Chapter Thirteen Eleanor
Walking onto the casino floor feels like entering a labyrinth.
Not only is the floor a literal maze of card tables and banks of slot machines and electronic games, but it’s evident how easy it would be to lose sense of time and space in here.
There are no windows, no way to track the sun.
No clocks either. The music playing overhead is nondescript—no lyrics to sing along to and no breaks between tracks.
Plus, smoking is permitted, so it feels weirdly like entering a time warp.
I literally cannot remember the last time I was inside a nonresidential building where cigarettes were allowed, prior to this weekend.
My clothes and hair are going to reek, which should probably be the least of my concerns right now, but I’m fixated on it because I don’t know if I’ll have time to shower before the show.
I follow Adam past a poker table where the dealer is the only one who appears sober.
One of the gruff-looking men seated in front of him drains a whiskey glass as I watch.
He has a five-o’clock shadow and deep purple bruises under his eyes.
I get the distinct impression he’s been here all night.
And from the modest stack of chips in front of him, I don’t think he stayed all that time because he’s on a winning streak.
The pit in my stomach deepens. Adam is right—this is going to go poorly.
And then we’ll be back where we started, and I won’t be able to stop him from involving Billy Draper.
Today’s events aside, I don’t think about Griffin anymore.
Hardly ever. I don’t care how he’s doing, or what he’s doing, or whether he ever thinks about me.
But I can’t be blamed for wanting to keep this escapade off his radar.
I’d be embarrassed for any ex to hear about it, never mind one with as many industry contacts as Griffin.
As much as I detest reminding anyone how close Griffin and I once were, it was worthwhile if it reinforced Adam’s resolve to keep me out of the story, if and when he does talk to Billy.
Now Adam stands beside me, shoulder to shoulder, his gaze warming the side of my face.
“Let’s hit the blackjack tables first,” I say, “then poker. If neither of those work, we can loop back to the slots.”
Adam remains silent, and when I cave and side-eye him, I find him frowning.
“No judgment… but is this the real reason you’re at your credit limit?
Do you have a gambling problem?” I can tell by his tone he’s dead serious, trying his best to ask delicately.
“Because you’re not alone. My neighbor struggled with a gambling addiction a while back. There are hotlines you can call—”
“Oh my god.” I close my eyes and try not to fixate on what it is about me that made Adam jump so quickly to gambling addict. I take a long breath before looking at him head-on. “No, Adam. While I very much appreciate your concern, I do not have a gambling problem.”
He purses his lips. “That’s exactly what someone with a gambling problem would say,” he mutters. “Well, should we try different tables?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. Splitting up is definitely a good idea. Not only because both of us sitting at the same table would mean we were playing against each other, but also because Adam is giving me whiplash.
First he accuses me of wanting him, and then he admits to wanting me back, and now it’s like he’s forgotten about the teasing and the kiss and all of it.
Meanwhile, ever since we left that stage I’ve felt like I’m trying to inhale underwater.
I need space. Need to catch my breath and figure out how I lost the upper hand here, and how the hell Adam could tell I’d thought about kissing him.
A seat opens up at the blackjack table Adam’s been eyeing, and I hand over half the chips. “We’ll meet back here in half an hour.”
Adam gives me one last lingering look before he steps away.
Mercifully, he does not glance back to catch me watching until he takes a seat.
I really wish it were clearer whether he was flirting because he genuinely wants to continue what we started, or if it was just another way for him to get a rise out of me.
I sigh and snap myself out of it, turning to weave through the tables and banks of slot machines, scoping out my prospects.
I hadn’t noticed until now how loud it is in here.
All these people, all the electronics, the sound effects.
It’s like being stuck inside a dozen different video games at once, and I can’t think over all the noise.
Interrupting someone sitting at a table seems like a bad idea.
But people at slot machines aren’t typically betting big money, so I suspect they’d be less likely to make a trade.
My first thought, possibly fueled by the last remaining threads of denial over my feelings for Adam, is to approach one of the single men I see throwing their money around.
I could flirt my way into their good graces, maybe have a drink with them and then play the damsel-in-distress card.
Men eat that shit up, especially if they suspect they’ll get a reward for being the Good Guy who helps you out.
