by Nikki Chase
I knew medical school was going to be expensive and I almost decided to skip college so I could work in retail or something. That would’ve allowed me to bring in more money than I’m making now from my part-time job.
But Mom had other ideas. She told me she’d been saving up all that money specifically for my college fund. She said she was going to feel like she’d failed me if I didn’t go just because of monetary considerations.
I wanted her to keep some of that money for her retirement, but I decided to go into medicine in the end.
If we’re talking long-term, that should be a better way to go anyway.
By the time my mom retires, I should be making more than enough money to support us both, as well as any other additions to our family.
There’s still a long way to go until I get to that point, though.
For now, I enjoy the single life too much to get into a relationship with some girl. Between medical school and my part-time night job, working security at the mall, I barely have enough time to sleep as it is.
Of course, I’ve had relationships—I’m twenty-six after all. But they never lasted long. Every time I get close to a girl, I always start comparing her to someone from my teenage years, someone I’ll probably never see again in my life.
Nobody has ever made me feel the way she did.
I scoff as I hit the brake at a red light. As if she’ll give me the time of day.
Even if I happen to bump into her again, she’s probably forgotten about me. And if I manage to get her to speak to me . . . well, what then? I still wouldn’t be good enough for her, or her family—not even if I become a successful doctor.
There are always better guys out there for her, guys from wealthy families whose statuses match hers, guys who have never had to struggle for anything in their lives.
I don’t know why I still think about her now, ten years after everything happened. But I guess the first time always leaves the deepest impression.
I’m sure it wasn’t as perfect as my memory makes it seem. Everything’s probably exaggerated in my head. She probably wasn’t as beautiful as I remember, or as funny as I remember, or as smart as I remember.
My phone rings, jolting me back to the present. The ringtone sounds extra loud today as it’s amplified by the sound system in the car.
I press a button on the steering wheel to pick up the call. “Hello.”
“Hey, man, are you ready for Vegas?” Earl asks excitedly from the other end of the line.
“Dude, I was ready yesterday,” I say, matching his excited tone.
To be honest, I don’t really look forward to going back to that city where so many painful things have happened in my past. But this time, I have a big, happy reason to go.
When my mom and I moved to San Francisco ten years ago, I started hanging out with the neighborhood kids, even though many of them were a lot older than me.
Earl was one of those people. Despite his humble beginnings, he’s gone on to become one of the top neurosurgeons in the country. I wanted to grow up to be like him, and now I’m following in his footsteps. He’s one of the handful of people from our old neighborhood who has made it out of poverty.
We still talk on the phone, but it’s been ages since I saw him. He moved to Vegas eight years ago to be with this girl he fell head over heels for, and he’s been living there ever since.
Normally, I wouldn’t be able to go to Vegas because my mom would freak out about it, even if I try to tell her nothing bad will happen.
But I’m making an exception now because there’s no way I’m going to miss out on Earl’s wedding. I’m just going to tell Mom that I have another interview out of town, even though I’ve already received a confirmation about my medical internship.
“What about you? Ready for the wedding?” I ask, keeping my eyes on the long road. I’m really digging the way I don’t need to fumble with my phone or any earphones to talk on the phone.
Earl laughs. “I’ve been with my fiancée for eight years. I don’t think there are any surprise for me to worry about at this point.”
“Well, you never know,” I say. “Johnny Depp and Amber Heard? Lived together for three years, got married, then—boom, separated within a year. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie? Nine years together, got married, and then they separated two years later.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Earl asks.
I laugh. “I know. Seriously, though, I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”
“I know I will,” Earl says earnestly.
I envy his certainty. I can’t imagine getting myself tied down to a woman for the rest of my life and feeling that sure about it. Maybe it would be different if I were with her, but that’s out of the question.
“How do you know so much about celebrity relationships anyway?” Earl asks.
“Hey, don’t judge, man,” I say. “My mom watches those gossip shows all the time and I can hear the TV from my room. You know how fucking thin the walls are. There was a special on celebrity break-ups last night.”
“Okay, whatever. Let’s save the girl talk for tomorrow. How’s your mom?”
“Oh, you know. Stubborn, as usual. I’ve been telling her to reduce her hours at the diner because she’s always so exhausted when she gets home, but she won’t budge.
“I tell her we could live off her savings for now, and I’d deal with student loan payments when I start working full time. But of course she insists on paying my tuition and working herself to the bone.”
“Of course.” Earl chuckles.
Earl knows what my mom’s like. He used to live a few doors down from us in our grey, grody apartment building, and we used to hang out all the time—that is, until a Vegas girl charmed him and stole him away.
Seriously though, I’m happy for him. I wish I could find someone like that too, because it feels like nobody understands my shit the way Earl used to. Now that he lives in another city, things aren’t exactly the same as they used to be, although he’s still one of the closest friends I’ve ever had.
