This Changes Everything

by Gretchen Galway

  “It’s not serious, it’s just a statement of fact. Are you really so vain you need me to reassure you about how good-looking you are? When you’ve gone through life having women throw themselves at you?”

  “It’s not whether or not it’s true,” he said. “It’s that you think so.”

  “It’s an objective truth. I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

  The crowds became too thick to talk about it anymore. He wanted to lead her to a spot where they could get a decent view, which was going to be difficult on a Friday night, but eventually they found an opening as the previous viewers cleared out.

  Cleo began chatting with a woman and her two small children, all of them in lawn chairs, bundled in fleece blankets and holding Starbucks cups. The woman told her about the fountain, which they’d been watching now for two hours on and off, and Cleo kept up the friendly small talk for several minutes. Sly tuned it out until Cleo grabbed his arm and dragged him closer.

  “Well?” Cleo asked—not him, but the woman.

  “He is gorgeous,” she said brightly, licking her lips. “Don’t you think he’s cute, Katie?”

  The four-year-old looked around in confusion, not associating the big, scary stranger man with “cute,” which obviously applied to creatures like bunnies and herself.

  He waved at her. “Sorry.”

  “Good with kids, too,” the mother said. “You two married?”

  Cleo laughed. “No, we’re—”

  “Waiting.” Sly put an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Cleo’s not quite ready for me yet.”

  “He’s just kidding,” Cleo said. In the press of the crowd, she couldn’t pull away.

  “Oh, I know,” the woman said. “It’s always the man who thinks he isn’t ready. Don’t worry. He’ll come around.”

  Cleo shook her head. “No, I don’t—”

  A sudden shift in the lights indicated the show was starting, cutting off the woman’s interest. Cleo made a face at Sly, then seemed to forget everything but the hundreds of jets of shooting water dancing in time to Frank Sinatra. Sly had seen it before, but the music was different. Rather than watch the fountains, he watched Cleo, amused by how she scrunched up her nose when she was concentrating.

  Only fifteen minutes later, the show was over. By then she was leaning into him, letting him hold her against his side, and he regretted their cuddle was coming to an end.

  She broke away from him, waved good-bye to the woman and her children, and started walking back the way they’d come.

  “How about a drink?” he asked her.

  “Just one, all right? I’m kind of tired.”

  “Are you sure you want to walk? We could get a taxi or a tram—”

  “I’d rather walk. Thanks.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets and stared straight ahead, ignoring the men wearing T-shirts declaring STRIPPERS DIRECT TO YOU who were handing out cards with women’s photos on them.

  He’d expected her to talk more about the fountains. “Didn’t you like the show?”

  “It was great. I thought about staying for the next one. Maybe tomorrow.” She sounded distracted.

  It was possible she was just tired—it had been a long day—but he doubted it. Although he’d like to think she was dwelling over the possibility of sex with him, he suspected the couple in the elevator back at the hotel was to blame. The shock of seeing them had finally hit her.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asked, absently accepting one of the cards thrust at him.

  She saw him take it and raised an eyebrow. “Feeling lonely?”

  “Aren’t we all?” He handed it to her, relieved to see a spark of humor.

  “It really is Sin City, isn’t it?” She looked around, then put it into her pocket with a shrug. “I’ll hold onto it so I can recycle it.”

  “So says the Bay Area girl.”

  “I should get cards of my own,” she said. “‘Tree huggers direct to you.’”

  “I’d take one of those.”

  Their eyes met for a split second. He grinned.

  “I wish you’d cut that out,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Please. You know. The flirting.” She yawned.

  His ego shriveled. She’d yawned.

  He couldn’t think of what to say. His efforts at seduction were putting her to sleep.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I know you’re going through a thing. I shouldn’t be insensitive.”

  “Thing?”

  “Just repeating what you said. You’ve been a little confused lately about your life, about the future, who you are, and I’m here, it’s dark, and I smell good.”

  Would she remember his words verbatim if she didn’t care a little too much?

