Chapter 8
When we reach the Strip, I watch the crowds through my window. Many of these people are dressed in their Vegas best, which reminds me that I have nothing to wear to the club tonight. My suitcase is full of sweat-wicking activewear.
“You check in first,” I insist when we get to the hotel’s front desk.
“I’m going to run to the bathroom.” I take the long route and wash my hands twice before heading back to meet him, trying to figure out how to convince him to go upstairs without me so I can sneak over to my hotel across the street.
Luckily, he needs the bathroom too. I’ll pretend to check in while he’s gone. While I wait, I play with my ponytail and ignore the nerves congealing in my stomach. “What floor are you on?” I ask brightly when he gets back.
“Nine,” he says. “You?”
“Fifteen.”
We ride the elevator with a group of khaki-clad guys with badges on lanyards around their necks, chatting about some finance convention.
Nate skips the ninth floor. Instead, he exits with me on the fifteenth and grabs the handle of my suitcase.
“Have a great night!” I tell the guys on the elevator, attempting to mask my internal panic.
Getting caught in this lie would be so embarrassing.
I lead him down the hall and stop in front of a random room. “What’s the plan?”
“You settle in, take a power nap, whatever you want.” He shifts his bag from one shoulder to the other. “I’m going to drop my stuff off and then look around. Maybe I’ll find him and we won’t have to go out tonight. Meet here at ten?”
“Let’s meet downstairs instead.” I shuffle through the cards in my wallet, pretending to look for my room key, and we part with an awkward wave. I give him five minutes and then head back to the elevators, to the hotel across the street.
It’s got a retro vibe, like Frank Sinatra once smoked a cigarette here and they’ve tried really hard not to let the smell escape ever since.
The color scheme is polluted seafoam and stale cotton candy, and there’s a path to the casino worn into the floral pattern on the carpet.
Once I’m in my room, I leave my suitcase in the bathtub in case of bedbugs, set my succulent on the desk, and peel off the bedspread.
I use a washcloth to pick up the TV remote and move it to the table in the corner.
The cigarette odor is even stronger here—maybe this is the actual room where Frank smoked it—but it’s mixed with a powdery air freshener scent.
For someone who hates smells, this place is not ideal, but I knew what I was signing up for.
At least I’m alone, and the room’s cool air feels like heaven compared to the blistering heat outside.
When I lie on the bed (which has clean-looking sheets, thankfully), I stretch out my limbs, taking up all the space I couldn’t when I was jammed in the car next to Nate.
The air eases out of my lungs, and it feels like the first breath I’ve taken all day.
My eyes fight to close, but I’m overdue for a check-in with Bailey.
All this time I’m spending with Nate reminds me of how close I came to blowing my friendship with Bailey on my first weekend in Seapoint, when he invited me to First Cove for a late-night swim after the pizza vandalism incident.
The camp wasn’t far from Bailey’s house, just another couple blocks inland from the beach.
Nate had a key and the alarm code. There was a brick building with an indoor pool visible through a set of big windows, but we went through a gate to the outdoor pool, which was Olympic-sized and gleamed in the moonlight.
“They’re closing it for the season next week,” Nate said.
Bailey and I had spent the afternoon at the beach, and I was still wearing my bathing suit under my shorts and new hoodie.
Nate’s eyes tracked the path of my clothes as I peeled them off, and his attention to my exposed skin made me woozy.
When he noticed I’d caught him, he blinked rapidly and turned away to shuck his T-shirt.
That meant I got to freely drink in the ripple of his back muscles and the dimples at the base of his spine until he spun around and dove in. I followed his lead.
The water was cold, but after a few minutes I couldn’t feel it. We treaded water and looked at each other. Nate seemed different with his hair wet and slicked back, his eyes like a summer storm. Eventually, he said, “My dad tried to pay someone to take my SATs so I’d get into Princeton.”
“What?”
“His alma mater. I had no idea until he got caught and it made the news. Not, like, The New York Times, but my dad is a pretty well-known real estate developer around here, so the local papers covered it. That’s why I decided not to go to college.”
I gasped. “That’s horrible. Bailey said you’re super smart. You could’ve gotten into a good school on your own.”
He tipped his head back to rewet his hair. “Yeah, well. He obviously thought I was missing something. And now that it’s out there, even if I get in somewhere on my own, people will wonder if I earned it. That makes me sick.”
How shitty, to decide your child isn’t enough, that you need to cheat the system to turn them into the person you want them to be. “That sucks,” I said. “Our parents really screwed us over. I get your whole ‘mopey boy who doesn’t want anyone to see him’ thing now.”
His mouth turned down at the corner, and I wasn’t sure if I’d gone too far, but then he laughed.
He laughed, and for once the rest of his face went as soft as his eyes.
He tried to hide it, ducking his chin and covering his mouth, but I saw enough.
“Ouch. I thought my emotional wounds were on the inside.” He shook his head. “I get your whole thing too.”
