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Authors: Amy Jo Cousins
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crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ve been to Vegas before.
You don’t know what I’m like.”
He mirrored her gesture, kicking his feet up on the low table in front of them. “Tell
me this, Ms. Tyler. What kind of stakes did you bring with you?”
“For the weekend?”
“Yeah.”
She grimaced and looked pained. “Three hundred.”
“Dollars?”
“No, pesos. Of course dollars.”
“What are you gonna do? Play the quarter slots all weekend?” He meant to be insulting.
Only a fool thought three hundred bucks would last for three days of gambling in Sin
City.
She shrugged him off and turned back to her magazine. He might have heard her mutter
under her breath, “I’m going to try, anyway.”
The captain came over the PA system to announce that they’d be landing shortly. J.D.
was past regretting his impulsive invitation to Sarah and actively planning how he
could avoid spending the whole weekend babysitting her. At least getting out of Chicago
would mean he’d be away from Lana for a few days. Despite being shacked up in the
ritziest hotel Michigan Avenue had to offer, she still found excuses to come by his
apartment almost every day. A few Lana-free days in Vegas would be a relief. Sarah
was packing up her magazines and snacks in that bag she clutched to her side like
a security blanket, with a special pocket for every little item. She’d probably clean
up her own trash for the flight attendant.
Ms. Obey the Rules. He’d have to bring her to the awards ceremony, since he’d invited
her, but otherwise she could park herself poolside for the weekend for all he cared.
No kissing. No salsa. No big money poker.
Piece of cake.
* * *
By the time they were checking in at the Bellagio, standing under a canopy of Chihuly
blown-glass flowers, he was ready to throttle the woman.
Not that she wasn’t being nice. Oh, no. You could never meet anyone nicer than Sarah
Tyler, her little act seemed to be proclaiming. Pleasant and helpful and so chatty
that he could hardly get a word in edgewise. But this Sarah was running the show,
and she had no intention of allowing any uncomfortable topics of conversation to pop
up of which she did not approve.
And he’d remembered her as such an easygoing girl.
Not so much these days, it seemed.
He’d never forgotten Sarah, the same way that he’d always remembered the smell of
her mother baking peanut butter cookies, the kind with the grid scored on top by the
tines of a fork. Visceral memories. The Tylers had subtly taken him in, never pushy
or condescending, but always there with a casual invitation to stay for dinner or
come by early for breakfast on the way to school. For a year, for the
worst
year, when his dad was spiraling out of control and his mom was focused on trying
to save him, J.D. had practically lived with the Tylers. He’d stop at his family’s
house occasionally, for clean clothes or to reconfirm his continued existence and
good health, but home had become the Tylers’ house.
And although he and Tyler were best buddies, there was also no avoiding the Tyler
daughters. The Tyler women, as they took to calling themselves shortly after puberty
overtook Maxie, the youngest.
Addy was the bossy one, the older sister who was more than happy to have a second
younger brother to order around. Maxie was creativity personified, a never-ending
stream of crazy ideas, strange clothes, weird hats and goofball plans. And Sarah…well,
Sarah was the calm in the eye of the storm.
Tyler was his brother-in-arms, his coconspirator in everything from concealing mirrors
on the high school grounds—it was a surprisingly scientific effort to use the principles
of light refraction to peek into the girls’ locker room—to cutting school to attend
the Chicago Cubs’ home opener every spring, a tradition adopted by Tyler’s father
as a boy, which they’d heard about and were determined to continue.
You don’t know what I’m like.”
He mirrored her gesture, kicking his feet up on the low table in front of them. “Tell
me this, Ms. Tyler. What kind of stakes did you bring with you?”
“For the weekend?”
“Yeah.”
She grimaced and looked pained. “Three hundred.”
“Dollars?”
“No, pesos. Of course dollars.”
“What are you gonna do? Play the quarter slots all weekend?” He meant to be insulting.
Only a fool thought three hundred bucks would last for three days of gambling in Sin
City.
She shrugged him off and turned back to her magazine. He might have heard her mutter
under her breath, “I’m going to try, anyway.”
The captain came over the PA system to announce that they’d be landing shortly. J.D.
was past regretting his impulsive invitation to Sarah and actively planning how he
could avoid spending the whole weekend babysitting her. At least getting out of Chicago
would mean he’d be away from Lana for a few days. Despite being shacked up in the
ritziest hotel Michigan Avenue had to offer, she still found excuses to come by his
apartment almost every day. A few Lana-free days in Vegas would be a relief. Sarah
was packing up her magazines and snacks in that bag she clutched to her side like
a security blanket, with a special pocket for every little item. She’d probably clean
up her own trash for the flight attendant.
Ms. Obey the Rules. He’d have to bring her to the awards ceremony, since he’d invited
her, but otherwise she could park herself poolside for the weekend for all he cared.
No kissing. No salsa. No big money poker.
Piece of cake.
* * *
By the time they were checking in at the Bellagio, standing under a canopy of Chihuly
blown-glass flowers, he was ready to throttle the woman.
Not that she wasn’t being nice. Oh, no. You could never meet anyone nicer than Sarah
Tyler, her little act seemed to be proclaiming. Pleasant and helpful and so chatty
that he could hardly get a word in edgewise. But this Sarah was running the show,
and she had no intention of allowing any uncomfortable topics of conversation to pop
up of which she did not approve.
And he’d remembered her as such an easygoing girl.
Not so much these days, it seemed.
He’d never forgotten Sarah, the same way that he’d always remembered the smell of
her mother baking peanut butter cookies, the kind with the grid scored on top by the
tines of a fork. Visceral memories. The Tylers had subtly taken him in, never pushy
or condescending, but always there with a casual invitation to stay for dinner or
come by early for breakfast on the way to school. For a year, for the
worst
year, when his dad was spiraling out of control and his mom was focused on trying
to save him, J.D. had practically lived with the Tylers. He’d stop at his family’s
house occasionally, for clean clothes or to reconfirm his continued existence and
good health, but home had become the Tylers’ house.
And although he and Tyler were best buddies, there was also no avoiding the Tyler
daughters. The Tyler women, as they took to calling themselves shortly after puberty
overtook Maxie, the youngest.
Addy was the bossy one, the older sister who was more than happy to have a second
younger brother to order around. Maxie was creativity personified, a never-ending
stream of crazy ideas, strange clothes, weird hats and goofball plans. And Sarah…well,
Sarah was the calm in the eye of the storm.
Tyler was his brother-in-arms, his coconspirator in everything from concealing mirrors
on the high school grounds—it was a surprisingly scientific effort to use the principles
of light refraction to peek into the girls’ locker room—to cutting school to attend
the Chicago Cubs’ home opener every spring, a tradition adopted by Tyler’s father
as a boy, which they’d heard about and were determined to continue.
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