  “You do smell good,” he said.

  “Thanks, but I’m tired. Let’s get that drink and call it a night.”

  16

  The next morning, Cleo rolled over and peered through the darkness at Sly on the other side of the bed. They’d had their drink, returned to the room, and quietly prepared for bed. After a polite good-night, they’d climbed in and turned out the light. Seeing Dylan and Ashley had been worse than she’d feared, and she’d been caught in a loop of bad memories, reliving the night Dylan had told her—tearfully, because he was such the tragic hero—about his passion for somebody else. This love for Ashley, he’d said, was undeniable.

  Unlike, obviously, the one for her. He’d denied that one quickly and thoroughly.

  But then, although she’d fallen asleep thinking about Dylan, her dreams had been about someone else.

  Sly didn’t look anything like Dylan. She couldn’t say so last night, but Sly was much, much better looking. Mistaking him for a movie star wasn’t ridiculous. The blackout curtains made it impossible to see his high cheekbones, generous mouth, strong jaw, or his dimpled—or scarred—chin, so she settled for listening to his breathing for a few long moments before getting up and taking a shower.

  When her marriage had ended, she’d lost her two best friends. She’d never been a social butterfly, but since her divorce, she’d withdrawn, devoted more time to her work and solitary amusements.

  And Sly. At first she’d seen him as a safe substitute for a real friend and a real partner. A surrogate.

  At first. Then she’d decided he was a real friend. And she’d been grateful to have that.

  She got dressed and did extra primping, putting on makeup and styling her hair—not because she wanted to look beautiful for Dylan and Ashley, Sly, or anyone, but because she was afraid to leave the safety of the bathroom.

  The way he’d reacted to the mother at the Bellagio was nagging at her. Cleo had been holding it together until then. She’d seen Dylan and Ashley, faced them directly, held her head high. She’d accepted Sly’s support and joked with him about his good looks.

  And then that woman had asked if they were getting married, and he’d said Cleo wasn’t ready for him yet.

  She knew it had been a joke, but the feelings that had bloomed in her chest weren’t funny at all. Even this moment, the thought of living with Sly as true partners had a sweet, natural appeal.

  “Stop it,” she snapped, scowling at herself in the mirror. She was hurting and wanted comfort, that’s all.

  She’d put too much mascara on her left eye. Now she had to put more on the right to even it out. And another swipe of eyeliner. My God, by the time she was done in here, she’d look like a showgirl. She could have cards made up.

  A knock sounded on the door. “Hugo and Trixie have invited us to breakfast,” Sly called out. “Do you think I could get in there for a minute?”

  “Sure, I’m done.” She opened the door. “Don’t say anything. I got carried away.”

  “With what?” His dark hair was tousled, and the five-o’clock shadow was now a sexy almost-beard. She imagined how it would feel against her chin if they kissed again.

  If her dream last night was accurate, it would feel pretty good.

  Stop it
.

  Averting her gaze, she moved past him into the room. “Oh, nothing. Got creative with the makeup.” She wasn’t sure if she was gratified or annoyed he couldn’t tell the difference. “Sorry to take so long in there.”

  “I can’t wait to get my contacts in so I can get a good look,” he said.

  “Is your vision really that bad?”

  “Yup.”

  “I had no idea,” she said.

  He turned and leaned against the doorframe. “There’s lots you don’t know about me, remember?”

  The room suddenly felt very small. “I’m surprised Trixie and Hugo want to have breakfast with us. Instead of room service or something just the two of them,” she said.

  He rolled his eyes. “I think Hugo struck out. He wants me to meet him alone before breakfast.” As the door closed between them, Cleo heard him mutter, “As if I’m an expert.”

  Cleo slipped out for a solitary walk, then met Trixie an hour later near a pet boutique behind the escalators on the third floor. The four of them were planning to eat at the buffet around the corner in ten minutes.