“Aiden,” he says, “I’ve got some wedding shit to deal with, so I need to go now, but I’m really looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, you beautiful asshole. Say ‘hi’ to your mom for me.”
“Sure thing,” I laugh as I end the call with just another press of a button on the steering wheel.
Cool car. I’m glad Matt’s letting me use it for the weekend.
It’s crazy because this car is more expensive than my medical degree, but he’s got a fleet of cars just like this one, and he happens to like me enough to lend it to me for free.
Matt’s such a chill guy I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind a scratch or two. But I was still hugely relieved to find that the kid on the skateboard didn’t cause any damage to the car.
Funny, I can't even afford to rent a shitty beat-up car. But I suppose it pays to have rich friends, even if their spending habits irk me.
As I turn the car onto the highway leading to Sin City, guilt plagues me.
I feel bad about not telling my mom about Earl’s wedding, but I have no choice. I wonder if she’ll understand when I tell her—after I get back from Vegas, of course.
My mom holds on to this superstition that bad things will happen to us if we ever step foot in Vegas again. But that’s irrational, right?
I can’t blame her after what she’s gone through, but that doesn’t mean I have to live by the same absurd rules she does.
So, I’m going back to Vegas for the weekend. I’m sure everything’s going to be just fine.
Aubrey
I stare at the rotating blur of pictures in front of me. It stops again—a pair of cherries on the first reel; the number “7” on the second reel; and another pair of cherries on the last reel.
I’ve been sitting here for the past half hour, jealously defending my seat from little old ladies. The casino is pretty crowded today, and I need to sit somewhere.
Mom and Hannah are upstairs, talking to t
he wedding planner about stuff I can’t care about. My sister’s wedding reception is going to be held in the hotel that’s attached to this ginormous casino. (Let’s not pretend that these establishments are more about hospitality than gambling.)
I stayed with them in the meeting room for as long as I could stand. But honest to God, they were arguing about whether to curl the ribbons wrapped around the thank-you gifts. Arguing.
I couldn’t take it anymore, and I figured I wasn’t helping either because, honestly, both versions of the thank-you gifts looked exactly the same to me. But I couldn’t go home without them either since we came here together.
So here I am, stuck in a glitzy casino jam-packed full of gamblers and tourists.
Don't get me wrong. I love my sister, so I’m actually really happy she's happy. I’m just not into weddings in general.
Hannah and her fiancée are the perfect couple, though. They’re always touching each other and smiling at each other . . . and there’s nothing more envy-inducing than watching them gaze at each other. It seems like they communicate so much in just one look, saying secret things to each other even when they’re surrounded by people on all sides.
Hannah and I used to have our own secret language when we were little girls, but it was pretty easy to crack. In fact, even though you don’t know it yet, you’re already fluent in this language. Basically, we just added “idig” to every word. For example, “thidigis iidigs aidig secridiget langidiguage” means “this is a secret language.”
We learned to do that from a bunch of girls in school, so it wasn’t even original. Plenty of kids were doing it.
For years, Mom and Dad pretended not to understand what we were saying, and I bought it.
I was sure all the parents whose girls spoke the secret language had sinister meetings where they talked about us in the shadows, working tirelessly to translate our mysterious language. But it was not only secret; it was sacred. And so we kept our lips tightly zipped.
In reality, of course the parents understood our secret language perfectly. They were just pretending not to, in order to gain an advantage in the eternal parent-child battle.
So no, Hannah and I never really had a secret language.
The looks that lovers share—that’s the real secret language. The only one that will never be decoded by anyone else.
Oh, but what do I know?
I’ve never had what I’d call a “healthy relationship,” and I know what the problem is: the guys I’ve dated were way too clingy. Somehow, I have a knack for picking out these guys.
Here’s how a typical relationship goes for me: I go on a handful of dates with a great guy; he tells me he loves me and I say it back because it’s awkward not to, and he's a great guy anyway; he wants to move in together; I put it off; he nags me to set a deadline; I tell him to stop bothering me; he keeps bothering me anyway; I leave him; he eventually fades out of my life; single again, I go on a date with a great guy.
The order and intensity of these stages differ, but that’s basically how it would go. Whenever I’m seeing someone, in my head I track our progress through this cycle and wonder how much longer it will take this time around.
There was only one time my relationship didn’t follow that trajectory.
I was sixteen, and he was the first boy I ever loved. When he told me he loved me, I cried and told him I loved him too. I meant it then.
And then, suddenly, he left. Without a trace.
He didn’t even leave a note, or call me on the phone, or email me, or text me.
I thought about him obsessively, always looking for something from him. Anything.
But nothing ever came.
I don’t know how long I waited for him. Hell, maybe I can’t fall for anyone else because I’m still waiting for him, as pathetic as that sounds.
Or maybe my heartbreak was so traumatic that I haven't been able to allow myself to fall in love again.
I don’t know.
One thing’s for sure, though, he doesn’t care about me. It’s been ten years since he disappeared, and I’ve never heard from him again.
