Adult Conversation

by Brandy Ferner

  “This is such a fucking wreck.” She put her hand to her head.

  I noticed the “fuck” upgrade.

  “You are smart, strong, and will do anything for your boys. You will all come out of this.” Or would they? How the hell did I know?

  June suddenly pulled her head away from her hands to examine them. She turned her left hand over, fixating on her sizable, sparkling wedding ring. She quickly slid the ring off, put it in her change pocket in her purse, and zipped it closed. A flurry of unexpected emotions stirred up inside me.

  “Please have one or three of these shots with me,” June said. I momentarily ignored her to tug off my wedding and engagement rings. “What? You have a respectable husband.”

  “This isn’t about him. It’s about freedom. I want one night where I don’t belong to anyone.”

  June didn’t ask any questions. We were both speaking deep truths and trying on new identities. I put my rings inside an empty mint tin in my purse.

  “Now that that’s settled,” she said, pointing down at the table. My mouth gushed saliva just thinking about the awful taste of tequila. But I couldn’t let her take shots alone, in Vegas, while feeling utterly unloved. She licked and salted her hand, passing the shaker to me. Once ready and salted, I held my glass up.

  “This is for you, June. A therapist I deeply fucking respect, and a friend that I am quickly growing to love.” I touched my glass to hers, our misty eyes met, and we both tilted back the repulsive Mexican honey, scrunching our faces up and nearly gagging while sucking on limes.

  She picked up another shot. “Too soon?”

  “Nope,” I said, matching her.

  “This is for you, April. My only client-turned-friend and one of the few people I’ve let in. You were worth going against protocol.” Clink, tears, down the hatch, and gag.

  Thankfully there was only one set of shots left. My insides were revolting and I felt like I might throw everything up, but there was a rhythm I didn’t want to disrupt, so I grabbed my last shot. June followed. I held my glass up, again. “This last one is for my new BFF, Snoop Dogg.”

  “To Mr. Calvin,” she said.

  The third shot burned my soul.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting laid tonight.” Come again? “It’s been too long.” She looked around the bar. She had my support, but as her friend, I did have to ask some protective questions before we stood up and the tequila went straight to our brains.

  “Two things. First: will this hurt your case?”

  “No one will know a thing,” she said, tugging on her red hair.

  “Second: how do you know who will and will not take you back to their room and cut your organs out?”

  “Not sure. But I have a decent radar.”

  I looked at her like yeah, but your husband is pretty much the serial killer type, soooo. “Trust me, the radar has been updated.”

  “Well then, how can I help you get laid?” I said, smiling big. Almost too big. I felt a twinge of jealousy that June had free reign to go hand-pick a random man and be pleasured by him, if all went well and she didn’t end up dead. I hadn’t been in this position since I was eighteen years old. I rubbed my hand against the slick emptiness of my ring finger.

  “Where do nice but attractive guys hang out here?” June asked.

  “Gay bars?” But then I remembered an article about the guys from Chippendales and Thunder From Down Under–type shows actually being great lovers since they make women feel special for a living, or some shit like that. I told June.

  “Are you suggesting we go to a strip show?”

  “Maybe?” I questioned too, shrugging my shoulders. She looked skeptical. “Okay then, how about we try the next hotel over and see what we see?”

  June laid cash down on the wet table and we both stood up. The warmth of the tequila raced upwards to my brain. “Aw shit,” I said, feeling wobbly on my heels, like a freshly born baby deer.

  “I got you,” she said, steadying me. We linked arms and walked out of the bar together, like Dorothy and the Scarecrow. I was definitely the Scarecrow.

  As we walked back through the cobblestone streets of the Paris hotel, June stayed subdued, watching her back. But once we walked out into the street and then through the filigreed doors of the Bellagio, she loosened up and forgot about hiding. Her alcohol smiled at every passing man. All of them grinned back, and some even turned around to watch her pass. I yanked on her arm. “Be careful. Making eye contact makes them think you’ve signed a contract to blow them. Eyes down until you find one you really like.” But she couldn’t help herself. Something had opened up in her and she was reveling in being seen in an entirely new way.

