My parents exchange a quick look.
Dad works his jaw. “You’ve enjoyed this trip, right?”
“Yes,” I dumbly say, though I’m pretty sure I’ve already said as much.
“How do you plan on continuing to take these kinds of vacations? This is a graduation present, Lauren. It’s something fun for you to experience before you get serious again and go to grad school.”
“Dad, I don’t need to go to grad school—”
He barrels on with his speech. “You can’t make a living drawing pictures for kid’s books. I know that sounds like a great idea right now, especially with your friend Willow living out her ‘creative’ fantasy, but just wait and see what happens. Five years from now, she’s going to be a nobody, living in a shack in Queens. Do you want to end up like that?”
I’m trying really hard to keep my composure. I am. But my dad just managed to insult not only me, but my best friend as well.
“Willow is a talented actress,” I say slowly. “And her parents support her.”
Mom clucks.
“She’s spoiled,” Dad retorts. “That’s what she is.”
I spread my hands wide in disbelief. “Why are we talking about this?”
Mom twists her wedding ring around her finger, something she does when she gets anxious or upset. “Put yourself in our shoes, Lauren. What if you saw your own child going down a path that you know they’re going to regret?”
I give my answer some careful thought. I don’t want to be disrespectful to my parents, but I also can’t just sit here and take their belittling anymore. They were the ones who pushed me to go to business school. I was only trying to make them happy. I thought that college would be some kind of compromise. With a business degree under my belt, I could show them that I was focused and savvy enough to go into business as a book illustrator. I could show them that there was a way to incorporate what I wanted with what they thought I needed.
Now, I see I was wrong.
It’s bad enough walking through the world feeling like no one is on your side, but with your own parents against you, a somewhat-bad situation can become hell.
I take another deep breath. Knowing this conversation would come up eventually, I have a monologue prepared.
“I know it seems unconventional,” I tentatively say, looking from one parent to the other. “But a lot of other people have actually done it. Look at all of the children’s books that are out there, today. A real artist illustrates each one. There really are people making a living off of doing this.”
My dad, of course, has a rebuttal. “And for every one of them, there are twenty others who aren’t ‘making it’.”
I sputter in disbelief. “What? Where are you getting this statistic from?”
“Look around you, Lauren. There are struggling artists everywhere. Our waiter is probably one of them.”
“I have a plan,” I harshly whisper through gritted teeth. “You know that.”
Dad drops his voice, as well. “Gallivanting around the world isn’t a plan, dear.”
“It’s only going to be for a little while. And you know I’m not going to ask you guys for any money. I’ll save more than enough from my summer job. Then, once I’m done traveling some, I’ll come home and get to work on starting my business.”
Both my parents gaze back at me with unmistakable looks of pity. A lump forms in my throat and falls into my stomach, dragging me down. I’m defeated. There’s nothing I can say. It doesn’t matter how many times I try to tell them that my plan is a viable one. They just don’t want to believe it.
“This is pointless,” I mutter, more to myself than to them. Tossing my napkin on the table, I quickly stand up.
Mom blinks at me in confusion. “Where are you going?”
“I’m not hungry,” I answer, venom in my tone.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dad’s face turning red. I don’t care. My parents have given me every material possession a person could want, but they’ve never given me the one thing that I desperately need: for someone to really believe in me.
Moving fast—not an easy feat in heels—I stalk across the dining room. There’s a ringing in my ears, and my hands shake at my sides.
At least they could humor me.
A dozen thoughts fly through my head. Worse, is the anger enveloping me. It gets stronger as I walk down the hall to our cabins. Yanking open my door, I grab my purse and shove it into the messenger bag that my sketchbook and pencils live in. I need to take a breather, and it’s not going to happen while on the ship.
Luckily, my timing is perfect. The cruise ship docked at the port in Macau some time during dinner. The plank is down, allowing passengers to disembark. The cruise’s program had this period scheduled off, giving us three hours of free time in Macau.
I’ve never needed ‘free time’ more than I do now.
As I walk away from the ship, the adrenaline steadily leaves me. The sights and sounds of a new city in the early evening fill my senses. Buildings tower around me, cars honk, and pedicab drivers call out to each other. I make each step slower than the last, taking in everything and looking for something worthy of sketching.
I pass a large fountain in the middle of a square and then turn right, following my nose. A large market that’s partly outdoor, partly indoor, is winding down for the day, but there are still rows of fish laid out across beds of ice, and fresh, vibrant produce piled high in crates.
Because I lied to my parents about being hungry, I buy a stick of fried meat from a vendor and go back to the square. Eating helps calm my nerves even further. The fact that I don’t even know what I’m eating is kind of exciting. It helps me forget about the hurtful things my parents said.
Finished with the meat skewer, I pull out my sketchbook and survey the area around me. A group of schoolkids plays soccer on the other side of the square, their ball bouncing off the side of a building. A woman walks nearby, pulling a wailing toddler behind her. A stoic old man watches from his perch on a bench. Certain that I’ve found the perfect subject, I get to work surreptitiously drawing him.
