Spoiler alert—they were right.
That woman was more toxic than a nuclear reactor. Little-known fact—relationships qualify as radioactive when one person is faithful and the other has a couple lovers on the side. Inés had four, so I needed several decontamination showers after returning to the States.
My friends wasted no time urging me to get back out there.
“Now that you’ve escaped the evil clutches of your ex, it’s time to take advantage of your single status again,” my friend TJ had said over text. “And that should start in Vegas.”
He had a point. Our friends from the Quesadilla Club in college—Dina and Lauren—were getting hitched, so they invited the whole crew to Vegas for the wedding. It seemed like a perfect weekend, a chance to hang out with friends and fellow food lovers. Maybe I’d enjoy a rebound or just enjoy time with my buds. I was cool with whatever, I’d told TJ.
And so I went to Vegas, ready to have a good time before I started a new gig as a sous chef in San Francisco, a respite before I moved in with a bunch of roommates I found online.
The bride and bride hosted about ten of us, giving out chips as wedding favors. The night before the wedding, we broke out the purple ones and hit the blackjack tables at the New York, New York Hotel.
One by one, our friends went bust and decided to hit the roller coaster ride—TJ and Flynn, Dina and Lauren, and the rest of them peeling away from the tables.
But I was playing well, so I stayed in the casino, Emerson by my side. I was up by five hundred dollars and contemplating staying in, flipping the chip between my fingers, when Emerson rubbed her hands on her thighs.
Her nervous tell.
She’d done it in college when she was stressed about a test.
She did it when she was worried about her sister’s medical appointments.
My attention shot away from the card game. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
She drew a shuddery breath, her eyes straying toward where our friends had disappeared. “I have to tell you something.”
“Fire away,” I’d said, then left the table, cashing out.
“I hate roller coasters,” she blurted out, rubbing her palm on her jeans again.
I pressed my hand on top of hers and squeezed. “You don’t have to go, then,” I said gently. “We’ll meet them when they get off.”
But Emerson seemed to shuck off her anxiety with a crisp nod. “No, I want to do it. Callie used to love them. When we were kids, we used to ride them together, and she can’t ride them anymore. Her heart, and all. She wanted me to ride this on my trip.”
I was confused. “But she knows you hate them?”
“Yes. But here’s the thing: I used to love them too. Then last summer, I read a news article about a roller coaster that got stuck upside down for five minutes. I told John about it, and he proceeded to tell me every single terrible thing that had ever happened at amusement parks, chapter and verse. He had the facts at his fingertips.”
I sneered at the mention of her ex, Useless Fact Freddie. “That guy was a fucking tool. He was incapable of having fun. He had to tell you the amount of fat in every food, the risk of slipping in the shower, and the chances of falling out of a roller coaster.”
“Yes, I believe he’s what’s known as a buzzkill. Anyway, point being, Callie and I recently decided to do this thing where we face our fears. And she already did hers. Ergo . . .”
“It’s your turn?”
“Yup, and she killed it at hers. Here’s a pic.” Emerson whipped out her phone, slid her thumb across the screen, and showed me a shot of her and her sister . . . holding a pink, fleshy, veiny, foot-long, super-powered rabbit toy.
“Yeah, that scares the fuck out of me too,” I said, taking in the super-size schlong. “You could smack someone in the face and take out an eye.”
She snorted. “Yes, that was the fear she had to get over. Losing an eye,” she deadpanned.
I studied the pic. “Was your sister scared of a dildo?”
Shaking her head, Emerson stuffed the phone in her back pocket. “No. Of buying one. She’d never gone to a sex toy shop before. So, I took her to my favorite, where I get all my toys.” Emerson smiled and set her hand on her heart, beaming at her sister’s accomplishment—a complete contrast to the pinball game my brain was playing, buzzers whirring, lights flashing because . . . sex toys. “And I swear, I’ve never been so proud of her.” She pretended to choke up. “She was a big girl, asking all sorts of questions about the vibe’s ability to deliver toe-curling Os.”