One More For The Road

by Delilah Blake

  I haven’t said a word. Anything I could say seems like it would take away from the moment between us. And so many moments with Jesse have been like this, perfectly bittersweet and slightly broken.

  I smile and take another sip of my rapidly melting milkshake. “You’re unbelievable.”

  The smooth plane of his brow furrows with worry, and I choke down a sip of frozen chocolate, realizing my mistake. “Not unbelievable like I can’t stand you. Unbelievable like I can’t actually believe you’re real. I try so hard to be angry with you sometimes, and then you go and do something wonderful or kind or incredible, and I can’t be mad! It’s… it’s unbelievable!”

  He laughs. “Why do you have to try hard to be angry with me?”

  Because I’m not ready for the alternative.

  “Because I’m probably a little bit insane,” I answer instead of the truth. “I thought you knew that already.”

  “Of course I did. It’s one of the many reasons I like you.”

  “I just don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  I blink back a fresh wave of tears. “Why you’re still here! I mean, look at me!” I throw my hands out, nearly knocking my glass over in the process. “Can you say Frances Renner: the world’s most neurotic, mentally unstable, borderline destitute disaster?”

  “Not unless you repeat it for me.” He lays his large hands flat on the table, and I have to restrain myself from reaching over and wrapping my fingers around his. “Frannie, listen to me. I’m here because I want to be,” he says. “It should go without saying that I’m attracted to you.”

  “It doesn’t have to go unsaid,” I interrupt.

  He smirks down at his half-eaten plate of fries. “If no man has ever told you how beautiful you are, then mankind is a fool. Although I’m sure you could feel just how attracted I am to you when you were straddling me at the motel the other night.”

  I blush despite my best efforts to control it.

  “But why I’m here has nothing to do with how stunning you are. I won’t lie and say you make my life easy. I think we both know that’s not the case. Because easy isn’t the same as better. And my life has been better since the moment I saw you in that bus station gift shop. You’re the reason I keep going. You make my life interesting. You frustrate me, and push me, and have me wrapped so tightly around your finger, I don’t think I’ll ever unwind. You make me work for every smile and laugh, and each time you offer one and I’m lucky enough to see you let down your guard, even for a moment, I feel so far from the man I was when I left home I can’t help but hope I never go back. I belong somewhere, even if that somewhere is constantly changing. Even if that somewhere turned out to be someone.”

  He dips his head, leveling his eyes with mine and causing my heart to slam against my ribcage. “I thought I needed to know,” he says, fixing me with an almost mournful stare. “I thought if I knew, then I’d have all the answers. And if I had all the answers, then I’d know whether this was worth the fight. But it turns out I don’t want the answers anymore. I don’t want to fight. All I want… is you.”

  I swallow hard, forcing down the flood of what I’m feeling in that instant. Hope. Shame. Guilt. Desire. Need. Fear.

  The truth is, I’m not frightened of his confession, or his touch, or the fact that he might very well be handing over his heart on a silver plate. I’m scared of hurting him. I’m scared he’ll realize I’m not worth the trouble. I’m scared of what might happen if I give him my heart in return.

  Because the last man to have it nearly choked on it.

  “Frances,” he says when I don’t respond, his voice little more than a breathless whisper. “I think I’m in l—”

  “Frances?”

  Jesse falls silent at the sound of my name leaping off someone else’s lips. I crane my head toward the back corner, finding a familiar face smiling at me across an empty table.

  15.

  “Martin?”

  Sure enough, it’s him, the pocket-sized, kindhearted man I met my first bus to Kansas City, an evening that now feels months ago.

  “Frances! It is you!” Martin exclaims in the familiar, soft rasp. He scoots himself out of his booth, his face splitting with a childlike smile as he holds out his arms.

  I jump out of my chair to hug him, nearly bending at the waist as his tiny arms wrap around me.

  “Martin,” I gasp as we pull apart. “I can’t believe it! I never thought I would see you again.”

  “Kismet has a funny sense of humor, my dear,” he says, smoothing his suit back into place before turning to Jesse and eyeing him the way an overprotective father might inspect his daughter’s prom date. “And who might this be?”

  I smile. “Oh! Right. This is Jesse, my—”

  My what?

  Friend?

  Travel companion?

  Man I’d like to strip naked before counting his abdomen muscles with my tongue?

  “Jesse, Jesse Tate,” Jesse interjects, sparing me the introduction. The expression of hopeful longing he’d carried before Martin interrupted him is long gone, leaving only the carefree smile I know so well. “And that came off sounding way more like Bond, James Bond than I intended.”

  Martin laughs and shakes Jesse’s hand. “Well, if you can’t be Bond in Vegas, when can you?’

  Jesse runs his fingers through his dark waves. “How do you two know each other?”

  “Martin and I met on the bus to Kansas City,” I answer. “Right before I met you, actually. He was connecting to Vegas and I was going to California.”

  “Didn’t quite make it though, did you,” Martin says. “What happened?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Well, I have more than enough time to hear it. Maybe over a few drinks at The Baccarat Lounge? They have a wonderful Sinatra impersonator performing tonight.”