  Trixie gestured for her to follow her into the boutique. “I promised Hugo I’d find Zeus something manly to wear. He doesn’t approve of boy dogs wearing pink.” Frowning, she picked up a leather collar with spikes. “This one might kill the other dogs if he got too friendly.”

  “I think that’s the idea,” Cleo said.

  Trixie lowered her voice. “Maybe I should get one for myself.”

  Not wanting to pry, Cleo picked up a fluorescent tennis ball and waited for her to say more.

  “I didn’t expect him to be such a good dancer,” Trixie said.

  “He was amazing.”

  “I should’ve found that out before agreeing to dance with him.”

  “You looked great together,” Cleo said. “Didn’t you have a nice time?”

  Trixie bit her lip. The next collar she picked up was green with flashing LEDs. “This would be good for road safety. I should get them all one.”

  “How’s”—Cleo couldn’t remember the name—“the other pooch? The one that got run over?”

  “Luna’s fine. No permanent damage.” She ran her hand through her hair, tugging at the short strands. “I wish I were so lucky.”

  She seemed genuinely distressed. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  With a shake of her head, Trixie picked up three collars without looking closely at any of them, went over to the counter, and bought them without making small talk with the cashier. She didn’t even say hello.

  What had happened? Maybe Hugo had told Sly and he could tell her all about it later. They might be able to help.

  They walked over and met Hugo and Sly outside the restaurant. The casual banter of the night before was missing. Now each was lost in thought, tight-lipped, eyes downcast. Only Hugo seemed quietly content.

  The buffet was appropriately excessive and loaded with every edible product she’d ever seen in vast quantities. They walked over, plates in hand, and gazed upon the fifty yards of culinary delights.

  Trixie suddenly set her plate down on an empty table. “I’m not hungry.” She turned and left the restaurant.

  Hugo watched her go, a soft look in his eyes.

  “What happened?” she whispered to Sly.

  He shook his head, shrugging.

  Cleo started to put her own plate down, then asked Sly, “Should I go after her?”

  “I don’t think so,” Sly said.

  Hugo scooped up a mound of scrambled eggs. “Let her be. She’s not used to having a male invade her territory. If I time it right, she’ll come back on her own.”

  “She’s not a dog, Uncle Hugo,” Sly said.

  “We’re all dogs at heart,” Hugo replied. “The best of us, anyway.”

  That comment led Cleo to chase after her. If Trixie really didn’t want to talk, she’d say so.

  The mall outside was busy with shoppers and tourists but no Trixie. How could she have disappeared so quickly?

  Then she saw a flash of white hair in the pet boutique and rushed over. Inside, Trixie was holding a dog collar big enough to for a woman to wear as a belt.

  “Hi,” Cleo said. “You looked upset. I thought I’d check on you.”

  “I forgot to get something for Mouse.” Her voice was calm, but she had a tear trickling down her cheek. Wiping it away, she looked up at Cleo and offered a small smile. “Wasn’t that stupid of me?”

  “Want to sneak off and have breakfast, just the two of us?”

  Trixie dug a tissue out of her purse and wiped her nose. “How are things going with Sly?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dancing isn’t really his strong suit.”

  Cleo smiled. “No. Can’t be good at everything, I told him.”

  “That’s nice. Did you sleep together?”

  Cleo choked out a laugh. Apparently Trixie wasn’t that upset. “No, I told you. We’re friends.”

  Trixie gaped. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. We had all that room we didn’t need and you two were camping out on the floor like eleven-year-olds at a sleepover.”

  “Nobody slept on the floor.”

  “So you did sleep together,” Trixie said.

  “In the same bed, but not—”

  “Of course not! Is that what you thought? Of course you wouldn’t have sex together. Such old friends? If he was interested in you, he would’ve shown some sign by now.” Trixie held up the dog collar, studying it as she twirled it like a Hula-Hoop around her index finger.

  Cleo was learning to be suspicious of Trixie’s rambling declarations. “You knew I was going to think you meant”—the boutique had hardwood floors and handfuls of other tourists in earshot fondling the pet luxuries, so she lowered her voice—“sex.”

