Ro dances and exercises for hours a day, six days a week. When she gets a day off, she likes to move as little as possible. I’m the opposite—I sit on my ass playing poker about fifty hours a week. I walk almost everywhere, because it’s the only exercise I get.
I glance at her as we make our way to the car, having second thoughts about the tacos. “Sunday dinner at your parents’ house is in…” I look down to check my watch. “Three hours and twenty minutes. Your mom gets mad if we don’t eat a lot.”
Ro scoffs. “I can’t wait that long. I’ll still eat a lot. She’s making manicotti.”
My lips form an “O” of appreciation. “Oh, that’s my favorite thing she makes. Well, it’s tied with those cheesy potatoes.”
Putting a palm to the sky, Ro says, “Testify. If I’m ever on death row, I want those cheesy potatoes for my last meal. And a huge piña colada, like serve it to me in a fishbowl.” She furrows her forehead. “Do they allow alcohol for your last meal? Because if they do, I’d just ask for an entire bottle of tequila so I could be passed out when the time came.”
“How about we try to stay off of death row instead?” I quip.
She grins at me, then blows a blond curl out of her face.
“That’s no fun, Gia.”
We get in her white Jeep Wrangler and she makes the quick drive to our favorite taco place, the summer Vegas heat oppressive even with the top down on her Jeep. Once we’ve had our fill of tacos, chips and guac, we resume shopping.
Even though I’m running on four hours of sleep, I don’t feel tired. Sunday is the only day I take off from playing poker, and it feels good to get out and do things with Ro. She’s one of those people who is always smiling, and she has great taste in clothes.
“These would look great on you,” she says, approaching me in a store with a pair of beat-up-looking jean shorts.
I cringe. “They’re really short.”
“Exactly. Thus, the name. Try them on.”
I take the shorts, go into a fitting room and change into them. She was right—they do look good on me. I play lots of angles at poker tables, but never the distract-a-man-with-sex-appeal one. I don’t want to invite trouble. When I’m not sitting at a poker table, though, it will be nice to have something fashionable to wear.
“I like them,” I tell Ro as I walk out of the fitting room.
“Good.” She passes me a pair of bright yellow flip-flops. “These are on clearance, so I got some in both our sizes.”
“Thanks.”
We check out and head back to our apartment to take showers and change clothes. If I leave the house, I sweat through several outfits a day during the summer here.
Our building is nothing special. It was built in the 1970s and has a plain brown stucco exterior. But the landscaping is nice, and it has a pool. The downside is that our two-bedroom apartment is on the third floor, and there’s no elevator.
“You can have first shower if you’ll take the trash out after,” I tell Ro, flopping down in front of the window air conditioning unit humming away in one of the living room windows.
“Deal.”
I pick up my hair and pile it on top of my head, sighing vocally as the cold air hits my sweaty neck. When I close my eyes and try to block out thoughts and just relax, a hand I lost at a poker table last night creeps into my mind.
Did I play it right? I can hear my dad’s voice in my head.
It’s not the cards you’re playing, Gigi—it’s the other players.
That’s the truth, but there are also risky plays and conservative plays. When I lose big hands, I beat myself up over what I “should” have done.
I think the college-aged guy at the table I was playing was more experienced than I realized. He was hard to read. I should have left the table when my pot started swinging, but it had become personal by then. I wanted to beat him, which is never sound motivation.
Once it gets personal, you’ve already lost.
I exhale heavily. I usually don’t struggle with keeping things impersonal—in poker and in life. The only man I’ve ever had a long-term relationship with used to tell me I was a closed book. I never argued that, and I never made an effort to open up to him, either.
That’s one of the reasons we aren’t together anymore. The main one, really. But our breakup was a relief for me. The only way I can play poker full time and reach my goal is to stay focused, and relationships are distracting.
“And…I’m sweaty again,” Ro says, grinning at me as she emerges from the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her wet hair.
“You’ve lived here most of your life. Do you ever get used to the summers?” I ask, standing up from the couch.
“I guess I’m used to Vegas weather, but I still don’t like it.”
Ro walks into the kitchen, and from the rustle of plastic, I can tell she’s changing out the trash bag.
“When do we have to leave for your parents’ house?” I ask.
“Um…ten minutes?”
“Gah! I guess I’m taking a quick shower and skipping makeup.”
“It would have just melted off anyway,” she calls as she sweeps past me, full garbage bag in hand.
“She knows we’re not a couple,” I tell Ro in a low tone as she rings her parents’ doorbell thirty minutes later.
“I told you, she doesn’t believe me and she never will. My parents can’t understand why we’d want to be roommates if we weren’t also lovers.”
“I know she thought that at first, but she hasn’t said anything in a while,” I remind Ro. “I think she knows.”
The front door of the modest two-story house swings open and a plump, dark-haired woman opens her arms to us.
“My girls are here! Get into the air conditioning, you two!”
We walk inside and Eliza Harmon hugs each of us. The Harmon house is full and loud, as usual.
“Hey, guys,” Ro’s older brother Lance says, waving at us as he chases after his two-year-old daughter, who is naked from the waist down and shrieking with delight as she eludes her father.
“Ro! Gia!” One of Ro’s younger brothers, Jack, runs up and puts an arm around each of us.
Jack is eight and he hardly ever stops moving. He’s quickly distracted by his eleven-year-old sister, Margo, who gives us a quick wave before she and Jack run off again.
“Ro and Gia, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Eliza says, leading us over to a middle-aged man sitting on the living room couch talking to Ro’s father, Gus. “Girls, this is Lance’s coworker Elliott. His wife is out of town this weekend and we didn’t want the poor man to starve to death! Elliott, this is our daughter Ro, our second oldest, and her special friend Gia.”
“Mom, we’re not a couple,” Ro deadpans.
“We love you unconditionally,” Eliza assures her, giving me a glowing look. “Both of you.”
“Mom, I know that, but we are not a couple. We’re just roommates and friends.”
Eliza nods. “You don’t have to tell us until you’re ready; it’s okay.”
Ro throws her hands in the air and looks at me. “Will you try? She wouldn’t believe me if I said the sky is blue.”