  Off in the distance, the sound of thumping hip-hop music lured me like the Pied Piper.

  “Oooh, let’s see what’s over there!” I pulled June in the direction of Jay-Z’s “Izzo.” The booze in my body demanded my muscles move to the beat and find my way to the dance floor. The physiological urge couldn’t be fought. I needs Izzo! She pointed to the bar and headed offto grab a drink.

  Not two seconds after stepping into the small sea of other people obeying their alcohol-induced physiological urges, a dude wearing a long drink around his neck that looked like a dong—a terrible phenomenon only found in Vegas—grinded me hard from behind. The me of twenty years ago might have let the ass humping go on for a bit before politely dancing her way to the other side of the floor, but the me of tonight turned around with gusto. “No way. Get the fuck off me.”

  The guy made a sad face and danced his way to some other shaking ass nearby. I got back into my groove when 70s-era Michael Jackson came on, until I remembered all the details from the Leaving Neverland documentary. Jesus, April, let yourself enjoy something. Sometimes bad people make good art. Also, 70s-era Michael is surely the safest Michael. I closed my eyes and sang all the words. I was free. This was heaven on Earth.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw June chatting with a clean-cut guy with an old-timey haircut. His jawline was manly and defined, like Gaston’s. I stretched my neck to get a glimpse of what he was wearing, when suddenly a man in a number 18 Denver Broncos jersey came into my line of vision and moved toward me, gyrating.

  “I noticed you were staring at me,” he said, grinning.

  “Nope. Just looking for my friend,” I said flatly. I turned around to get back into my MJ zone, alone. But there he was again, in front of me.

  “That sounds cool, I have a friend too.”

  I was done. Trying to dance in Vegas was not worth it. I shook my head and turned to go find June, until the guy shouted at my back.

  “No wonder you’re single. Learn how to relax and have some fun, bitch.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. I felt like Anger, Elliot’s favorite character from Inside Out, bright red with smoke fuming out of my ears. Lots of things had changed since I last found myself drunk, dancing at a club without a chaperone, but apparently guys on dance floors still had the lock on deciding if a woman was fun or not based on their willingness to be dry-humped.

  I walked like an Army general toward this bag of shit. He smirked until I got right in his face. I wished I’d had Violet as a weapon again.

  “Let me tell you something, Peyton Manning. You know nothing about me. I am a fucking. Fun. Ass. Woman,” I said as I poked his chest hard with each word. “I smoke Snoop Dogg’s weed, I go to topless pools, and I help my girl over there get laid in Vegas. So why don’t you go reread the manual on what to wear when trying to pick up a female and then jack off into a John Elway poster.” I whisked around and walked off before he could respond. “Female?” “Jack off into a John Elway poster?” Really, April?

  I spotted June cozied up to the good-looking fellow at their own tall bar table in the back. Visually, the two were a perfect match—their beauty equal. The guy looked trans-fixed on June, who glowed as a drunken red head. I approached the table, hoping he had promise and wa
s not a total douche.

  “April,” June said when she saw me. “This is Dylan.” She tucked her fake hair behind her ear.

  Dylan wore a Mister Rogers cardigan, his buff arms nearly tearing out of it. He reached his hand out to shake mine. “Nice ‘ta meet ya,” he said with an intoxicating Australian accent.

  I wasn’t sure what to say. My friend wants to get laid, but I need for you to treat her really well didn’t seem appropriate. Instead, I asked, “What brings you to Vegas?”

  “My work is ‘ere, and grad school. I was just telling your friend Alyssa ‘ere about it.”

  I looked at June who was apparently now going by “Alyssa.” She winked. Smart, June, smart.

  “He helps people die.” June was grinning and drunk.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “No—well, yes. But let’s be clear ‘ere. I work in palliative care,” he explained, blushing.