  “Not all of us have sex on the brain.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “One of the biggest perks of growing older is not having to think about sex all the time. Sex, sex, sex.” Trixie’s voice was rising with each word. “What’s so great about sex?”

  Cleo decided that if people were going to be shocked about an earthy conversation, they should shop for pet supplies somewhere other than the Las Vegas Strip. “Sex is great and you know it. That’s why you’re here with Hugo, right?”

  “That is not—” Clutching the dog collar in her fist, Trixie marched to the register.

  Trixie was too upset to play along. What had happened?

  Watching Trixie slap her credit card on the counter, Cleo stifled a grin. Poor Trixie had played with fire and ended up having a little more heat than she’d schemed for.

  Trixie shoved her package into her purse and strode to the entrance of the boutique, pausing to look both ways before marching out of sight.

  Her uncharacteristic rudeness had to be proof of just how much heat she’d had the night before. Perhaps even a third-degree burn.

  Once again, Cleo chased after her. She’d ducked into a designer purse emporium with two security guards at the door.

  “I think you should talk about it,” Cleo told her. “Let me buy you a coffee.”

  “The last thing I need is a stimulant,” Trixie said sourly. She held up a small yellow leather purse with a daisy appliqué and a wrist strap. “Look at the price tag. The entire cow cost less than that and they only used a tiny piece of her.”

  “We could go down to the casino and get a drink.”

  “It’s ten in the morning.”

  “It’s Vegas.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Trixie set the purse down, giving it a little pat, the same way she handled her dogs. “All right. For your sake. You seem like you need to talk.”

  ♢ ♡ ♤

  Cleo and Trixie found two empty seats in a lounge in the center of the casino floor, which wasn’t as easy as it might’ve been, given the morning hour. Each ordered a Bloody Mary.

  “For the vitamins,” Cleo said, sinking back into her plush armchair.

  Trix
ie slapped her hand on her knee. “Absolutely.” She wore a Berkeley sweatshirt and lime-green Crocs with mismatched argyle socks. The dowager duchess wouldn’t have approved, but Cleo felt a kinship.

  The circular lounge was lit by blue lights, giving everything an underwater feeling. Behind them in all directions were table games and slot machines, not quite as busy as they’d been the night before, the only indication of the time of day.

  “So,” Cleo said.

  Trixie shook her head. “Let’s wait until the drinks get here.”

  They sat in silence, watching the flashing buzz of the casino around them. When the drinks arrived, Cleo repeated, “So.”

  “It’s kind of boring in here, don’t you think?” Trixie asked. “Let’s go over to the slots.” Holding her drink like a baton, she stood and strode out of the lounge to a row of slot machines fifty feet away.

  After taking a bite out of a carrot stick jutting out of her glass, Cleo followed her, skeptical now that any meaningful conversation was going to take place. Her stomach growled, longing for the feast it had missed upstairs.

  Trixie sat on a padded stool in front of a slot machine, gulping tomato juice from the side of her glass as she stared at the flickering lights. “This is awkward. I don’t know where to begin.”

  “You could start with the easy stuff,” Cleo said. “How long have you known Hugo?”

  “A long time. Six, seven years? Maybe more. Since I needed a vet for the dogs.”

  “And this new thing…”

  Trixie stuffed her mouth with celery and carrot sticks. “If I tell you, you’ll be annoyed with me.”

  “I think I’ve figured a lot of it out already. You didn’t intend to get involved with Hugo, did you?”

  Her eyes dropped. “We’re close. Good friends.”

  “But that’s it,” Cleo said. “No third base. You wanted me to think there was more so I would come with Sly. Right?”

  “Go ahead, I deserve it. Call me a liar.” Trixie took another bite of celery.

  “That’s not the word I would use.”

  “What word would you use?”

  Cleo laughed softly. “Hopeless romantic?”

  “That’s two words.”

  “Which would you prefer—hopeless or romantic?”