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 want to 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.
I get myself oriented, figure out what direction I'm headed in, and duck into the first bathroom I see, shucking my ruined shirt and tossing it in the garbage.
Klein is going to think it's hilarious that the only shirt I have to wear is the one he sent me.
Who would've thought when I shoved the package in my backpack this morning on my way out of my apartment I'd be so grateful to have it?
At this point, it's either the T-shirt I'm ripping from its packaging, or me parading around half-naked to dinner.
Something tells me the restaurant Paisley chose takes 'no shirt, no shoes, no service' seriously.
Seven minutes late.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it. It's Klein, or possibly Paisley, wanting to know where the hell I am.
I pull the new, not coffee-stained shirt over my head and barrel from the bathroom. By the time I skid to a stop in front of Palm Luxe, I am twelve minutes late.
Klein, Paisley, and a group of people I don't recognize stand in the vestibule.
"There you are," Klein says, relief plain on his face. Everyone turns to me. "I was worried about..." His words die on his lips as he takes in my shirt. Paisley's eyes become saucers, and she snaps a cupped palm over her mouth.
I look at my chest, trying to see what they see. Four words, hard to decipher from this angle. A few disbelieving chuckles sound from somewhere in the group.
"Klein," Paisley hisses, smacking his midsection without looking at him. "I told you to forget the stupid shirts."
Klein's lips press together, suppressing laughter I'm certain would be booming if unbridled. "I'd already sent it to him. I didn't think he'd wear it to dinner."
"He is standing beside you," I remind them, irritated. "And he has had a hell of a day and doesn't know what the shirt says because—" I point a stiff finger at my cousin "—this asshat chose Old English lettering for the font, and I can't read it upside down."
Klein scratches his thumb over his eyebrow. "Did you wear that on the plane?"
Seriously? What the hell does this shirt say?
This is when I catch sight of dark, gleaming brunette locks. Creamy skin, pink lips. Narrowed eyes shooting death rays my way. Cecily.
I force my gaze away from hers, finding my asshole cousin's face. "I haven't been wearing this shirt more than five minutes." Every word slips between gnashed teeth.
"Can you change?" There's a trace of humor in his tone. Beside him, Paisley grips his arm and turns away, like she's struggling to contain her laughter.
"No." My jaw clenches. "I also haven't looked in the mirror since I put it on after a stranger spilled a cup of coffee all over the shirt I wore on the plane and the airline lost my luggage."
Klein releases the hold he had on his laughter. Paisley, too. The whole damn group, in fact, save for Cecily. She looks like she'd rather eat her shoe than direct any mirth my way.
Klein's arm goes around my shoulder, steering me toward a rectangular gilt-framed mirror on the wall beside the hostess stand.
He's smiling like a birthday party clown as I read the words.
No Muff Too Tuff.
Klein cackles. The guy is vibrating with laughter.
All this time I've spent making up scenarios for what would happen when Cecily and I saw each other this weekend, and none of them included mortifying myself within the first five seconds.
I give my cousin a quick jab with my elbow. "If I weren't standing in a fancy restaurant in front of a group of strangers, I would punch you in the face. And knee you in the balls, which is a low blow but well deserved."
Klein grunts at the contact my elbow makes, holding his side. "A couple of cocktails will make you forget all about that shirt you're wearing."
"I hate you," I say to him as the hostess leads us to a large table.
"For what it's worth, I am sorry about your bad luck today."
I nod at his apology, my attention snagged by Cecily walking beside Paisley at the front of the group. She's dressed in lemon yellow, the dress hitting mid-thigh. The back is low cut, down to the middle of her back. The front is more conservative. Covertly sexy.
I wish I could say I have no reaction to it, but that would be a flat-out lie. I like the dress on Cecily. I like it very, very much.
Klein double-times his steps, catching up to Paisley.
Cecily glances back at me. Sends me a venomous look. Audacious, considering she's the one who ghosted me.
Maybe it's the day I've had. Perhaps it's the disappointment and embarrassment from being left high and dry by her. It's possible I'm simply out of my mind.
But I raise a hand. Middle finger stiff and punching the air.
Cecily's eyes squint to slits. Her head shakes back-and-forth, a tiny motion. It's the perfect opportunity for her to draw her thumb across her throat, but she doesn't take it.
I have just made myself an enemy. The first one in my life, to my knowledge.
The hostess directs Paisley to a seat wrapped in white silk ribbon.
Gold confetti around the table catches the overhead light, glittering.
Klein takes the seat beside Paisley, his equally festooned.
Cecily settles across from Paisley, and I make my way down to the end of the table, hoping to hide on the corner and do my least favorite activity, make friends with strangers who have already laughed at my expense.
"Dom," Klein says loudly. "Over here." He points at the seat across from him.
Beside Cecily.
I pause, thinking for a moment about pretending I didn't hear him. But he points again, more forcefully this time, and indicates the seat with his chin.
I exhale a slow breath nobody can hear because of the music playing. My hesitation has gone on too long, confusion tugging at Klein's eyebrows.
I don't have much of a choice. Not without causing a scene, and I think I've done enough to draw attention to myself this evening.
I start for my cousin. The closer I get, the more I see, taste, and smell the hatred emanating from Cecily. Hopefully she doesn't order the steak. I don't trust her with a knife.
"Why are you being weird?" Klein asks as I pull out my seat.
"I'm not being weird," I argue.
"You are," Paisley confirms enthusiastically, flicking a piece of confetti at me.
I sit down. Haul my seat in closer to the table. Smack Cecily's ankle bone with the chair leg.