The Other Women

by Erin Zak

  When she left, she took a part of me with her. We haven’t been able to see each other in four months. Four very long, very stressful months. Things have been strained, and I know it’s the distance. I feel as if we’ve been in limbo for the entire time she has been gone.

  Me. In limbo. While I’m still married. Well, now I’m in the beginning of a separation, but still. And I’m going to see her again. I’m equal parts excited, nervous, and scared.

  “What the hell am I doing?” My question falls flat in the dense quiet of my office.

  I miss her so much that I wonder if the entire world can see the pain written on my face. I miss her hands and her beautiful face, and I miss the way she would take my face in her hands before she kissed me. There hasn’t been a single day since she left that I don’t think about her and wish I would have been braver. If I would have left my husband, then maybe I wouldn’t be missing her so much.

  Maybe she wouldn’t have left town.

  Maybe she would have stayed, and we could have built a life together.

  I could be the breadwinner with this new promotion.

  I would be the one she relied on.

  The memory of her spinning my desk chair with me in it so I could face her is so vivid. How she placed her left hand, then her right hand, on the arms of the chair, knelt in front of me, and slid her hand up my calf, over my knee, up my thigh, under my skirt…

  “Whew,” I whisper. The temperature in my office has skyrocketed.

  I need to get her back. I need her to come back to me. That’s it. I need to go to her, kiss her, tell her all of this and how I’m leaving, and now we can finally be together. She’ll kiss me, and we’ll fall into bed together, and it’ll be amazing.

  After I go over every reunion scenario possible, I pull myself together and grab my cell phone and tap out a text to Luke, my husband who doesn’t deserve any of this. The separation is so new. Partly of his doing, mostly of mine, but neither of us have signed a single paper making anything official. The whole thing is awful. I do love him. I always have. Something was always missing, though. Passion or desire or maybe both? Either way, Willow became my outlet.

  I text Luke: Heading to Vegas for the weekend. I leave tomorrow morning. I’ll be back on Monday.

  I wait with bated breath for his response bubble to appear. I know he won’t mind. He knows my job is important to me. But I always worry if maybe my long hours and my inability to take much time off affected us and our marriage. The way he acted for all those years made me think he was fine with everything. Either he’s the one in our tiny family who is the good actor, or he really has been fine with how things were.

  Wow. That sounds awesome. If I didn’t have track sectionals coming up, I’d go with you.

  I smile at his reply. The last time we went to Vegas was right before our last try to get pregnant. We had sex in the bathroom and then the bed, and it was the first time in forever I thought we’d actually be capable of making a baby. Or of making it at all.

  You going with would have been wonderful, I text back. The whoosh of the message leaving my phone is almost as loud as the lies I continue to tell him. And myself.

  Maybe next time? he asks.

  I avoid the question. I need to tell him about the promotion. The promotion that will drive another nail into the coffin of our marriage. Comparing our marriage to a coffin is harsh, but the suffocation and the overwhelming fear that things will never get better feels a lot like being buried alive.

  I type, I have other news, as well, but I’ll tell you in person.

  Is everything okay?

  Yes.

  Let’s go to dinner tonight then. DaVanti Enoteca?

  He knows I’m a sucker for their polenta. And their flatbreads. Sounds wonderful. I’ll make the reservation.

  I love you.

  I stare at his text. I know the sentiment is said out of habit, but I still can’t find it within myself to echo the words. I broke the habit years earlier. Or maybe Willow broke it. Or pushed me to break it. I don’t know. But the first time he told me he loved me, I froze. And I’m frozen now, and the irony causes me to lose the feeling in my feet, my hands turn tingly, and my stomach drops. I should have known then, but maybe I did love him? Maybe I had no idea I was bisexual. I had no idea. I still have no idea. Do I love him? Do I love sex with him? Do I love sex with men or women or what?