  “I know you don’t kill people.” June patted his arm like she’d known him longer than three minutes. “But you do help dying people feel more at peace as they make the transition into death,” she said beaming, as if directly at me to say, “LOOK AT THIS TREASURE I FOUND!”

  “Next you’re gonna to tell me you spend your free time holding babies in the NICU,” I joked.

  “That has actually been part of my rotation for school. Death and birth: same deal, different ends.”

  This guy was a fucking diamond in the rough. Trying not to jump the gun and show my full approval, I had a few more questions. “So you work, too?”

  “Yeah, nights. At the Excalibur.”

  “Oooh, blackjack dealer? Pit boss? Magician?” I wanted to know the behind-the-scenes secrets of whatever he did.

  “Not quite.”

  “Thunder From Down Under dancer?” I asked. June and I cackled, but then realized he did have an Australian accent. And he wasn’t saying no. There was a pause and then Dylan shyly nodded a small yes. June and I looked at each other, eyes wide, trying to seem chill.

  “Now that ya know that about me, would you like to go, or keep talking?” he asked June, as if there was a code of conduct for admitting you’re a male stripper. I found his respect for informed consent sexy.

  “I’ll stay,” she said, with zero hesitation, hanging on him. He smiled at her and snuggled in closer. Dylan was everything she needed right now. He could help her transition from this life to the new one as a single mother that awaited her in Orange County, with lawyers, video evidence, and custody battles, while also turning her out in the bedroom.

  Before I walked away, I gave a final smile to the two, like a blessing. Sure, there was a slight chance this death doula was a wanted criminal, but I agreed with June that he was worth the risk.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Blue-Eyed Man

  I walked under the Bellagio’s glass-flower sky, alone, and suddenly felt painfully aware of it. The glow from the colorful, luminous ceiling highlighted the couples underneath. I’d been completely alone for less than five minutes and here I was, weirdly pining for my husband who I was mad at and had intentionally left behind. I felt like slapping myself. Wake up, April, this is what you wanted. Enjoy it.

  I abandoned the garden of lovebirds and spied a bank of felt-covered craps tables. I might as well. It was Saturday night, which meant the tables were full and the bet minimums were at their highest. I remembered how savvy I felt when playing table games in Las Vegas, especially craps. There were lots of confusing ins and outs with various ways to bet, and what each dice roll meant, and I could hold my own among the men wearing diamond-encrusted watches. I refused to be the woman who stood behind her gambling man because she couldn’t possibly understand the game like he could. Back in the day, when it was my turn to roll the dice, Aaron would do his best craps dealer voice—similar to a hot dog vendor—and say, “We’ve got a hot lady shooter here! Lady shooooota!”

  I watched the tables carefully, trying to get a feel for which one had the most winning energy. A packed one on the end erupted in shouts and high fives. I turned in their direction, watching from a few feet away, seeing if the table’s good luck was beginning or ending, and contemplating spending money on gambling. I could probably justify it as “self-care.”

  In all the hopeful faces cheering around the sacred, green felt, one caught my eye. He had dark hair and a baby face like my kindergarten crush, Drew Beaverson. He must’ve noticed my intrigue because he scooted over to make room for me, motioning that there was a space if I wanted it. I stepped forward and wiggled my way between the shoulders of the lively players, who had just hit their winning number. I smiled at the man with just enough reserve to avoid entering into a blow job contract. His eyes were a brilliant blue.

  “I hope you’re more good luck for us. This table’s fire,” the blue-eyed man said.

  “Don’t go jinxing it,” I replied with a flirty smile.

  I reached into my wallet, past the pictures of Elliot and Violet, and pulled out three fifty-dollar bills from my popup shop earnings. I set the money on the soft green. The table’s stick man pulled the cash toward him with his wooden rod, looked at the bills for a second like they might be counterfeit, and then finally changed them out for rubbery chips. He slid the chip stack over to me, along with six dice.

  “Good luck, lady shooter,” the stick man said. I liked the power that came with being the shooter, but not seconds after joining the table. These people had worked hard together and formed unbreakable bonds. I couldn’t just walk up and insert myself into the profitable world of their creation. I hesitated.

