I felt the urge to text Aaron that I would probably be home tomorrow, but June was already walking to the elevators, and he didn’t deserve it.
Once the elevator doors dinged us to the 22nd floor, I started to settle into what it felt like to be on a trip alone without a stroller, car seat, and a Pack ‘n Play. I felt carefree as I pulled just my suitcase down the long hall to our room, noticing the hypnotic patterns on the carpet. My high from the pot had transitioned nicely into a natural high from autonomy.
When we walked into the gold-and-ivory-striped room that looked more circus-like than Paris-like, June quickly plugged her phone in a charger and asked me to do the same. “If we’re gonna get video, we can’t have a dead battery derail this whole thing,” she said.
Next, we flopped on the king-sized bed. Bed bugs be damned, it felt good to mess up someone else’s sheets. We laid there, in silence, soaking in the stillness and hopefully not too many stray pubes from strangers. It didn’t matter how nice a Vegas hotel was, Vegas was Vegas. I could’ve easily fallen asleep right then and there.
“Ready to be a detective?” June asked.
“I guess. Does it mean I have to put on a swimsuit?”
“Well, only the bottoms,” she said, smiling like Elliot when he’s chiseling. I buried my face in a pillow.
“I’m going to change into one too,” she said. “Best to be ready for whatever.”
I hesitantly made my way to my bag. “I’m just going to warn you, I will be wearing the boy-shorts version of a bikini because it’s been a while since I’ve done any landscaping down below,” I said, sliding my stark white legs into black and white polka-dotted swim shorts.
“No judgment,” she said, pulling out a strappy, crocheted purple and gold number. I was 100% sure that June’s nether regions were perfectly coiffed all the time.
Standing in front of the wide bathroom mirror, amidst the marble everything, I made a sad attempt at applying eye shadow. “Why am I so terrible at this?”
“Here, can I try something on you?”
I turned to June like all Plain Janes turn to their hotter, more skilled friends with ten times the amount of eye shadows and lip glosses.
“Close your eyes,” she said, bringing a thin brush up to my eyelid. I obeyed. She painted and brushed and lined. “Okay, open.”
She had given me the most picture-perfect smoky eyes. I squealed like Violet. “I’ve always wanted smoky eyes!” Like most women when put in the hands of a talented make-up artist, I was pretty sure I was model beautiful. A quality eye job was so powerful that it could change the way a person walked.
We put on the finishing touches—a breath mint for my weed mouth and bronzer for June—and stopped for one last look in front of the funhouse-sized mirror by the door. We were both in tight pants, low-cut drapey tank tops with our bikini tops peeking out, and fuck-me heels.
“I’m just missing one thing,” June said walking toward the bathroom. She carefully lifted something from a box that was tucked away in her bag. She bent over, gathered her hair in a tight band, shimmied something on her head and stood upright. She was wearing a wig. It looked just like her long, wavy hair, but now she was a redhead. Then she put on a pair of Warby Parker cat-eye glasses and turned to me. “Would you be able to recognize me in this?”
“Whoa,” I said, stunned by her ability to be gorgeous no matter what she did. “No.”
We walked back down the long hallway to the elevators, this time with a sway in our hips that hadn’t been there before. Heels + Vegas = sexy swagger, no matter the reason for being there. A funeral in Vegas + heels? Swagger. A medical-supply expo in Vegas + heels? Swagger.
“Where are we headed first?” I asked as we cascaded downward in the ‘90s rock-blaring elevator alone, staring at an ad for $9.99 prime rib.
“I think we start at Mamelle. It’s the only specific information I have, so it seems most promising.”
The elevator doors telescoped open, welcoming us into the land of old dudes wearing Tommy Bahama shirts and young dudes wearing Hollister. I spotted a sign that pointed the way to Mamelle, next to a royal blue upholstered seat in the round that sprouted up into the ceiling and fanned out like a flower. We followed the arrow.
June’s eyes constantly scanned right and left, and her walk was focused. I was on the lookout for Chet too, but fell behind while getting drawn into the sensorial delights—the R&B group performing “Uptown Funk” and the cheers from the craps table, which was Aaron’s and my favorite Vegas game.
