“I think Eliot’s right.” Here her cousin scowled, but Imogen paid no heed. The casino’s proximity made it an easy choice. Easier still, given the hotel held the shop she wanted to visit most. “To the Bellagio! Let’s go gape!”
The place certainly was gape-worthy. Air-conditioning sucked the group in through the revolving doors, into a lobby with one of the most stunning works of art Imogen had ever seen—the Fiori di Como, two thousand pieces of glass blown into floral shapes and suspended from the ceiling. They were every color imaginable, lit from behind to create a sight both alien and spellbinding. All five crew members paused beneath the installation, necks craned.
Gram halted close to Imogen. Very close. Ever since that accidental touch on the Invictus, she’d been hyperaware of the Engineer’s presence. He seemed to carry his own current, one that leaped from his skin to hers. Any second now the charge would reach Imogen’s cheeks, light up her true feelings for all to see. She really should look into finding some blush-neutralizing concealer….
She looked to her other side instead, where Eliot stood. The girl’s skin was even more translucent indoors; the colors above seemed to permeate it. Blue, purple, green landing at the top of her head and dripping down, down, beautiful, fragile glass, otherworldly. No one else from the crew noticed—they’d adopted Farway’s cold-shoulder approach. Imogen didn’t see how this strategy would help their information excavation. How would they discover anything about the newcomer if they ignored her?
“This is a Chihuly sculpture,” Imogen told the group. “Every single one of those flowers is handspun glass.”
“Imagine how much time that took,” Priya said, awed.
“Imagine how many credits it’s worth.” Of course Farway would put a price tag on the pretty-pretty-pretty. “Whatever happened to it?”
“We wouldn’t be able to steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Imogen told her cousin. “The Bellagio sold the Fiori di Como to a private collector once the drought got really bad. Ten years later, the buyer sold it off in pieces to avoid bankruptcy.”
“A hashing shame,” Gram said. “Something so flawless falling to pieces.”
“Everything does in the end.” Eliot’s whisper was quiet. Only Imogen stood close enough to hear. Only she felt a shiver creep through her vertebrae.
The Fiori di Como looked just as stunning as it had when they’d walked through the door, but now all Imogen could see when she stared at the clash and swirl of colors was how they would break. Blurgh. Farway’s pessimism was manageable. She’d been balancing that out her whole life. Now that there was double the dose, Imogen found herself in need of reinforcements.
VACATION. ENJOYMENT. ONWARD.
“Should we see what else the Bellagio has to offer?” She led the way into a corridor flashing with the promises of slot machines—WIN $$$$$ WIN $$$$$ WIN $$$$$ WIN. The casino felt timeless in a way that wasn’t like the Grid at all. The establishment pumped extra oxygen through the vents to keep gamblers alert. Night could fall, the outside world could catch fire, and the occupants of the windowless casino floor would be none the wiser. They’d roll their craps dice and place their bets for as long as their wallets would allow. Poker chips clattered and the roulette ball rolled, landing on chance, creating fortunes, breaking them.
When they passed some blackjack tables, Gram gave the dealers and their six-deck arsenal a wistful glance. Did he ever look at her like that? Imogen wondered. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. She was so bad at guessing these things. It had been confusing enough when he called her hair shiny. Had he meant I like you shiny? We’re only friends shiny? Or was it just an adjective that made her synonymous with the Great Omar’s cover and Vegas’s lights? Imogen’s mind would go through a hundred different iterations and then land on one, rethinking it another hundred times, before deciding she had absolutely no idea what Gram had meant.
Priya would know. She was so very good at peeling back the surface of things. Skin, feelings, souls. Imogen often sought Priya’s opinion on her lack of love life. Her friend’s diagnosis was always the same: Just talk to him.
About what? Shiny hair? She’d tried that already….
Priya’s solution: Tell him how you feel.
There were times when Imogen wanted to, when I’m madly in crush with you lingered at the back of her tongue. It never quite tasted right, though. What if Gram didn’t say it back? What if he just stared at Imogen while her heart shriveled to the size of a pinto bean? What if their friendship was spoiled and things turned awkward between them forever after?
Imogen would rather take her chances with the slot machines. She might have, if gambling in a time not theirs wasn’t such a bad idea. Trying their luck would alter the odds of someone else’s: shuffled decks and spun slots. It wouldn’t do to go redistributing future jackpots. Who knew how many lives that could change?
There really wasn’t much to do in the casino section except walk, dodging cocktail waitresses and grandmothers sporting matching sets of visors and fanny packs—a fashion trend that would never make it to Before & Beyond’s racks. Imogen’s real destination—the one that had kept her mouth watering since Gram first set course for Vegas—was in the next hall. Her treadless Greek leather sandals, purchased in a BC year, slipped and slid along the floor’s marble edge. Undaunted, she pushed forward to the promised sign: CAFé GELATO ICE CREAM & SWEETS.
Aka reinforcements. Thank the Lady Luck their “look but don’t partake” policy stopped short of food.
“We should’ve known.” Priya smiled at the destination. “The sugar, it calls to her. Are we sure she’s not part honeybee?”
“There are worse vices!” Imogen said over her shoulder and shuffle-skated into the shop. The place was inherently cute, splashed with color: yellow walls, bright pink chandeliers. Its display case overflowed with gelato. So much gelato. Mint. Mango. Tiramisu. Pistachio. Blackberry cheesecake. Hazelnut. How was she supposed to choose?
Priya opted for a banana split. Gram got a scoop of pistachio with chocolate shavings. Farway and Eliot each ordered a scoop of blood orange. All of them were settled around one of the marble-topped café tables by the time Imogen made up her mind. Why choose one flavor when you could get five? Rose, mint, amarena, stracciatella, salted caramel. It was almost a whole carton’s worth of cream—she had to use two hands to balance it as she made her way toward the table.
“Wait! Wait!” Imogen set her dessert down and began rummaging through her clutch. “Before I forget!”
It was clear, from the look on Farway’s face when she pulled out the sparkler, that he was the one who’d forgotten. Serves him right for not keeping a ship’s log. Not only had they landed on April 18, but by Imogen’s count, it had been 365 days since Farway’s seventeenth-year celebration.
She lit the sparkler and stuck it into her cousin’s gelato. “Happy eighteenth unbirthday, Farway!”