Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Like, seriously. That doesn’t happen.
I really need that neck brace.
Tonight is actually the 1920s party. The one that Britney thought was the other night. I’m not sure what I’m going to wear. I only have the one flapper dress and that one’s already been seen by everyone and then tossed on the floor of Steve’s suite and probably smells like all kinds of sex. Which, to be fair, is not un-hot, but it sort of skeeves me out anyway.
I wonder what Steve’s gonna wear. I wonder if he’ll get into the whole theme thing and shows up all looking all Guys and Dolls. I wouldn’t be surprised. If anything, this brief stint here in Las Vegas (again, my first time, and it’s really living up to the hype) has taught me that my tolerance for the unexpected and borderline-incoherent is much higher than I realized.
Ding-dong.
The door. Probably Britney checking to see how I’m feeling after today. All in all, it was pretty successful. Once Steve joined our cohort, the time seemed to fly by and we gave away a ton of free books. Dozens upon dozens of women are now walking around with the name Cynthia Lear in their heads. And that’s a success, even if they aren’t reading exactly what I had intended when I first started Filling the Gap. They aren’t reading the one Steve read. The one with the plain white cover and the black letters that…
Wait. Where is that one?
I just realized I haven’t seen it since…
Ding-dong.
What did I do with it? I know I brought it back here. To my room. To this room. I…
Ding-dong.
Did I put it…? I don’t think I’ve seen it since… I didn’t… I mean, there’s no way it accidentally could have…?
Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
I jog to the door, head filled with a thousand colliding thoughts, and, swinging it open, I realize that my self-proclamation about not being able to feel surprised anymore may have been a bit premature.
“Sheila?”
“Hello, dear,” Sheila says, sashaying into the suite, carrying a garment bag, Britney on her heels.
“Your sweet friend here called me,” Sheila says, referring to Britney, who sits on the edge of the bed.
Sheila is standing by the window, looking out at the Strip, kind of glassy-eyed. “This is nice,” she mutters, touching the curtains and staring at something that I feel like only she can see. “Y’know, I haven’t been back to Vegas since… Oh, I don’t even know when. After Dean and I split, I decided there was no real reason for me to come anymore. The town has changed.”
“Dean… Martin?” Britney asks.
Sheila ignores her the way she does and keeps looking around.
“Sorry,” I start. “Why did she call you? Why did you call her?” I ask Sheila and Britney, in that order.
Britney answers, as Sheila seems lost in thought. “Since we talked about what she said as you and I were driving here—”
“What did I say?” Sheila asks, betraying the notion that she’s not totally plugged into everything going on around her at all times.
“Cordelia said that you mentioned something about Vegas being a rollercoaster? That it’ll whip you around or something?”
Sheila nods, saying nothing. Her halter top allows her deeply tanned and freckled shoulders to glisten in the setting desert sun.
“Anyway,” Britney goes on, “I figured she might know if there was somewhere in town where we could find another dress for you for tonight.”
“Why did you think I’d need another dress?”
“Because everybody already saw the one you wore the other night and because it… probably needs to be cleaned.”
“You think I’d need a whole new dress just because—” Her cocked head and pursed lips stop me from going on. “Yeah, okay.”
Sheila chimes in, “And I told her, ‘Oh, I don’t know anymore. I’m sure she could find someplace on the internet.’” She’s still staring out the window, like she’s a million miles from here. “But then Britney told me what’s been going on.” Sheila turns now to face me. “What a time you’ve been having.”
“Time I’ve been having?” I paraphrase back. “What do you mean, what a time I’ve been having?”
“She asked how things were going and I told her,” Brit says, shrugging.
“And it made me…” Sheila trails off, then says, finally, “Wistful.”
“Wistful?”
“It means reflective. Usually with something like longing.”
“Yes, no, I know what it means. Why? Wistful how?”
Sheila steps over to a chaise and allows herself to fall languidly onto it, like Rita Hayworth or something. Or, more accurately, exactly like herself. Sheila is no one’s echo. She is all her own. “I was your age when I first came to Las Vegas.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I had a dream. To be a showgirl.”
“You did?”
“I did. And within, I don’t know, not more than a couple of days, I felt as though my life had been turned upside down.”
“It was?”
“Will you please stop doing that, dear? Interjecting your curiosity and disbelief into my story. I’m trying to open up.”