We eventually reached the front entrance of Mamelle, which was a tall, black wall for privacy with a sheet of water pouring down it, spraying over the illuminated letters of “Mamelle.” June turned to me. She was breathing deeply, fanning herself and walking in a circle.
“It’s okay, I’m here. We can do this,” I said.
She stopped circling, closed her eyes and opened them again, looking straight at me. “Will you go in there and try to find him?” I could tell she knew the weight of the favor she was asking. I rubbed my temples with my thumbs.
We had talked on the surface about going into Mamelle, but I had never formally said “yes.” Mom Code rattled inside me like an earthquake, telling me that I must do this for my friend. But the most loathsome part of my body, that I was most insecure about, was my chest, or lack thereof. It was the part of me that I wanted to hide. The part that made me feel not good enough, not womanly enough, and unsexy. Going topless would mean no padded bra between me and the world. I imagined the stares, the laughs, and how I would become a part of someone’s epic Vegas story: “Remember we went to the topless pool and there was that dude there, but it was a lady? That was hilarious!”
I put my hands on my head, covering my eyes with my palms.
“I know I’m asking a lot, April,” June said in a respectfully desperate way. This day had already seen so many new sides of me—the me that leaves her husband and family on a whim, the me that smokes weed, the me that walks like a sex kitten in heels, with flawless smoky eyes— why stop there? What did it really matter if I became part of someone’s funny Vegas story?
“Okay,” I said, looking into her eyes, which were welling up with gratitude. “No crying right now,” I reprimanded. “I don’t want you to get me started. I’m about to look like an idiot and it’s exponentially creepier if I’m crying while doing so.” She obeyed. I had another question. “So, if I see Chet in there, do you want me to just video whatever I see?”
“Yes. But make sure you’re close enough. A jury has to be able to tell it’s him. That’s the most important part. It has to be clear.”
I nervously vanished behind the wall of water.
On the other side was a nearly topless D-cup desk attendant whose name tag read “Jessica.”
“Hello, velcome to Mamelle. How can I help you?” she asked in a forced French accent dripping with lip gloss, like she was the duster in Beauty and the Beast.
“Um, I’d like to use the pool.”
She glanced at my chest and back up to my face. I started to sweat.
“‘Zis pool?”
“Yes, the pool I just said I wanted to use.”
She looked at her computer screen and clicked feverishly on the mouse, which I assumed was some sort of alert that the scenery at the pool was about to degrade. Maybe she was preemptively doling out refunds.
“Follow me,” she said, stepping out from behind her desk and showing a tiny Moulin Rouge–inspired costume that outlined her derriere like the peach emoji. She led me back into a fancy changing room and handed over a key to a locker. “Zis is where you may put your things. And I vill just need to take your phone.”
“Wait, you have to take my phone?” I asked, trying not to sound like I was too eager to take naked photos of other people.
“Vee do not allow any picture taking at Mamelle and therefore vee require that vee hold your phone at zee front desk, and you vill receive it upon leaving.” She held her hand out for my phone.
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This could’ve been the perfect excuse for me to not have to bare it all, but I knew that even if I couldn’t get video, it would be helpful to at least see if Chet was there. Then we could wait for him outside, all night if we had to.
I handed my phone over. She pulled a cloth case out of her overflowing bra, lowered my phone into it and gave me a numbered tag. “Zee entrance to zee pool is over there.” She pointed to a door made of hanging ribbon. “And ven you are finished, you come out zee way you came in. Any questions?”
I had about thirty, but instead tried to play it cool.
She walked out and I was left alone. There was no one else in the locker room. Slow night. Or maybe everyone else was smart enough not to go to a topless pool.
I took off my pants and tank top. The heels would be staying on. Maybe my long legs could make up for my lack of sexiness on top. I paced in my bikini and heels. It was the moment of truth. But first, sunglasses. Totally normal at night. I swallowed hard and untied my black bikini top from the back of my neck, and undid the clasp. It fell forward into my hands. I was officially topless. The draft of air on my nipples, coupled with being half-nude in public, sent me into a panic. I bolted through the ribbon door, not knowing what stood on the other side of it.
