Their suite had four bedrooms, a communal living room and a kitchen. They oohed and aahed over the view while Rainy shrank back from it. She didn’t want to see the desert. Beyond the colored pinnacles of a castle and the pyramid-shaped tourist traps were several fucked-up years of her childhood. From the plane, everything had looked like a sandbox, sectioned off into smaller sandboxes with houses dropped in the middle of them. Grant thought that it was Las Vegas that she hated, but it wasn’t the Shangri-La-ness of the city that got to her; she’d only driven by it as a girl. All the snakes were in the desert, and from their room, she could see clear across it.
“Holy mother of all slots this view is amazing!” Ursa said. “But only three of the rooms have a view.”
“I’ll take the viewless room,” Rainy said quickly. When they all looked at her, she shrugged. “I’m afraid of heights and won’t be looking, anyway.” She hoped they wouldn’t call her on that; after all, she lived on a mountaintop like the rest of them. But no one said anything—they were probably relieved that she had volunteered to take the crappiest room.
Ursa and Mac paired up in the largest room and Rainy, Tara and Braithe each got their own. Rainy dropped her bag on the bed and had a quick look around. The room was simple, in sharp contrast to the garish strip outside: creamy whites and dull gold accents. As Ursa had indicated, her view was obstructed by the Eiffel Tower, which suited her just fine; she was going to keep the drapes closed, anyway. At the moment, the rain angled harshly toward the window, slapping the glass rhythmically like she was in a car wash. When nature imitates life! Rainy thought. She had the urge to pull up the corners of the linen and hide herself under the covers like the antisocial person she was.
When she wandered back into the living room, Ursa was standing with her nose pressed against the window, whining mournfully. “It’s pouring!” She had a habit of stating the obvious, but in a gloriously funny way. Once, when they’d sat down to a meal of dry chicken and burned rice in the dining room of the blue rambler she’d bought with her fiancé, she’d announced, “The chicken tastes like shit but I’ll be offended if you don’t eat it.” It was funny and true, and they’d all cleaned their plates, smiling through the burned pieces of rice like supportive friends. Rainy had been even newer to the group back then, and she’d been charmed by the beautiful gazelle with no filter. This time, however, Ursa sounded genuinely deflated. Her weekend plans had been derailed, and she was a hundred percent not okay with that.
“So what?” Tara shrugged.
So what? Rainy mimicked to herself. Then, Stop. Be nice. She massaged her temples as a headache tightened behind her eyes.
“The restaurant I booked is an outdoor venue.” Mac was staring at her phone, her thumbnail between her teeth. On the drive from the airport, they had discussed two things: the rain and their hunger.
“Just call them and see if they have a table inside,” Braithe suggested.
Mac’s face was red. “Yeah, okay. I’ll call.” She disappeared into her room with her phone, shutting the door behind her. Everyone busied themselves, either heading to the bathroom or checking their phones while they waited; when Mac walked out of the bedroom ten minutes later, she didn’t look happy. “So, due to the lightning storm, the restaurant we were going to has closed their patio and they don’t have any tables inside.”
“Baaa!” Ursa threw up her hands in defeat.
“Relax, I got us in somewhere else—”
They all cheered, but Mac was holding up her hands to quiet them. “But only at ten o’clock...so I ordered pizza.”
Rainy smiled at Mac’s handling of the situation: bad news delivered by semigood news with a snack as consolation. It seemed to work; everyone accepted the news with optimism, and an hour later they were drinking and scarfing down barbecue chicken pizza like they hadn’t eaten in a week. Ursa put on the hotel robe and was digging around in the minibar while the others propped themselves in armchairs, slices drooping in their hands. To Rainy, it looked like a scene out of a magazine: Tiger Mountain Takes Vegas. The city was the backdrop, spread beneath the windows like a neon quilt. Tara had not looked at her once since they arrived, and it irked the hell out of Rainy, who still remembered the urgency with which Tara had invited her all those weeks back.
“This is just my luck. First getaway in a year and we’re stuck in a monsoon.” Ursa uncorked a minibottle of vodka and sipped miserably from it as she stared at her magenta toenails. Rainy sat in the only armchair with its back to the large expanse of windows. She was trying not to look anxious.
“We should play a game,” Braithe suggested. “Until this clears up.”
“Like what kind?” Mac asked.
“Leave it to the kindergarten teacher to vet the game!” Tara sang. “Might as well play something good, since this isn’t going anywhere.”
“We could do dares!” Ursa chose a bag of M&M’s from the minibar and studied the wrapper.
“Stop counting calories!” Braithe threw a pillow at the younger woman, who started, then smiled.
“I’m too old for dares,” Braithe said. “Maybe something more...inspiring.”
Tara chortled from where she sat on the sofa. “Who wants to play an inspiring game? This isn’t a women’s conference. I thought we were here to have fun.” To emphasize her point, she raised her arms above her head and shook her hair around like a dancer in an eighties music video. In her year of knowing them, Rainy had never witnessed Tara mock or question anything that Braithe did. Braithe was staring at Tara, equally as disturbed. She looked around to see if Mac or Ursa had noticed, but they were alert and interested in the game idea, not the sharp tones in which it was presented.
“That’s right,” Ursa agreed. “Why don’t we each ask a question that everyone in the room has to answer. That way, you can customize your game-playing experience and ask inspiring or nosy questions.”
“Ooh, I like that,” Mac agreed.
From across the room, Tara rolled her eyes and mouthed, “Of course she does.” At some point, Tara had changed from her jeans into cotton shorts and a tank top. She strolled over to the chair next to Rainy, considered it and moved to a chair on the other side of the room instead.
Rainy felt uncomfortable with the game right away. Being forced to answer personal questions directed at her by Tara, Ursa and Mac? No, thanks. But the rest of them were reluctantly crowding around the suite’s living room, finding chairs. Braithe was ripping the hotel’s notepad into thin strips of paper.
“Here,” she said, handing them around. “Write your question on this paper and try to disguise your handwriting!”
They all took a slip and one of the pens Braithe passed out and stared at her expectantly.
“Do we all have to answer the question, or is it one person per question?” Mac wanted to know. Ursa yawned and Mac said, “No, you have to stay awake. Dinner is at ten.” Rainy scratched her foot with her other foot and tried to pretend she wasn’t terrified of what they’d ask her. Let it be one question per person, she pleaded mentally.
Tara settled it. “One each or it’ll take forever.” They’d each draw a question and, unless it was their own, they’d have to answer.
“They can’t just be any questions. You have to ask really prying questions,” Tara emphasized. But they all knew each other—had known each other for years. They’d only be prying into Rainy’s life with their drilling nosiness. You only have to answer one, she reminded herself, tapping her foot with the pen.
She scribbled down her question, hoping the others would be just as straightforward, and tossed her slip into the ice bucket Mac had put on the table for that purpose. Maybe she shouldn’t have drunk her wine so fast; she was feeling weird. She wished Grant would call her so she’d have an excuse to leave the room. It would be a great time for Viola to go into labor, she thought miserably.
“Okay, okay,” Mac called. “Here it is...first question.” She held the slip of paper up, reading it carefully to herself before her face underwent several expressions, one of them embarrassment.
“Spit it out, Mackenzie,” Ursa said, and then added: “I hope it’s mine!” She rubbed her hands together theatrically.
Mac cleared her throat. “What was your first sexual experience? Describe in great detail.”
Braithe cackled.
“Yessssss!” Ursa sat upright.