  I hate feeling this way. The constant push and pull and the questions make me feel so lost and confused. I hate myself more and more every day. I’m not even cheating on him any longer, but my heart knows its guilt lies deep within, and there really isn’t anything I can do to bring my heart back around.

  Now I’m heading to Las Vegas, where whatever happens stays there, and I’m supposed to say I love you back, and I don’t know if I can ever love him back, not in the way he needs. Not in the way he deserves.

  I’ll see you later. I press Send and slide my phone across my glass top desk. The phone buzzes with his response. I have no desire to see it.

  I lean back in my desk chair and stare at the screen of my laptop. A message from Julie, Jeff’s administrative assistant—and soon to be mine—has popped up on our intra-office messaging system. I’m on my way up with the details for your trip to Vegas. Congratulations, by the way. She ends the sentence with a winking smiley. I do love Julie, so I pull myself together and wait for her arrival. Maybe she can help me take my mind off my failed marriage and my mounting indiscretions.

  I stare at my reflection as my laptop screen goes black. You can handle this, Cecily. You can do anything you set your mind to.

  Chapter Two

  Francesca

  Flipping a bottle of vodka into the air, catching it expertly, and mixing a perfect lemon drop shot is one of my favorite things to do for a group of women. They ooh and aah as if I’m the most amazing bartender they’ve ever seen. I’m like the female version of Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Even Max doesn’t stand a chance, which sort of gives me a big head.

  Bartending is all about power, especially when working a bar that never settles down. Our bar top is packed day and night. One of the best features about the Heights is the main bar is in the middle of the casino. Max and I work the three-to-eleven shift, five days a week. I have no time for a life. But when I leave shortly after our shift ends, I find time to entertain. And nine times out of ten, it’s one of the patrons, and lately, it’s a woman for whom I’ve poured a lemon drop shot.

  There’s this part that lives inside me that absolutely loves being able to find the beauty in every single person I meet. I do not discriminate. I know it sounds crass, but every person I have come across has given me a little bit more of who I am today. I do tend to have feelings for women more often than men, but ever since “stay guarded, stay sane” became the way I live, no one really stands a chance.

  I can feel the woman at the end of the bar staring at me. I don’t always hate being stared at, admired, thought about. Sometimes it’s really lovely. But this particular woman is very obviously straight, and she’s had three lemon drops so far. And we all know what that means. Her friends are not letting up. It’s her thirty-fifth birthday and as one of them has mentioned six times, “she’s getting a divorce to celebrate!” There’s literally nothing worse than a highly intoxicated, newly divorced straight woman from somewhere in the middle of the United States. I’m not sure why I seem to attract the women who just want to experiment, but I do. She’ll be fun, but by three in the morning, she’ll have her head in a toilet, and I’m not in the mood to hold back hair tonight. She’s eyeing me hard-core, though. And Willow did just enough damage to me, to my self-esteem, to make a hard stare-down a welcome distraction. “Four lemon drops, coming up,” I shout as I glance at Max. He’s smiling. He knows where my mind is.

  “You do know she’s straight?” His whisper isn’t a whisper due to the volume of the music, but we’ve figured out an octave that doesn’t carry.

  I look over my shoulder at him and gr
in. “I know, I know. But hey? What’s my motto?”

  “Get ’em while they’re hot?”

  I laugh. “Funny.”

  “Stay guarded, stay sane,” he says with a wink.

  “That’s right. The best way to do that is to not gravitate toward the ones who will hurt me.”

  “She won’t hurt you, hmm?” He’s shaking a martini shaker, his arm muscles accentuated by his tight maroon shirt. It’s part of the uniform. He gets a shirt and pants. I get a skintight, off-the-shoulder maroon dress for Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. The women have been mandated to wear the lace bralette with it at all times. I’m not really a rule-breaker, as much as I like to say I am, so I comply. I shouldn’t complain, really. On the weekdays, I get to wear a similar outfit to Max’s. But I know what makes me the money, and even though I have a decent face, it’s my ass and my tits that bring the cash in. I’m not naive enough to think otherwise.