But I’ve dealt with enough skeevy, ego-tripping men to last a lifetime. Sometimes it feels like they find me, no matter how hard I’m trying to put out an unapproachable vibe. I certainly don’t need to go initiating conversations, making them feel like I owe them.
Just—no.
So I narrow my focus to a middle-aged couple standing over by one of the craps tables.
They’re dressed casually, the man in a polo and khakis, and the woman in a sundress.
They look like they’re probably my mother’s age, maybe a couple of years younger.
And most importantly, the woman is wearing a massive diamond on her ring finger.
“Hi,” I say when I’m infringing on their personal space enough that they look up. “I’m Eleanor. I was wondering if you could help me out.” At this point, it occurs to me that I really should have thought through what I wanted to say ahead of time.
Adrenaline and self-consciousness have me talking fast. “See, I have these promotional chips. My friend and I won them in this newlywed game—it’s a long story.
We’re not really married. I mean, technically we are.
But we’re not in love or anything. I only realized I might actually have feelings for him like an hour ago, but that’s… well, that’s beside the point.”
The two of them exchange a look, like they’re both unsure how stable I am. My throat feels tight. I’m no longer sure how stable I am either.
I swallow and shake my head, waving my hand like I can swat my emotions away. “Oh my god, sorry. I truly don’t even like Adam that much. This has been a really long, confusing day. And we won these chips, but we can’t cash them in, and we need to cash them so Adam can get his ID back—”
The man raises his hand, palm facing me, and reaches into his pocket. I drag in a breath and ignore the way my throat is still aching like I’m about to cry—it’s the air in here, smoke-tinged and stifling—and preemptively start thanking him when I see a stack of chips in his hand.
“Thank you. Seriously, you have no idea how grateful I am.”
He tosses me a chip—literally tosses it at me, and I somehow manage to catch it, nearly fumbling all of my own chips in the process. When I lift my head, his back is turned and he’s steering his wife to another table.
I look down at the chip he gave me. It’s worth ten dollars. It occurs to me that he only gave it to me to get me to stop talking. Which… I guess isn’t the worst response to a stranger all but accosting you out of nowhere.
My lips pinch and my breath catches and I’m once again struck by the urge to call Iris. This is humiliating, and it’s hard to say whether it’d be more or less humiliating to confess everything to my sister and beg her for help.
“Oh, honey…”
I look up to find a woman who bears a striking resemblance to Betty White in her later years standing a few feet away.
She clucks her tongue and looks me over, head to toe.
Then she beckons me toward her group of friends—three women well into their eighties, all wearing bright lipstick and embellished athleisure suits.
They look like a band of mall walkers from North Jersey.
I shuffle over to where they’re occupying a nearby bank of slot machines, uncertain of what they want from me, but strangely compelled to do what this lady asks, if only because of the Betty White thing.
“I couldn’t help but overhear you talking to that couple,” she tells me as she gives the jumbo plastic cup in her hand a little shake. “What do you need?”
“… Sorry, what?”
She’s picking chips out of her cup, but pauses to glance at me, over the top of her glasses.
Something about that look has me standing up straighter.
“You want to trade your promo chips, right? We may not look like high rollers, but we do all right on the electronic poker machines. Don’t we, girls? ”
The other women nod their agreement, and one of them leans forward to tell me: “Angie is on a winning streak.”
Angie—the Betty doppelg?nger—is wearing big gold earrings that look painfully heavy, stretching the lobes of her ears, and an honest-to-god visor. She touches two fingers gently to my wrist and leans forward. “What’s your name, honey?”
I tell her, and she introduces herself, the other three women—Helen, Maryellen, and Isabella.
“Not that it’s any of my business,” she says next, “but where’s this man you were talking about before?”
“Adam,” I say. “He’s around. At one of the blackjack tables.”
Helen’s lipstick has feathered slightly around her mouth, which is made all the more noticeable when she purses her lips in distaste. Beside her, Maryellen tuts. Clearly, these women are not feeling generous toward men at the moment.
“Typical,” Angie says, and then grabs the big plastic cup that contains all of her chips and coins. “So, what do you need, sweetie?”