone rang. I glanced at the screen.
"Ten bucks says it's her mom," Emily said.
Unfortunately, she wasn't wrong.
"Hi, Mom,” I said, moving to the living room, so the girls didn't have to listen to whatever tear she would go on. "What's up?"
"You're in Nevada," Mom announced, like I didn't know where I was.
"I am." Was I sweating? A little, yes. I…er…hadn't mentioned the trip to my mother.
"You and Nevada are ammonia and bleach." Mom clicked her tongue like she did when she got worried. "This is a bad idea."
I opened my mouth to respond, but Mom got there first. So instead, I distracted myself by mentally rearranging the couch so it would work more functionally with the coffee table. Six inches over, and that coffee table wouldn't be in the flow of foot traffic from the kitchen.
Mom continued talking, but I blocked her out, electing to reconsider the placement of the Elvis figurines instead.
The condo held an entire Elvis collection—from itty bitty dime-sized statues all the way to a life-size art deco bust.
The bust perched on top of one of the Grecian columns near the flat screen. I traced along the pompadour with my index finger instead of focusing on Mom's breakdown of my last Vegas encounter and how it had ended with a divorce. I turned Elvis a few degrees to the left, so he wasn't looking straight in the guest bathroom. The King didn't need to always face the throne. No indeed.
Mom stopped long enough to catch her breath, so I took that as my opportunity to pause and reassure her.
"I promise, I'm going to behave." I had a one-drink maximum, and then I was on club soda for the rest of the night. "I’m here for business." Mostly.
"It's not you I worry about. It's the men who don't respect you," Mom huffed.
"I really don't want to have this conversation right now," I said. Or ever.
"A conversation about the abundance of respect you should demand from the opposite sex?" Mom asked, all baloney innocence.
I didn't like it when Mom threw around the sex word, because it made me itchy all over. But since she brought it up…
“There are times in a woman's life when she simply wants to be respected for the things she's accomplished," I said. "And there are times she'd prefer that respect served with a side of tongue and heavy petting." That was the truth.
This was the problem with my latest ex-boyfriend. The guy was nice as could be and boring as rice cakes both in life and… in bed. Which was why it smarted that he'd been the one to break it off when he met the perfect woman for him. Of course, he'd waited until after I scooted his bedroom furniture around and fit everything where it should go for better energy flow.
That was okay, though; he and his new girlfriend and his bedroom furniture didn't matter. All the history was safely tucked away in my memories, and today was another step toward the future.
Mom let out a deep sigh that implied this conversation was only beginning. "Honey, with all the love in the world, I have to beg you to leave Las Vegas before things… happen."
"Nothing is gonna happen," I assured.
We were going to be late for the party. I didn't want to be late. So I did a bad thing. I pretended I couldn't hear Mom anymore, so she would hang up.
Of course, I knew this was my mom. Mom, who sacrificed for me and was in labor for sixteen hours before I arrived.
She made this point a lot.
But I wouldn't do anything she needed to panic about.
On that note, my little "can't hear you" trick worked, and she hung up. Then I slipped my cell into my purse, grabbed my bolero satin jacket, and turned to get my girls.
Except the front door to the condo was open, and a man stood in the doorway with three oversized suitcases.