  After I’ve poured my sixteenth drink of the evening, I see the straight brunette hovering near the end of the bar again. She raises her hand when our eyes lock. This is it. The moment of truth. I make my way down to the end where she’s standing. “Need another lemon drop?” I wink at her, and the blush that creeps up her neck and spreads across her face makes me feel invincible. Not necessarily a good feeling when I’m trying my hardest to stay guarded and sane.

  “I was wondering,” she starts, clears her throat, looks down at the bar, then back up at me. She blinks once, twice, and shrugs a solitary shoulder. “What time do you get off tonight?”

  I lick my lips and watch as her eyes dart to them. She finally looks back up at my eyes after a full three seconds of staring at my lips. Three seconds is a long time when you’re standing there not saying a word. “Eleven.”

  She leans forward as she crosses her arms and props them on the bar. The movement and position pushes her breasts up, and her cleavage is staring at me as intensely as she is. “Do you hang out here afterward?”

  “I’m not allowed to.” I smile. “I normally head over to Caesar’s.”

  “Maybe my friends and I can join you?”

  “Let’s see if you make it until then.” I motion toward her empty drink and flip a water bottle expertly onto the bar top in front of her. It lands on its bottom, and the look on her face is so perfect, almost as if I’d told her I have singlehandedly cured cancer.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Francesca.”

  “I’m Annabelle.”

  “Well, Annabelle…” I lean forward, place both hands on the bar, and look into her eyes. She is captivated. I don’t know if she’s captivated by me or by the fact that she’s in Vegas, on her birthday, divorcing her husband, or hitting on a woman. Either way, I can admit to myself that she’s sort of cute in the moment. “Your friends are waiting for you.” She glances over her shoulder to where I’ve motioned with a nod, and she quickly pushes away from the bar.

  “We’ll find you later.”

  “Okay.” I watch her leave and push myself off the bar top. I can hear Max chuckling, so I look at him. “What?”

  “Looks like the new hair is working.” He knows what the night holds. He will call me later, I’ll be with this woman and her friends, and I’ll be neck deep in making out with a straight woman. Again.

  Stay guarded, stay sane.

  Cecily

  The meeting with the casino owner was off-site at the Italian Supper Club. The restaurant was the epitome of old school. I loved it. The food was incredible. I could have listened all night to the stories of the famous people who used to eat there. Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack was at the top of the list. I’ve been to Vegas numerous times, but this was the first time I felt swanky and important. And to top the entire experience off, the meeting went so well. I couldn’t get over it. In fact, the owner of the casino asked me to have dinner with him tonight. I barely suppressed an eye roll when he popped the question. Sure, he was a nice guy, but I was not in the mood to schmooze. And it is definitely not my style to say yes to something like that, especially since he seemed sort of handsy. Fortunately, his assistant reminded him that his daughter’s volleyball game was that evening, so he had to take back the invitation. He made me promise to come back to Vegas for another dinner. “And make sure to bring that handsome husband next time.”

  “Oh, of course,” I answered. I didn’t have the heart to tell him Luke wouldn’t be in the picture then. Hopefully. Though saying that makes me feel even worse about myself.

  My limo driver dropped me at the Heights VIP entrance. I have a seat when I enter after a rather jovial concierge informs me someone will be right with me. This vantage point offers great spying access. The staff are dressed impeccably: maroon tops, black vests, black slacks. The women wear black heels; the men are wearing white and black wing tips. Not a single one has a wrinkle or crease where it doesn’t belong. I make a mental note that the clothing is hands down better than anything I’ve ever seen at a casino.

  One of the things people forget when they work for a company is that everything they do, every word they say to a customer or guest, ends up falling into the overall marketing. Whether it’s part of the marketing plan isn’t important. A happy employee will always be better than a miserable one. They are the face of the casino. If no one is watching to make sure the employees are putting their best foot forward and that these tiny elements are taken care of, they end up becoming big problems, and guests start to recognize them before management has time to react. There are a thousand different casinos guests can visit to lose their money. To stay competitive, casinos need to be proactive. And focusing on the environment is part of the proactive strategy. You want the welcome a guest experiences to be so wonderful that shoving endless twenty-dollar bills into a slot machine will not be a problem.