  “It’s not as scary as you think. Pick two and give it your best shot,” the blue-eyed man guided me, as if I were a craps virgin. I slid my bet out on the come line. Oh honey, I’ve been doing this shit for years.

  I picked through the dice, grabbed two, tapped them on the spongy felt wall two times, and lifted them up and forward just enough so they kissed the table’s opposite wall. They fell down with a seven showing. The table cheered.

  “Okay, okay, I see. You’re not new at this,” the blue-eyed man said, laughing and sipping his cocktail with an embarrassed, cute smile.

  The stick man slid everyone their payouts and then glided the dice back to me. I rolled again. It was a six, which was a good solid number in craps. We all put our bets out across the board. A black-haired woman wearing a shiny pink jacket, and with a terminal case of resting bitch face, threw her chip out, knowingly. I rolled the dice again, the eager faces at the other end of the table fixated on the red cubes as they landed. The table roared in drunken hysteria. I had hit the six again—a payday for everyone. The blue-eyed man put his hand up for a high five. I gave it to him, gladly. The other players looked at me, tipping their non-existent hats in my direction. Confident, and with total support from my loyal tablemates, I picked the dice up once again and rolled. An eight. The table buzzed with payouts and new bets. They had faith in me. Look at how much happier I was in my new life.

  The blue-eyed man threw out a chip to the stickman, and smiled at me. “Hard eight for the lady shooter.” He had put a bet on the table for me, as a reward for my performance. I felt a slight obligation along with it, as if the harmless flirting had advanced into something else, but everyone was waiting for me, so tap tap. I rolled the dice. Everyone’s necks craned to make the call.

  It was a seven. I had crapped out.

  In unison, the entire table made an “aghhhhhhh” sound, like fifteen Elliots being told their screen time was up. Some people even walked away from the table in disgust, shaking their heads. Those that remained looked like the deflated balloon from the Bin of Pointless Crap. I felt ashamed. I had let everyone down, including the blue-eyed man who had put his money on me. Maybe my luck had turned because he had attached strings.

  “Sorry everyone,” I mumbled in the table’s direction. I looked down at the few chips left in my hand instead of the disapproving faces. The craps table had treated me just like motherhood had—one minute I
’m up, the next, I’m down. The sweet spot had been so fleeting.

  “It happens,” the blue-eyed man spoke up. “I crap out so much that I won’t even roll.”

  I laughed out loud. Only in Vegas could a stranger say they “crap out so much” and have it not refer to their shitting habits.

  “New shooter!” the stickman announced. At the end of the table, sorting through dice and preparing to roll was another woman. She looked to be in her mid-sixties, with a kind smile, porcelain skin, and her brown hair in a small bun. She was petite, wearing a striped sweater with a collar sticking out, and standing next to a tall, good-looking man with grey hair, who was quickly setting his bet out before she rolled. I was captivated by something about her. Instead of putting my own bet out on the table, I watched them intently.

  She rolled the dice with a similar lift and drop style to mine, except she added a playful blow right before she let them fly. The dice revealed an eight. The fair-weather table clapped at the solid number and spread their bets out. Aaron and I always bet on an eight, but I was too engrossed to ante up. The tall man with grey hair bent down and gave his lady shooter a kiss on the cheek. My eyes zoomed to the woman’s left hand, which displayed a shining gold wedding ring with a row of four large diamonds. I checked out the tall man’s left hand too. He had a matching four-diamond ring, but with a chunky gold band instead of her thin one.

  I felt weak. I looked around at the faces surrounding the table, desperately searching for someone. A young-looking man with freckles placed his chip down, unsure, asking the dealer what the “come” line meant. A girl leaned on him, carrying a purse that was screen-printed to look like a ghetto blaster. They looked about fifteen. After listening to the dealer’s instructions, she laid down her bet after his and they looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders, innocence pouring out of their eyeballs. The blue-eyed man asked for another drink as the scantily-clad cocktail waitress barely stopped to take his order.