He pats my hand and grins. “Sure they are.”
“No they aren’t.” I distinctly remember buying the cheapest ticket I could, because as much as I’ve enjoyed working there until recently, BGS&M has some truly draconian travel expense policies.
He pats me again, and I half expect him to tell me not to worry my pretty little head. But before he can say anything else, a flight attendant is asking us about our in-flight beverage preferences, and we’re pulling away from the gate.
My in-flight beverage preference is a manhattan with extra cherries, and the crew delivers it in spades. Gordo asks for a tomato juice, and once we’ve been served, he holds his glass out—real glass. I thought it was plastic everywhere on these flying cigar tubes—and waits for me to tap mine against it.
“To you,” he says.
“Me?” I can’t help my smile. He’s doing that looking-at-me thing again that always makes me feel fluttery. Once upon a time, when he first moved in, I hoped maybe we had a shot. But two years later, I’m glad we’ve found a way to coexist, even if I don’t get to rub myself all over that bushy red beard.
“You’ve been so stressed lately. I hope you find a chance to unwind this weekend,” he says.
I flush. “I’m sorry if I’ve been grumpy.” I’ve been more than grumpy. But Gordo’s my roommate, not my mom. He doesn’t need to listen to me bitch about things.
He pulls the little plastic sword out of my drink and drags one of the cherries off with his teeth.
“Those are mine!” I say, louder than is strictly socially appropriate on an airplane.
Gordo grins as he chews. “I’ll make it up to you.”
Truthfully, he already has, just by being here.
The flight’s pretty good. We should never fly anything but first class. I’ll ask Lachlan about it when we get back. Of course, my general enjoyment might come from the three manhattans I have before we’re even over the Midwest. And the fact that the in-flight entertainment includes a Marvel marathon, and Steve Rogers’s ass is fine, even on an eight-inch screen at 35,000 feet. Gordo sits next to me, watching some independent film with subtitles I don’t recognize. He’s always watching things like that.
I’m asleep when we land, and I jolt awake as the plan lurches and decelerates on the runway.
“Hi,” Gordo says, voice quiet even over the roar of plane engines.
“Hey.” The inside of my mouth tastes like festering maraschino cherries and I regret that.
“We’re here,” he says.
“Yeah.” I scrunch up my face and glance out the window. The sun is setting in Las Vegas, and lights swoop and twinkle on the horizon. My pulse picks up. I’ve been to Vegas a few times, and it’s always fun.
I bump my shoulder against Gordo’s, which is a trick given the wide seat arm between us, and smile. He smiles back. The canned voice over the PA system welcomes us to Las Vegas and says they hope we enjoy our stay.
Right now, looking at Gordo, I’m starting to think I will.
4
Nope, spoke too soon. Everything goes swimmingly as we get off our plane—good old first class means we don’t have to wait for everyone else to disembark—but things go awry pretty quickly after that.
First off, Gordo’s backpack literally falls apart. I don’t even know how. But one second I’m walking up the concourse looking for the signs that will point us to baggage claim, and the next, Gordo’s going, “Uh, Bailey,” and when I turn around, he’s staring at a pile of fabric on the floor between his feet, and the bottom seam of his backpack has completely come undone.
I can’t even, but we stop at a “It Doesn’t Have to Stay in Vegas” souvenir shop, and Gordo buys a rhinestone Elvis tote bag, and he seems pretty happy about it, and it’s definitely an improvement over him carrying what few things he’s brought for this weekend in a ball between his hands.
But I should have taken that incident as a warning.
My bags aren’t even here. Which, I guess is marginally better than finding out my suit has been shredded on a conveyor belt somewhere, but only barely. We stand in line for the customer service counter for over an hour and a half.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself.
“It’s okay,” Gordo says. He’s munching on a chocolate bar that he bought along with his sparkly bag. “Everyone else here is frustrated, but it doesn’t make the line move faster. In fact, it makes it move slower because they don’t use their listening skills when they finally get to talk to someone.”
Listening skills? What is this, kindergarten?
“Do you want something to eat?” He holds out a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips to me.
“No, thank you.” I give him a tight smile and shuffle forward. The buzz from the drinks is wearing off, and in its wake, I’m left tired and annoyed. I want to go to the hotel, check in, and crash. I’m already thinking about Jake and work and how much I’m dreading putting on my rah-rah go-team face this weekend.
We finally get to the counter, and the woman won’t even look at me when she says, “Can I help you?”
As if she doesn’t know why we’re here.
“My luggage didn’t come,” I say.
She takes my flight information. “What does your suitcase look like, sir?”
Somehow the question seems absurd. “What does it look like? It’s a suitcase,” I say through clenched teeth. “It’s got zippers and wheels and a handle.”
She doesn’t blink. “If you can give us a better description, it will help us make sure we find the right one.”
I open my mouth to answer, but a big hand presses into my chest, and Gordo steps in front of me.
“It’s a black Samsonite. Four wheels on the bottom, three pockets on the front. The material is scratched on the back and patched with electrical tape. Also black suit bag. Tan-coloured trim and zippers shaped like seahorses.”
Huh.
If you’d asked me how many wheels my suitcase had, I’d have said two.
The woman’s making notes. I glance up at Gordo. “Thanks.”
He smiles at me like it’s no big deal. “You’re welcome.”
Eventually she gives us a form and says my bags will be here tomorrow afternoon at the latest. Not ideal, but we’ll make it work.
As we walk away, I say, “I don’t think my suitcase is patched with electrical tape.”
“It wasn’t,” Gordo says. “I was worried the material was going to tear more, so I fixed it for you.”
If only the same could be said of his backpack.
Our hotel is tucked in just behind the Strip. I breathe a sigh of relief when the cab lets us off in front of it and we get checked in with no problem.
“Here you go, sir,” the clerk at the desk says as he hands us each a key card. “I’ve got you booked into a Lakeview suite with—”
“Bailey?”
Oh no. So close.
I turn slowly, and here comes Jake the Jerk. He’s smiling like he can’t believe we’ve run into each other.
“Jake. Hi.” I do my best to play along.
“Are you just getting in?” he asks.