I exaggerate the man’s features—his ears, his eyes. The sketch is a caricature. It’s the way I always draw people. I collect faces the way some people collect stamps, keeping my drawings in notebooks and folders at home. The idea is that, one day, a face might really inspire me, and I might have a great idea for a children’s book.
Time slows down as I draw, the sweet-smelling paper and the earthy charcoal between my fingers being all that exists. As I finish shading the man’s cap, I look up and find he’s vanished.
He’s not the only one who’s gone. The schoolkids have disappeared, and the daylight is quickly receding. The square is taking on a new tone, with streetlights flickering on in all corners. I close my sketchbook and stuff it back into my bag.
How much time has gone by? It only felt like a few minutes, but I managed to complete a whole portrait, so, surely, it was longer than that.
I make my way back toward the port, picking up my pace as I go. My heels click against the pavement and I skirt to the side, dodging other pedestrians. Signs of nightlife are starting to show. The younger people are already out, the guys looking suave with their slicked-back hair and the women adorable with their miniskirts and glittery makeup. No doubt, Macau is an amazing place to party, but it’s too bad I’ll never know. I have a ship to catch.
As the port comes into view, I start scanning it. I can’t remember exactly where my cruise ship was docked, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find. There’s what appears to be some kind of large, yellow fishing boat, and a small, blue sailboat…but nothing that looks familiar.
My stomach does a somersault and I frantically glance up and down the docks. Then I see it: the familiar monolith sailing across the water in the distance, its white and red lights dancing over the waves in the night.
I’ve missed my ship.
They’ve gone without me.
Chapter Two
<
br /> Lauren
“Fuck.”
I don’t cuss much, but there’s a time and a place—and being stranded in a foreign country with night steadily approaching is definitely the time and place.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, not wanting to see the ship that’s only getting farther and farther away. What are my parents thinking? They must be freaking our right now. Did they try to get in touch with me to tell me the ship was leaving?
My eyes fly open at a new realization: Mom and Dad have no clue that I left the ship. They probably assumed I stormed off to sulk on the deck.
With a sigh, I turn away from the water and look back at the city behind me. There must be a ferry or something here, or some kind of other boat that can take me back to Hong Kong. And since the night’s only beginning, I should be able to still get a ticket.
But, then again, why would I do that? Aren’t I in the very middle of something that I’ve always wanted to do? I’m in a new country, far away from my boring life and the expectations of my parents. I’m the very thing I’ve always wanted to be: a traveler, a girl alone with her freedom and her sketchbook.
And I’ve only just arrived in Macau. There must be so much more to see here. Let my parents think I’m on the ship. It’ll give me a few hours to explore.
With a new pep in my step, I head back to the street. I have money in Macanese Patacas, so I’m good to go, in that regard. But the question is, where am I headed?
Idling on the sidewalk, I give it some thought. What was it that Donna had said about Macau? People called it the what?
The Vegas of Asia.
A smile tugs at my lips, and I instantly know what I’m going to do with the next few hours.
I’ve never hailed a pedicab before, but it can’t be that different than hailing a taxi. Stepping up to the curb, I wave my hand and make eye contact with the nearest guy on one of the bike contraptions. He nods and pedals over to me. I don’t know how to say ‘casino’ in either Cantonese or Portuguese, so I send up a quick prayer that we’ll find some way to communicate, and hop into the covered cart.
“Do you speak English?” I ask the driver.
“Yeah, yeah. English. Where you going?”
“A casino, please. The best one here.”
“Okay. I know where.” He nods and starts pedaling away.
I relax back into the worn, black cushions and enjoy the sights. Before too long, we’re in an area that’s unmistakably a gambling mecca. Lights of every color dance across the faces of the surrounding buildings. I lean forward in my seat, eager to soak every bit of this glorious new world.
The pedicab crawls to a stop.
“Here,” the driver says. “Biggest casino in the world.”
“Really? The whole world?”
The driver nods. “The Venetian Macau.”
It’s impressive; there’s no doubt about that. A tower covered with white lights reaches up toward the sky, and the main entrance is crowded with pedicabs and sleek, black cars.
I pay my driver and climb out of the pedicab. Lights flash, people chatter, and car wheels screech. The casino is one of the busiest places I’ve seen in the city.
The doors in front of me seem to draw me in, as if they’ve wrapped me in an invisible rope. Before I know it, I’m walking inside the casino—and literally gasping.
The main color of the gigantic lobby is gold, with multiple staircases winding up to the second level gaming floors. On the ceiling, a painting that emulates Michelangelo's work on the Sistine Chapel adds an extra dose of luxury. I walk the perimeter, eyeing tourists taking photos and well-dressed gamblers hurrying here and there.
The wonders in the casino are unending. True to its name, the main feature of the casino is a real, functioning canal, with sparkling blue water and real gondolas ferrying people around the casino. The main floor branches into four separate gaming areas, each with its own distinct style.
