Chapter 2 Savannah
SAVANNAH
Murphy’s Tavern smells like beer and bad decisions.
I slide onto a barstool and catch the bartender’s attention. He’s older, maybe sixty, with kind eyes and a towel over his shoulder.
“What can I get you?”
“Tequila. The good stuff, if you have it.”
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He pours me a shot of Patrón and slides it across the bar.
I down it in one go. It burns, and I love it.
“Another.”
This time, he pours two and leaves the bottle within reach. “Rough day?”
“Rough two months.” I throw back the second shot. “But today definitely takes the cake.”
The warmth spreads through my chest, and I can already feel the edges of everything getting softer. This is dangerous. I know this is dangerous. But I don’t care.
A little girl’s voice cuts through the bar noise. “Dad! Wait up!”
I turn and see a man in his forties holding the door for his daughter.
She’s maybe seven or eight, clutching a teddy bear and grinning up at him like he hung the moon.
He ruffles her hair, and they head toward the restaurant section where families can eat without drowning in the smell of stale beer.
Something twists in my chest.
I never got that. Never had a dad to wait for me or ruffle my hair. My father was an American soldier who swept my mother off her feet in some village near Barcelona. He promised her everything, told her he’d come back for her after his deployment. She believed him.
Then she found out she was pregnant.
The letters she sent went unanswered. He just disappeared.
Mom immigrated to Chicago when she was twenty and pregnant. She worked herself to the bone to give me a life. She never talked about him much, but I saw the hurt in her eyes whenever I asked.
I pour myself another shot.
“ALRIGHT, FOLKS!” a voice booms from the stage. “Who’s ready for MURPHY’S CORPORATE TRIVIA NIGHT?”
The bar erupts in scattered cheers. I glance at the guy on stage. He’s wearing a Murphy’s Tavern T-shirt and holds a stack of index cards.
“First place wins a first-class ticket to anywhere in the continental United States, PLUS twenty-five hundred dollars cash!”
Now that gets my attention.
Twenty-five hundred dollars. A ticket anywhere.
The tequila is making everything feel possible, like maybe the universe is trying to tell me something.
“Teams can have up to four people, or you can play solo. Sign-up sheet is at the bar!”
I flag down the bartender and scribble my name, phone number, and email address on the sheet. Savannah Castellanos, party of one.
At 7:00 PM, the game starts.
“Question one!” The host grins. “In business terms, what does ROI stand for?”
I write down Return on Investment on the little whiteboard they gave me. Easy. This is why I went to business school, even if my marketing job was soul-crushing.
“Question two: Which company was originally called ‘Cadabra’?”
I know this one. . The tequila hasn’t hit my memory yet, just my inhibitions.
The questions keep coming. Some about Fortune 500 companies, others about famous CEOs and business scandals. I’m drunk, but I’m also weirdly focused, like all my anxiety has been replaced with determination to win this thing.
By 8:20 PM, we’re down to the final round, and it’s between me and a team of four guys in polo shirts who keep high-fiving each other.
“Final question, worth double points: In 1995, this company’s IPO made several employees millionaires overnight. Its founders started it in a garage. Name the company.”
My hand is shaking as I write Netscape.
The host checks the answers. “And the winner is…Savannah Castellanos!”
Holy. Shit.
I sit there staring at my whiteboard like it might disappear.
“Savannah?” The host waves me up. “Come get your prize!”
My legs are shaky as I stand. The bar erupts in applause, and I make my way to the stage, my heart pounding. The polo shirt guys are also clapping, looking disappointed but sporting about it.
The host hands me an envelope. I open it with trembling fingers. There’s a voucher for a first-class ticket and a thick stack of bills.
Twenty-five hundred dollars.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
The host laughs. “Where do you want to go?”
I blink at him. “What?”
“The ticket. You can go anywhere in the continental United States. Where do you want to go?”
My mind is blank. Completely blank. Then something clicks.
“Vegas.”
“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.”
He looks up, and oh God, his eyes are this incredible steel blue that pins me in place.
“What?” His voice is deep, calm. “But I believe there’s been a mistake.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his boarding pass. “I have seat 3A.”
I wave my boarding pass at him. “So do I!”
“I can see that.” He doesn’t sound annoyed. “It seems the airline made an error.”
“Well, you need to move!” I’m getting hysterical now, and I hate it, but I can’t stop. “I won this ticket. I won it fair and square at trivia, and I’ve had the worst day of my entire life, and I just need to sit down!”
Tears are threatening, and this beautiful stranger’s gaze softens.
“Hey.” His voice is so gentle it almost breaks me. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out.”
A flight attendant appears, wearing a tight, professional smile. “Is there a problem?”
“Double booking,” the man says, still calm. “We both have 3A.”
She checks both boarding passes, types something into her tablet, and winces. “I’m so sorry. This is our error. Ms. Castellanos, I can reseat you in 3B, right next to this seat. Would that work?”
I nod, too embarrassed to speak.
She helps me get settled, and I sink into 3B, my face burning. I just had a complete meltdown in front of the hottest man I’ve ever seen.
The plane starts taxiing, and I stare out the window, trying to pretend I don’t exist.
My phone buzzes in my lap. Again. I glance down. I’ve been ignoring calls from Mason and Lizzy all night. The text messages are piling up as well.
Savannah, please. We need to talk.
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please call me back.
Where are you? Your car is still at the house.
I open my Photos app and start scrolling. There’s Mason and me at Mom’s funeral, his arm around my shoulders, playing the supportive boyfriend while probably already planning how to get into Lizzy’s pants.
Delete.
Mason at Christmas. Mason at my birthday dinner. Mason, Mason, Mason.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
My thumb is shaking, but it feels good. Like I’m erasing him from my life one picture at a time.
The plane levels off, and the seat belt sign dings off. The man next to me opens his laptop again, and I try not to stare at those tattoos peeking out from his sleeve, or notice how good he smells.