Chapter_30_Mind_Reade

After texting my dad to check in and make sure he’s doing okay, I think how I’ve been waiting for the day my tight-knit family would rub off on Wyatt. I’m happy he’s decided to finally reconnect with his dad.

“Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas!” I say to Wyatt, reading the sign as we enter.

The violet dusk sky turns dark, which seems fitting for Sin City.

I feel the desert air rip through the car with the top down as we pass a row of palm trees. Out here, palm trees are like weeds but to us Brooklynites they’re exotic.

Ridiculously long stretch Hummers. Dancing fountains. Tourists sipping thirty-eight-dollar, footlong daiquiris through straws while meandering down the street.

I feel hungover before we even start drinking, marveling at the pulsating lights and neon signs of hotels, casinos and restaurants, all screaming for attention.

From Colorado through Utah, Virginia Woolf made the same gurgle and rattling sound from a few days earlier. Every time it happens, Wyatt and I just look at each other, puzzled, not knowing what to do or where it’s coming from. Car guys we are not.

The noise disappeared when we entered Nevada so the problem is fixed! (We think.)

We amble down the Vegas Strip as we read a group text from Flora assuring us everything is still okay.

“That’s great.” I turn to Wyatt.

“Sounds like everything’s on the right track.”

Wyatt’s phone buzzes.

“Flora?” I ask.

“It’s my mom,” Wyatt says. He lets it go to voicemail.

“Don’t you want to see why she’s calling?” I ask.

“I really have to pee so I’d rather check into the hotel first. I want to get my bearings and not have to focus on a long-winded conversation about what we’re doing in Vegas right now.”

My phone buzzes next. “Now your mom’s calling me.” I look at Wyatt with slight concern. “Could be important.”

“Don’t answer!” Wyatt’s jumpy. “Can we just find the hotel? Seeing all these fountains is really making me have to go to the bathroom.”

We arrive at the Venetian Hotel where the large lobby is pure gold and marble. This is not the Italian decor I grew up with.

We found a last-minute deal and booked it on Wyatt’s phone while driving and our room lives up to the hotel’s promise of “an homage to the Italian opulence.”

We settle in. I crack open tiny tequilas I find in the mini fridge, pouring them over ice.

“Are you going to tell your mom you’re here to see your dad?” I ask Wyatt as he exits the gold bathroom.

“Maybe later,” he says, clearly avoiding any confrontation.

“Should we hit the casino? Maybe go dancing at a club?” I ask. “Oh—I’ve always wanted to try that José Andrés restaurant where you can grill Kobe beef at your table after devouring cotton candy foie gras.”

“Let’s not go nuts,” Wyatt says.

“We’re in Vegas. You have to have a little fun before the heavy stuff tomorrow.”

Clink. Sip.

“I was thinking maybe we have dinner at the hotel and have an early night in.”

I guzzle my tequila and stare at Wyatt. My gaze turns a little watery as the tequila hits. “Early night in? How about an early night out?”

Wyatt finishes his drink. “You’re right. Let’s go out,” Wyatt says, changing his tune.

Thanks, Jose Cuervo.

More drinks flow during dinner and I think this is exactly what we need before the baby comes. No family or friend obligations. Just the two of us out on the town together, enjoying each other’s company, letting go of our inhibitions.

An epic date night.

Wyatt seems preoccupied, probably thinking about his dad, throughout the entire dinner.

All I hear are the conversations around us. “We come here every year on our anniversary.”

“Vegas is the only time we gamble.”

“We’ve seen Barry Manilow thirty-seven times!”

During our chocolate mousse dessert, I mention we could see a show tonight to get his mind off things. Wyatt agrees but seems like he’s just going through the motions.

Declan Del Monaco is a resident mentalist/illusionist/hypnotist and the hotel is able to snag two last-minute tickets in the cheap seats for us. We watch as he makes his assistant levitate and hypnotizes an audience member into thinking he’s touching him from across the stage.

Before I know what hits me, I’m called up on stage. Mostly because I raise my hand when Declan Del Monaco asks who’s game to become another one of his personal puppets.

I stand on stage for the entertainment of hundreds of people and Mr. Del Monaco correctly guesses the name of my true love: “Is it... Wyatt?” the mentalist asks in his signature dramatic way. A smile takes over my face and the crowd bursts into applause.

I glimpse Wyatt in the audience looking surprised.

After the show, I suggest we hit a club annoyingly called hydr8te (all lower case with the number 8 just inserting itself in there like it belongs).

Snaking our way through the long dark corridor where we hear the thumping house music grow louder, Wyatt and I exchange amused looks.

It’s a huge space full of sweaty, writhing bodies with music so loud, I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. I spot someone’s drink on a ledge slowly slide off from all the bass.

We weave through the crowd upstairs, where we find a sizable booth overlooking the dance floor.

While everyone around us dances and drinks, Wyatt and I just watch.

I look into the sweaty mass of people and my first thought is, I’m going to be a dad. An image of me pushing our baby stroller through our Brooklyn neighborhood enters my mind. It nags at me, the pressure of living up to my own amazing dad.

I turn to Wyatt and see his mind is somewhere else too. His eyes adrift on the crowd. We decide the music is too loud and we can’t get a server’s attention for drinks so we leave.

Mentalist or not, at this point I could fall asleep at the snap of anyone’s two fingers.

We walk through the casino of our hotel just to glimpse the action before bed.

The elevator plops us onto our floor and I follow Wyatt down the gold carpeted hallway.

“So,” I say. “Are you ready to meet your dad tomorrow?”

Wyatt slides his key card into our door’s handle as the green light pops on.