So I have no luck in love, and apparently no luck in gambling either.
Maybe I should try doing something different. Wasn’t it Einstein who said the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results?
I should try a different game, or at least a different slot machine. And with regard to love, maybe it’s time for me to move on, to take a risk with another guy, to let myself be vulnerable again.
“Excuse me,” someone says, close to my ear. He smells like whisky. “I just have one coin left. Do you mind if I put it in?”
I expect to see a dirty drunk, but the sight I see when I turn my head takes my breath away.
This man, he’s beautiful. I swear I don’t usually use that word for men, but the creature in front of me deserves it.
His eyes are the color of glaciers, and they seem as cold, too. It suits him. In contrast, his hair is so dark it’s almost jet black. There’s a little bit of dark, chestnut brown in the sheen of his hair and the ends of the strands.
He tilts his head, and the warm light from the crystal chandelier above his head permeates his hair. Rough stubble the same mysterious color covers his strong jawline.
Like many other men here, he’s wearing something casual for the hot desert weather. But the way his jeans hug his ass, and the way his thin white shirt shows just a glimpse of the broad, hard chest underneath . . . If I stare at him any longer, I’ll have to start fanning myself, but I can’t look away.
There’s something about this beautiful man. Something familiar, although I’m pretty sure I’ve never met someone as captivatingly gorgeous before.
“So can I put it in?” the man asks again, his eyebrow cocked as he smirks.
He’s obviously noticed me staring at him. A man like him probably gets a lot of attention wherever he goes.
I blush as I realize the double entendre. Either way, for a man like him, my answer is “yes.”
“Thank you,” he says as he sidles up close to me, the rough denim of his jeans brushing against my bare arm.
I can vaguely feel the heat of his sturdy thigh underneath those jeans. I want to reach out to touch him with my hands, but I know I shouldn’t.
“Kiss it for me,” he says in a confident, self-assured voice.
I stop myself before I blurt out something stupid like, “You mean your thigh?” Think, Aubrey. He obviously means his coin, which he’s holding up.
“Sure,” I say as coolly as I can, under the circumstances.
His lips curl up and a chill runs down my arms. I return his smile, then I lean forward and kiss the coin, maintaining eye contact the whole time.
My lips meet the cold, hard coin but also graze against his warm fingers. Electricity courses through me at the contact, and I’d almost swear his eyes darken for a split second . . .
“Thanks,” he says with a panty-melting smirk before he turns his attention to the slot machine.
My gaze drops down to the bulge in his pants. It looks like a nice size. I wonder how he would feel against my palm, against my lips, or inside me . . .
I raise my gaze to look at his face. High cheekbones, thick eyebrows, and lips that are just so kissable. I lick my own lips as I imagine how he’d taste.
I should probably stop staring. Yes, I don’t see many people as beautiful as him, and maybe a part of me wants to prolong this moment as much as possible. But at the same time, I’m being weird and more importantly, I’m not using this opportunity as best as I can.
This is the first instance of good luck I’ve had all day.
This morning, before the plane finally took off from San Francisco, it sat on the tarmac for three hours—with all the passengers inside.
Then, my phone battery died, so I had to sit there doing nothing, while Mom and Hannah had a long discussion about whether to use bright-white or off-white cloth
napkins for the reception—again, I love my sister, but I just can’t get myself interested in that stuff.
After that, when we finally landed in Vegas, I waited and waited by the conveyor belt, but my bag never came.
And now, I’ve wasted a lot of (Dad’s) money on this slot machine that just won’t let me win.
So maybe the Universe is finally giving me a break in the form of this man. After all, he appeared right after I thought about taking a risk in love, so maybe that was a sign.
Plus, you know, the way he said “put it in” . . .
I part my lips to start some small talk. Maybe I should ask him if he wants to get out of here and hang out at some coffee shop.
“Oh, shit!” the man exclaims before I can say anything.
The slot machine plays some extra-loud music while the screen flashes.
“Yeah!” he says as the sound of coins clanging against metal fill my ears.
My jaw drops as the coins continue pouring like water into the bottom of the machine and spilling out onto the carpeted floor.
People are gathering around behind us, watching with the same shocked expression as the one I’m wearing.
What the hell…?
He just won!
After I sat here and played for more than half an hour, this guy just came along, inserted a single coin, and won the jackpot.
Life's not fair, and casinos are even worse.
I mean, this guy is hot and all, but he’s probably just going to walk away now, after using my slot machine and winning a big bucket of coins that I should’ve won.
Sure, he has a pretty face. But all things considered, it would’ve been better for me had this handsome stranger not messed with my machine.
“Fuck, yeah!” he shouts with an elated grin. He cups my face with both hands and quickly pecks me on the lips. “You must be lady luck. Let me buy you a drink at the bar.”
I stare at him. Did he just . . . kiss me?
“Sure,” I say quickly before this gorgeous man changes his mind.
Okay, maybe life isn’t that bad.