As I birthed myself into the pool area, strobe lights hit my barely A cups from all angles. Through the colored, pulsing lights, I saw a smattering of people lounging on chairs—about a dozen men and two women—both wearing their motherfucking bikini tops!
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?
I turned right around, soaked in embarrassment. I flew back into the locker room and bungled my bikini top back on with haste. Oh fuck this. Fuck this a million ways.
Like a complete bozo, I didn’t realize that this was a top-optional pool, and now I had to go back out there and look for Chet. How much had anyone seen? I wanted to put this whole charade behind me, so I discreetly eked my way through the hanging ribbons, making zero eye contact, and heading straight for the bar in the back. There hadn’t been an uproar of laughter, so maybe no one had noticed. I kept my head down while ordering a smokescreen mojito and began to scan the premises for Chet with my sunglass-covered shifty eyes. All I wanted was tea. And more weed. Pounds of weed.
Young guy. Tool. Tool. Young guy. Tool. Although there were tools there, my completed scan showed none of them were Chet. Great, I could be done with this godforsaken place. As I turned to leave, the bartender set down my drink.
“Don’t forget your drink, ma’am.” At least he got my gender right.
I grasped the cold, wet glass, and in an attempt to just GTFO, I sucked down the entire mojito in ten seconds and scrammed. It had mint in it, after all. It was basically peppermint tea. I hoped my bowels would show mercy on me. I stopped at the desk on the way out to retrieve my phone.
“Leaving zo zoon?” Jessica asked as she slid me the bill and my phone. I said nothing, grabbed my phone, threw cash down, and escaped.
As I rounded the tall wall, I saw red-headed June sitting on a slot machine chair in the near distance. The booze I had pounded was starting to hit me.
“June!” I yell-whispered. She looked up, eager for the word. I rushed over. “You are never going to believe this.”
“What? Was Chet there?” she asked, and then paused. “Are you laughing? You smell like rum.” I was trying to hold it together, but the events of the last fifteen minutes were piling up. She eyeballed me, impatient.
“First, Chet was not there. Second, I went topless at a pool where everyone else was wearing a fucking top.”
“Wait, you didn’t have to be topless?”
“No.” I snapped. “I walked out with my nipples on parade, like a freak, and everyone else was wearing tops.”
June unsuccessfully tried to hold back her laughter. “I’m so sorry.” She was doubled over. “Did anyone see you?” she asked, grabbing my arm.
“Just everyone. Strobe lights were hitting me. I think I blacked out for a second,” I said through laughter that made me fall all over the slot machine chairs, drunk. I stood up and waved my hands in my face to get air. “It was horrifying, but now that I’m not there anymore, it was hilarious!” We could barely breathe through our cackles. People were starting to look at us.
We regained our composure and wiped our eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed that hard. I instinctually clicked on my phone to message Aaron all about it. Then I remembered. I scrolled through my messages, wondering if he had sent a text. He hadn’t.
“I really had no idea that topless pools were actually top-optional,” June said. “I assumed they were strictly topless.”
“You and me both, friend,” I said, raising my hand for a high five from her. She raised her hand to consummate the fiver but never followed through. Her face fell.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dorothy and the Scarecrow
June silently pointed behind me, mouthing a single word. “Chet.”
I froze. My neck wanted to turn right around and see for myself, but I kept still as she slid over, directly in front of me so that she would be blocked from Chet’s view. I studied her eyes, trying to see the reflection off of them. They were alert at first, and then they began to fill with tears. I felt the overwhelming need to comfort her or to take action, but I had no idea what was specifically happening behind me. I tried to be her rock, even though the mojito and my empathy were making it a challenge.
Finally, she softly spoke into my ear. “He’s sitting at a table in the café and he’s with a woman. He keeps kissing her.” June’s voice tightened at the end.