  He tosses several bills on our table and offers me his arm. I hook my elbow around his, feeling very much like I’m being escorted by the mayor of Munchkinland. Jesse grabs our bags and follows.

  We walk a few blocks through the city. The lights, the music, the smells of world class cuisines all come at me from every angle, an assault of the senses. I try to take in as much as I can, but there’s so much life buzzing around that it’s almost impossible. I can do little more than gape open mouthed at the glamor and opulence as Martin leads us around the famed fountains of the Bellagio and through the front doors of the world-class hotel.

  The Baccarat Bar and Lounge is decorated by long, cushioned seating, exotic floral arrangements at the center of each table, and a grand piano at the center of the room. Low ambient lighting shimmers down on a man in a classic black and white tux, and matching fedora. His voice is rich and smooth, just like Sinatra’s as he leans against the piano and sings “Come Fly with Me” while a woman in a sparkling, blue dress tickles the black and white keys at his side.

  Most of the tables are already filled by couples on a first date, or singles wishing they had someone to share the music with, all of whom are huddled over fruit-based cocktails and shots the bartenders seem to be pouring faster than people can order. I scan over the glittering cocktail dresses and three-piece suits of the other patrons, suddenly self-conscious and wishing I had something other to wear than the crumpled t-shirt and shorts I’d thrown on early that morning.

  We find seats toward the far side of the room, close enough to hear the music, yet far enough to not be distracted by it. Martin gives our drink orders to the waitress, a 7&7 for me, a gin and tonic for Jesse and a wine spritzer for himself before she hurries off, spinning expertly through the tables with a large round tray balanced on her palm.

  “You look very handsome, Martin,” I say as soon as we’re all comfortably settled, noting his slicked hair and neatly trimmed beard. “I like the suit.”

  “Thank you. It’s new. I bought it after a big win in the casino my second night in the city.”

  “Oh, yeah? How big a win?” I smile.


  “Big enough to afford a week’s worth of meals at Charlotte and my favorite diner.” He chuckles to himself. “In fact. I was just clearing my plate when I looked up and saw you. I thought my old eyes were playing tricks on me.”

  “Who’s Charlotte?” Jesse asks as the waitress returns with our beverage es.

  “My dead wife.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I mouth to him from behind my hand.

  “And you, my dear,” Martin says, surveying my face. “You look… a bit tired.”

  You have no idea.

  So, I tell of my adventures since we’d parted ways as the Sinatra impersonator sings along to the soundtrack in the background

  I tell him about Travis, noticing how Jesse’s hands clench into tight fists as I recall this specific part, and sleeping outside the rest stop before finding a ride into Salt Lake City and staying the night in one-star motel. I beam as I brag about punching the overly handsy frat guy in the face and tell him all about the nice family who took pity on us and carted us into Vegas. I finish by mentioning the phone call with my sister and how the valet at the Elara told Jesse about the all-night diner.

  “… and then you called my name, and now we’re here,” I finish, taking a deep breath and large swallow of my 7&7.

  Martin takes a light sip of his spritzer, letting his eyes float around the table until they land on Jesse. “So, let me see if I understand correctly.” Martin leans back in his chair and strokes his beard as if contemplating a great philosophical conundrum. “You two are very nearly out of money. Am I correct in assuming that?”

  No point in lying. “Nearly, but not quite,” I amend.

  “And what were you going to do if I hadn’t run into you?”

  Deal with the aftermath of Jesse confessing his feelings for me by either mounting him right there at the table or deciding whether to drown myself in the restroom sink?

  I shrug. “We were going to book an Uber. Find the bus station. You know… just wing it.”

  “My dear, forgive me for saying so, but I find it hard to believe you’d make it down the strip with a plan like that, much less to California.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “The thought had occurred to me.”

  “And you, Mr. Tate,” Martin says, addressing Jesse. “What do you plan to do?”

  Jesse lifts his eyes from the drink in his hand. “I go where she goes,” he says after a moment.

  “And just how do you plan to go anywhere without money, my boy?”

  There’s something brewing in Jesse’s gaze, a thought or plan forming behind those caramel browns. I can’t tell what it is, but his voice rings with confidence as he answers. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Something in the way he says “it” makes me think he meant to say “her”.

  “I see.” Martin nods into his hands. “Well, I’m sorry children, but that simply won’t do at all.” He crosses his legs and reaches into the inner lining of his jacket, pulling out what appears to be a cream-colored credit card. “Do you know what this is?” he asks me.

  “A teleportation device that will somehow transport me all the way to California?”

  “It’s a room key,” Jesse says, ignoring my obviously sarcastic answer.

  “Not exactly.” Martin slides it across the table in my direction. I pick it up and flip it between my fingers before setting it back on the table a minute later. “It’s my room key, yes. But what you don’t know is that I’m a bit of a regular at this hotel.”

  “This hotel?” My mouth gapes open. “As in The Bellagio? As in the hotel so high-class George Clooney once robbed it with ten of his friends?”

  “I’m pretty sure Ocean’s 11 is just a movie, Frannie,” Jesse says.