I kicked my legs harder, straightening my spine. “What’s my whole thing?”
He didn’t answer. We were closer together than we’d been at the start, and I couldn’t breathe even though the long runs I’d taken all summer should’ve been enough for me to handle a few minutes of treading water.
My heart thudded like a battering ram in my chest. His eyes went to my mouth, and his foot brushed mine.
Giana’s words came back to me. It’s so annoying when girls come to our parties just to try to hook up with the guys.
A droplet of water clung to the skin above his lip. I wanted to taste it so badly. He pushed a strand of wet hair off my face.
I needed Bailey to be my friend.
Before I could think twice, I dropped below the surface, sinking down as far as I could go. When I came up for air, Nate was on the other side of the pool. He never made a move on me again.
As I got closer to the Seapoint crew over the years—joining the group chat, hanging out with them when we were in the same cities—Bailey knew Nate and I were friends.
But she doesn’t know about the moment in the pool, or how our month in L.A.
ended. I can’t tell her the truth now, when our friendship is so off-kilter.
Guess where I am , I text her.
OMG ARE YOU HERE? she responds immediately, at the same time I quickly type NOT your house .
She says: You got my hopes up, but honestly it’s for the best. I did one of those foot peels last night and I’m shedding like a snake today. My feet are being reborn before my very eyes.
Ew , I reply, but it’s a good sign for our friendship that she’s telling me something this gross. Please let me feel the final results when I get there.
So not Tahoe anymore? Too many paparazzi chasing you around? Bailey asks.
I snap a photo of myself grinning with the Welcome to Las Vegas pamphlet I find on the desk.
Bailey: How did Logan convince you to do this?!
I fill her in as much as I can, omitting the awkwardness between Nate and me, and Nate’s reason for chasing Logan. I don’t know how widely he’s sharing his camp dreams yet. It doesn’t feel like my news to spread.
Bailey: So it’ll be like a live-action Where’s Waldo, except everyone in the picture will be drinking Red Bull vodkas and trying to grind on you?
Quinn: Lol. Yes. But once we find him, it’s going to be a really fun night!
The hum of the air conditioning is powerful, and I’m starting to drift off when Bailey fires off one more excellent question. What happens if you don’t find him?
I have no response. My best guess is that I’ll head for Utah alone while Nate flies back to Los Angeles.
For some reason, even though we should’ve gone our separate ways two days ago, that prospect feels like a loss instead of a relief.
See, I tell myself. You can adapt to anything with the right mindset. You’ve already adapted to this.
I never do manage to fall asleep.
After my failed nap, I do twenty minutes of intervals on the creaky treadmill at the hotel gym. When I’m done, I post a clip of myself running, listing the details of my workout and captioning it Outrunning my exes . Easy.
Then I head back to the Cosmopolitan to find the stretch of retail shops tucked near a bunch of trendy restaurants.
In the middle sits a multilevel bar inside a giant crystal chandelier.
There’s a fancy food court selling things like truffle nachos and pork belly BLTs, so I order the cheapest dinner I can find—a rice bowl from the Momofuku fast-food stall—and scarf it down.
The pickings are slim on the sale rack at the only store that sells club-appropriate clothing, but I manage to find a mini slip dress with delicate straps and a drapey neckline in my size.
It’s blacker and skimpier than the candy-colored casual stuff I normally wear, but this is Vegas.
I try not to wonder what Nate will think of it, but my stomach flips anyway.
Before heading back to my room, I take a quick glance in the swimwear shop, just to make sure I’m not missing a cheaper option there that’s not an actual bathing suit.
When I spot the white oversized T-shirt–style cover-up with orange block letters across the front, bordered by rhinestones, an idea pops into my head.
Without giving myself time to think about it, I grab it and pay.
Back in my room, I shower quickly. There’s enough time for hair or makeup, but not both. Praise be whichever nepo baby popularized the slicked-down center-parted bun. Thanks to her, I have five extra minutes after swiping on a dewy highlighter and a serviceable flick of eyeliner.
I pull on the cover-up, put a hand on my hip and cock my head, and snap a quick photo in the bathroom mirror. DUMP HIM , the orange letters urge. Miraculously, my uncertain half smile looks knowing instead. I post it.
Confident that Tracy and the marketing team will be satisfied for the moment, I swap out the cover-up for my dress and slide my feet into a pair of low-heeled strappy pink sandals that don’t irritate my Band-Aid-covered blister.
As I assess the final result in the mirror, sweat dampens my palms, and my heart starts to race.
I think I might be nervous. And not about tonight’s mission, but about what Nate’s going to think of the way I look.
Which is ridiculous, because he’s seen me in everything from pajamas to a bathing suit.
But he’s never seen me in something like this. A dress that’s sexy on purpose, that skims my body in a way that’s supposed to make people jealous that it’s touching me and they’re not.
I check the placement of my sticky silicone bra cups and head for the door. It’s party time.