Already feeling out of my element, I double back and go to the front desk to get some information and a map of the casino. Exploring a foreign city is one thing, but there’s something about being in a casino that intimidates me. Maybe it’s because I’ve never gambled before, or maybe it’s because everyone here seems to know precisely what they’re doing and where they’re headed. Nothing in the casino is idle, and every movement has a frenetic agenda behind it.
After some more exploring, I find myself in the ‘Red Dragon’ game room. Wide, oval tables made of dark, shining wood fill up the space. This new area is just as crowded as the front of the casino was, filled with less tourists but more cocktail waiters, and even more gamblers.
I stand still against one of the gold painted walls, watching it all. I came to the casino with the intent to gamble, but at this point, I’m still feeling out of my league. I have no gambling experience whatsoever. I can’t even claim a winning streak of ‘rock, paper, scissors’ to my name.
The people here clearly know what they’re doing—or at least, they act like they do. Nearby, a hard-faced woman takes a seat at a table and eyes her opponent. A string of diamonds sparkle around her neck, and the man across from her gives her a snide smile.
After trying and failing to understand the game they begin to play, I decide to make my way back to the foyer. I take one step—and collide with something hard and warm.
“Oh!” I cry out as I step backward and liquid hits the ground with a slosh. The man in front of me stares back at me with raised eyebrows, his glass tumbler now half-empty.
“I’m so sorry.” I cringe at the liquid pooling on the floor. “I didn’t see you…”
“Don’t worry about it,” he replies smoothly.
My ears perk up at the American accent, and my heart rate picks up as I take in the man in front of me for the first time. With wavy, brown hair, thick brows, and a strong jaw, he’s the statue of David that would have completed the décor in the lobby.
“I…um…I didn’t get you, did I?” I ask, looking carefully at his impeccable suit for any sign of a stain.
“No, not at all. Really, I’m fine.”
“Good. Sorry, again.” I start for the front entrance, suddenly desperate to get back to the street and out into the air.
“Wait! Hold on a second.” He sidesteps so that he’s in front of me again, and offers his hand. “I’m Jay Hammond.”
“Lauren Reinhart.”
I accept the handshake. His grip is light, but I can feel the hidden strength behind it. An excited shiver runs through my fingers and up my arm.
“A New Yorker, right?”
I laugh. “Wow, is my accent really that obvious?”
Jay smiles, and two gorgeous dimples appear in his cheeks. “I’m from Detroit.”
“Manhattan.”
“Great area, you’re lucky. I like visiting there. So, you done for the night, or are you just getting started?”
“Oh, I’m not partying. I’m…” my voice trails off as I realize he was asking about gambling, not drinking.
Jay gives a slow nod, his shining hazel eyes never moving from my face.
“I don’t gamble,” I explain. “I just came here because someone told me Macau was the ‘Vegas of Asia,’ and then the pedicab driver told me this was the best casino here.”
“You came all the way from New York to see the gambling mecca of the world, and you’re not even going to throw one pair of dice?”
“No, it’s…more than that. It’s complicated, actually. I came here with my parents.”
I bite down on my bottom lip. I’m doing an awful job of making conversation, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me. He doesn’t need to know these things. I was feeling just fine earlier, but something about the lights and excitement of the casino, combined with the hot guy in front of me, has my head spinning and my face flushed. I’m too hot and too cold, all at the same time.
“Are you all right?” Jay asks, his eyebrows knitting together in concern.
“Yeah. I think I just need to
sit down.”
“Here. Come with me.”
He lightly takes my elbow and guides me over to a long bar. A few moments later, there’s a tall glass of water in front of me. I gratefully drink half of it down.
“This place is kind of intense,” I admit.
Jay settles on the stool next to me and rests his forearms on the bar. Even with all the other scents in the casino, I can smell his cologne. It’s fresh and spicy and makes my stomach flip.
“They’re not all like this,” he explains. “Although, they are all as showy as they can be.”
I take another sip of water and feel a little better.
“You said you were here with your parents?”
“That’s right,” I reply with a sheepish nod.
“Where are they?”
I ruefully shake my head. “They’re on the cruise ship, sailing back to Hong Kong.”
“You didn’t go with them?”
“No, I…” I hesitate and glance up at Jay. Is unloading on this total stranger something I want to do?
Jay calmly watches me, not only seeming to know that I’m thinking things over, but being perfectly willing to give me my time. There’s a softness in his eyes, an honesty. He’s not rushing me, and nor does it feel like he’s trying to extract something from me. I don’t know why, but I feel like he’s someone I can just let my worries loose around.
“We had an argument,” I slowly explain.
Jay nods.
I go on. “I just graduated from college, and they want me to go to grad school to study something ‘practical’.”
“And you don’t want to do that.”
“Hell, no. I want to be an artist.”
“Are you good enough to be one?”
It’s such a straightforward, ballsy question, that it momentarily takes me aback. After a second, I reach into my canvas bag, pull my sketchbook out, and hand it over to Jay. He thumbs through it, his eyes growing wider as he takes in each new page.
“Shit,” he breathes. His gaze travels back up to my face. “Your parents are out of their minds to not recognize talent like this.”
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