  And so far, the Heights is killing the competition.

  The jovial concierge swings by with a tray and glass of water with lemon. “May I interest you in a glass of water?”

  He is a trip. And very into his job. “Why, thank you.”

  “The reservationist will see you now,” he says softly as he holds his hand out. He’s tall and lanky, all arms and legs. He leads me over to the check-in counter where a lovely young lady is smiling widely.

  “Ms. Yates, it’s so nice to have you with us for the next five days and four nights. I see we have you in the presidential suite.”

  I practically choke on my fresh lemon water. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “We’ve been instructed to take excellent care of you. We’ve delivered your bags to the room. We also have dinner reservations for you at Jackson’s Prime at eight o’clock. Miss Willow Carmichael will be joining you.”

  I can feel my mouth hanging open, so I snap it closed and force myself to smile. “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, she is on the reservation with Mr. Jeffrey Hammerstein. He made the change to the reservation about an hour ago.”

  I swallow the large lump now lodged in my throat. “Sounds great.”

  “Here is your key fob. Please take Heights elevators to the floor labeled PS. Stands for presidential suite.”

  “Or,” jovial concierge says as he leans into my space, “as I like to say, ‘PS, you’re going to have an amazing time here at the Heights.’”

  I laugh my best fake laugh. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Oh, yeah.” His voice is low, seductive, and this is the first time I am not impressed with the service supplied by this concierge.

  Chapter Three

  Cecily

  The presidential suite is absolutely ridiculous.

  The entryway is bigger than my first apartment with Luke. As I take the fifteen or so steps inside, the living area opens in front of me. The windows look out over Las Vegas Boulevard. The sun hasn’t even considered setting yet, so all the buildings are sparkling from the blazing rays. To my left is a huge kitchen. Apparently, people cook while they’re in Vegas? I laugh, and the sound echoes. There’s a welcome book on the table
in front of me, so I pick it up and thumb through it. I take my phone out and snap pictures of every page. Recon. Maybe I can do this spy business after all?

  As I flip through the pages, I see the room is a smart room, equipped with every aspect of technology I can think of. The bathroom floors are heated. The toilet seat as well. You name it, they’ve thought about it and addressed it. “There’s also an Alexa?” My voice is so loud in the large space.

  “Hello, Ms. Yates, and welcome to the Heights Casino. My name is Samantha.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say and realize I’ve just apologized to a freaking computer. A computer who already knows my name. To say my mind is blown would be insufficient. “Samantha, please play Grace Potter radio.”

  “Certainly. And do not forget you have a reservation at eight sharp at Jackson’s Prime.”

  I need a Samantha in my life all the time. I pray Julie will be this accommodating.

  As Grace Potter and the Nocturnals’ “The Lion The Beast The Beat” fills the empty spaces in the ridiculously large suite, I slip my heels off and rush to the window. I put my hands against the glass and rest my forehead on it while I look out on the hustle and bustle of Sin City. My stomach swirls as I look down. My inner good Christian girl screams at me to not get lost in the glitz and the glitter, but I already know the next five days are going to be filled with whatever I can get my hands on. I don’t know where that good Christian girl was when Willow walked into my life. Clearly, she was out to lunch.

  When I spin around so I can search for the master bedroom, I see a staircase which leads up to a balcony. I head over, admiring the decorations, trendy and stylish, with maroon and black highlighting everything. There are pops of yellow throughout: fresh flowers in a yellow vase—very nice touch—the yellow, rotary style telephone—also cool—the yellow and white subway tiles going up the wall next to the staircase—such a good use of the height. I am absolutely impressed with the accommodations thus far.