“Let’s get you to a chair and out of sight. Then I will make my move,” I suggested, calmly, like a stewardess during an impending plane crash. June nodded blankly, and we both shuffled to a chair like we were in the three-legged race, keeping our alignment. She sat down and swiveled away from the scene. “Are you okay?” I asked. She didn’t respond. Of course she wasn’t okay. “Wait here.” I squeezed her shoulder and dashed off toward the café.
Chet and a young woman, who was in the same type category as June—stunning and blonde—sat at a wroughtiron café table, overlooking the casino walkway, like they were on the Champs-Élysées. Romantic French music spilled into my ears as I casually got closer, using the nearby foliage for cover. I lifted my phone up, moving my thumbs to pretend to be casually texting, but tilted the screen just so, capturing Chet and his faux-June in the frame perfectly. His face was in clear view and as intense as I remembered. He was still wearing those goddamn neon orange sneakers.
I steadied my shaking hands as I pressed the red record button. Chet and his lady were sitting so close that his legs were like outside barriers to hers under the table, blocking her in. He leaned over and kissed her with his entire Terminator face and tongue. She appeared to enjoy it. I gagged. What was this woman’s story? Was she paid for?
I glanced over at June, who had turned herself so that she could peek at the action from behind a slot machine. After five long minutes of watching Chet and his orange sneakers prey on this woman, I hit the red button again and stopped recording. I pivoted around and walked back to June. She stood up, silent, and we both walked away from the scene of the crime.
“Will that work, was it enough?” I asked her with sadness.
She nodded yes.
I put my arm around her and swept us away to a dark bar I’d been to before with Aaron, finding the most tucked-away spot in the back. She plopped herself down on the plush chair, much like I remembered doing on the couch in her office.
“How dare he.” June slammed her fist on the table. Hatred dripped from her voice. It was jolting to see June in this state. She was the stable one. “What a piece of shit. How could he lie to me and our boys? Is she his mistress back home or just some floozy he paid for? I don’t understand.” It was the first time I’d ever heard June swear. I liked it.
Suddenly, a cocktail waitress who couldn’t read a room walked up with her chirpy, eager
spiel. “Hi ladies, how’s it going? Can I get you one of our delicious drinks tonight?”
Still numb from the mixture of pot, rum, and adrenaline, I shook my head no.
“I’d like six shots of tequila, please. Limes and salt,” June said like a boss. My eyebrows lifted. The night was taking yet another unforeseen turn. “I did this to myself. I stayed with a man who I knew had the capability to disrespect me and our boys. I deserve this.”
“June, no. This isn’t your fault. You stayed to protect everyone from Chet’s wrath.”
“Did I? Or did I stay because I couldn’t face it?” She was angry and grasping.
“Chet would’ve made your life miserable if you left, right? Give yourself some slack, you have a mercenary husband.”
“I let this happen,” she bellowed from a low place. “I didn’t stick up for myself or my boys. I tried to hack off the pain and the disappointment every day and now look where I am.”
The jolly waitress appeared with the bounty of tequila shots. “Enjoy, ladies!”
Fucking Vegas.
June took off her glasses, wiped her eyes, and surveyed the row of shots before us. “I didn’t expect this to hurt so much. Chet repulses me, but seeing him with that other woman reminded me that he didn’t cut off that part of himself, like I did. He just looked elsewhere. Why didn’t I?”
I spoke softly, knowing I was treading on fragile ground. “Because you were busy being Chase and Charlie’s mom.”
“But why didn’t I go looking for that different kind of in-love love—that need to be desired? And why didn’t Chet tell me to go? He kept me as much as I kept him. I stayed out of fear, but why did he stay?”
I recognized what was happening. Despite her training, degrees, and office bookshelf, she couldn’t see the big picture of her own life, just like she had told me.
“Chet is a power-hungry, egocentric control freak. He didn’t let you go because he wouldn’t be able to control you.” I was not choosing my words carefully anymore. June didn’t make a peep. “The guy has his name on everything in your house. He might as well have wallpaper with dick pics.”
Adult Conversation Page 19
