“See you around,” I say. He nods.
“See you, Julia.” He looks back at his phone, distracted, shut off. He’s finished with one problem; now on to the next.
And just like that, I drive away.
21
Julia
There is no reason for me to be feeling like I need to curl up into a ball and cry. I didn’t do that during my divorce from Drew, and I sure as hell won’t do it after my near-miss marriage to Nate. Instead, I will repeatedly roll the window up and down in this taxi while staring bleakly out at the Las Vegas Strip, like a motherfucking grown-up.
Traffic is at a total standstill. We’re pretty much just sitting in this cab. I can see the glittering cityscape ahead of me, but at the moment we’re still kind of trapped next to the Rio, with the enormous picture of Penn and Teller beckoning me from across the way. Much as I love a good atheist magic show, I’m not in the mood right now.
Damn, I could walk backwards and be at the hotel faster than this.
“’Scuse me. You know any side streets?” I ask the cabbie. He just shrugs.
“Unless you know how to handle this vehicle off road in the desert, I would suggest staying where we are,” he says in a clipped, pleasant accent. I nod and sit there, watching the red electronic numbers tick up and up, showing the amount of cash I owe.
I kind of hoped I’d be sharing this cab back with Nate, laughing with relief at our fake marriage ceremony. We’d chat about Mike and Stacy’s wedding, maybe agree to meet up for drinks later, you know, just casual . . . .
Any hope I’d had that we could work this out evaporated back there, when he said he’d catch his own ride. When he’d started looking at his phone and basically giving me the brush-off. Our adventure is over. And in the grand scheme of things, it could’ve been way worse. We didn’t do too many illegal things. Granted, I think he should place an anonymous call to Phoebe and alert her about Chester or Eduardo or whatever the fuck that parrot’s name is, but beyond that, nothing really bad was done.
Though I think I should probably send flowers to that kidnap adventure guy I kneed in the balls.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out, heart hammering, hoping it’ll be Nate. But no, Shanna. I grab the call.
“Hey,” I say. Man, even I hear how glum and listless that sounds.
“What happened?” she says. “Did dickhead break your heart?”
“We just found out that Lola Sinclair and Peyton Manning got married last night, so it’s not quite as simple as we’d all like,” I tell her.
There’s a long pause on the other end.
“Care to repeat pretty much everything you just said to me?” Shanna says. “What’s been going on?”
“Where are you?” I sigh, my temples throbbing.
“The Venetian, having some chocolate. The Grand Canal smells a lot like chlorine, but otherwise it’s just like actually being in Venice. Only more fanny packs. Come on over, meet up with us. Meredith’s here.” Her voice turns whispery. “And I don’t want to hear any more about her carnal adventures with the surfer dude wannabe, so if you could hurry this up I’d seriously appreciate it.”
“Hold on.” I tap the glass, and the cab driver rolls down his window. “On second thought, drop me here. I’ll walk it.” I hand him cash.
So there I am, walking along the Las Vegas Strip, making sure I don’t trip over my wedges and fall off the concrete embankment and into traffic. The hot desert wind whips by, blowing my skirt up almost to around my ass. Some cars honk, and I flip them off sullenly, my heart not really into it.
Vegas is a place that’s pretty damn transitory. One second you’re under the Eiffel Tower, the next you’re wandering along the Venice canals, until you head over to New York for some pizza and maybe Ancient Egypt for a nightcap. So many different times and places in one condensed area. It’s not about permanence. It’s the ideal city for a fling.
And that’s what the night with Nate was. A fling. Anything more would’ve been stupid, like betting all your money on a killer blackjack hand. The house always wins. And if you happen to cheat the house, it gets security to pull you into a back room, put a bag over your head, and break your kneecaps until you admit you cheated.
I’m pretty sure there was a metaphor somewhere in this, but now all I want to do is watch Casino and Ocean’s 11. Maybe on the plane ride home, when I’m too depressed to read.
Venice welcomes me with its fake but still impressive recreation of St. Mark’s Square. I wander down a carpeted Grand Canal, passing gondolas that drift under the bridges, gondoliers serenading people who are too busy playing on their phones to notice anything. I duck into Tintoretto Bakery, a cute and cozy place with gleaming wooden floors, rustic painted walls, and the smell of butter and chocolate in the air. It’s so mouthwatering I forget for a second that I’m supposed to be in a bad mood.