  “Maybe that’s what they want you to think.”

  Martin continues over us. “Every year, to show their deep appreciation for my continued business over the years, the hotel rewards me with this: a pre-paid credit to anything in the hotel. The bars, the restaurants, the shops. Everything but my room and the casino. All expenses paid, first-class service right here on this card.”

  He pauses for dramatic effect.

  “And I’m giving it to you.”

  I’m not sure I’ve heard correctly. It sounded like he said he was giving me this card, this wonderful, magical, limitless card, but that’s ridiculous. The sleep deprivation must really be getting to me.

  It isn’t until Jesse speaks that I begin to believe I might have heard him right after all. “You’re giving us the card?” Jesse asks, quietly stunned. “Why?”

  “Well, I’m giving it to Frances first and foremost, but as you’re her traveling companion, you’ll be entitled to use it also,” Martin answers. “It’ll run for two more days before the account is shut down at the time of check-out. All you have to do is give the card to your server and whatever you’re buying is on the house.”

  Marin seems strangely calm for someone who is giving away his vacation to a complete stranger and one completely strange person.

  “But…but…” I stammer. “But I can’t take this!”

  “Of course you can,” Martin says with a gentle pat of my hand. “I insist. And quite frankly, I can’t think of anyone who might need a little luxury right now more than you.”

  “I can’t!” I protest as Frank begins another song from up on stage. “I…just can’t!”

  “Frances, I’m asking you to take it. I want you to take it.”

  “But—”

  He raises a wrinkled hand to stop any further protest. “You didn’t have to be nice to a nosy, old man that night on a crowded bus, but you were. You listened to my story and shared in return.” His eyes flicker to Jesse and I know he’s wondering if I’ve shared half as much with the man at my side. He seems to think better of giving away too much and I’m glad for his discretion. “I want nothing more than to make it up to you,” he finishes with a kind smile.

  “What about you? Where will you stay?”

  “I think it’s probably time to head home.” He takes another sip of his spritzer. “My Charlotte was waiting for me in all of the places I knew she would be, and we’ve had a wonderful time together. She’ll be waiting for me when I return, I’m sure of it. And too much of Las Vegas can make one’s head spin, you know.”

  Martin pulls a twenty from his breast pocket and lays it under his drink as a tip for the waitress. He stands and smiles down at me. “You know, I think Charlotte would have liked you, Frances. Very much.”

  He gives a tiny nod in Jesse’s direction. “Take care of our girl, Mr. Tate.”

  Jesse nods before Martin takes his leave, hands in his pockets, whistling in tune with the music as he saunters out of the lounge.

  Neither Jesse nor I say anything for quite some time but continue staring wide-eyed at the card lying between us on the table. I’m truly speechless. I can’t believe Martin just gave it to me. It hardly seems like fair reimbursement for the solitary night of conversation.

  I shake my head, still in shock over the peculiar scene that’s just taken place.

  And suddenly a laugh builds in my chest, escaping up and out through my throat in unladylike bursts. I laugh until I’m crying, until I snort, until a stitch forms below my ribcage, not caring that everyone in the lounge, including the Sinatra impersonator, is staring at me.

  I turn to Jesse with a wide, goofy smile etched across my face. “I can’t believe it! I mean, I thought for sure I would never see him again!”

  It’s then I realize that Jesse isn’t paying attention. He isn’t even looking at me, his gaze focused instead on the slowly melting ice swirling at the bottom of his tumbler.

  “Hello?” I wave my hand in front of his face. “Earth to Jesse?”

  His head snaps to attention and I’m stunned into silence by the emotions swimming in his eyes. Suddenly, we’re back at the all-night diner, and everything he’d planned on saying, on confessing, is back in play.

  “Dance with me,”
he says.

  Ok, didn’t see that one coming.

  I’m tempted to laugh, but his face radiates with eagerness, no sign of doubt or mockery marring the sincerity of his plea. I can’t find the logic behind it. What is going on in this boy’s mind?

  I resort to nodding.

  He sets his empty glass down on the table, his eyes never leaving my face as I slide the room key into the back pocket of my shorts. He reaches his hand out for mine, leading me from our table to the small dance floor circling the grand piano.

  I have to give the performer credit. Sinatra himself would be impressed with this impersonation. The singer has just finished with “Night and Day” and the pianist behind him begins to play a much softer melody, her fingers brushing the ivory keys with a gentleness and love only a skilled performer can master.

  Jesse pulls my hand up to his chest and slides his fingertips through mine as the singing begins.

  It’s quarter to three. There’s no one in the place, ‘cept you and me….

  So, set ‘em up Joe. I got a little story I think you should know…

  His arm reaches slowly around my waist, as if he’s taking precautions, like I’m a skittish horse he’s trying not to spook. His hand presses against the small of my back as he draws me to him, and I rest my open palm on his shoulder, feeling the hard roll of muscle flex beneath my fingertips.

  Make it one for my baby…and one more for the road…

  I lean my head into the crook of his neck as we begin to sway. It feels like it fits, like it’s meant to be there. We revolve slowly, feeling out the song’s natural, unhurried tempo.