“How was your interview, A?”

I’m so going to hell for this.

“It was good. At least I think so,” I say into the phone. I’m sitting in my hotel room, ready to go out for the night. I’m just waiting for David to finish doing whatever he’s doing in the en-suite of our shared hotel room.

“That’s great. I knew you’d ace that,” Mom says with pride in her voice. She adds, “If you were going to flunk anything, it sure as hell won’t be the interview bit. You’re too smooth.”

I laugh.

“But I’m really hoping you can get a position at Oak Crest Hospital instead so you can stay here, close to me. I guess that’s kind of selfish of me,” Mom says, sighing.

Truthfully, I’ve already received an acceptance letter from Oak Crest Hospital, and I’ve decided to start my medical career there. I just can’t tell Mom yet.

“Mom, nobody could ever accuse you of being selfish. And I want to stay in San Francisco, too. Oak Crest is my first choice, so we want the same thing. Let’s just hope it happens.”

Suddenly, the bathroom door swings wide open. David yells out, “A-dog! Let’s party, man! We’re in fucking Vegas!”

Shit.

I put my hand over the mic on my phone, but it’s too late.

“Is someone there? Did they say Vegas?” Mom asks, suddenly panicked.

I put my finger over my lips and glare at David, telling him to shut the fuck up.

“Yeah, it’s just David, Mom. We share a hotel room and we went to the same interview. He’s just asking if I want to go out and celebrate over drinks. He said, ‘they will effing beg us’ . . . you know, to accept the positions that we interviewed for.” My heart pounds in my chest as I strain my ear to listen to Mom’s labored breathing. “Mom, are you okay?”

She remains silent for a few worrying seconds before she finally says, “Yes. Yes, I’m okay. Don’t worry about me. I just thought . . . I thought someone said something about going to—” she pauses “—Vegas.”

I laugh nervously. “No, Mom. David’s just really happy the interview went well. His family lives here in Ohio and he’s hoping he’ll get this position.” I drop my voice conspiratorially. “I think he might’ve drunk a few glasses of whisky already.”

David opens his mouth to protest, and I quickly get up to put my hand over the lower half of his face.

“Oh, that’s fine, A,” Mom says. “Go out and have a few drinks with your friends. It’s not every day that you visit Columbus.”

“Yeah. We’re leaving in a few minutes.”

“Just don’t party too hard and wake up in Vegas,” Mom says, laughing.

Oh, if only she knew . . .

“Of course not. I know how you feel about that,” I say.

“Good. Remember what I’ve always told you. Vegas is bad luck. Only bad things will happen if you ever step foot in that city. Don’t ever go there, and don’t ever contact anyone who’s ever been there.”

“I know. I’m telling you, you’re worried over nothing. Now, I have to go. See you on Monday, okay, Mom?”

“Yeah. Bye, A. Have fun.”

“I will. Bye, Mom.”

I feel David’s stare before I even see it.

“Ohio? Really?” David asks. “Also, you lied to your mom to go to Vegas? Dude, what the fuck? You’re twenty-six.”

I give him a wry smile. “My mom’s . . . different.”

“What do you mean? She’s extra controlling?”

“Nah, she’s not like that at all. She just has this weird fear about Vegas,” I say as I put on my jacket and head toward the door. I don’t really want to get into this.

“Because it’s the Sin City? Is she religious?” David follows me out of the hotel room.

“No.”

“Has she been here at all? She lives in San Francisco, right? That’s just a stone’s throw away,” David says. He’s not going to drop it.

I don’t like talking about my mom’s irrational phobia because I don’t want people to think she’s crazy. But there comes a point in a conversation when it’s better to reveal some information, rather than let someone’s imagination go wild with speculation.

“Actually, we used to live here. My dad used to gamble a lot. You know those people who walk into a casino and only come back out days later?” I ask as we get into the elevator. “My dad was one of them.”

“Oh,” David says, obviously feeling bad about asking so many questions now. He knows my dad’s dead.

“Yeah, he got himself into a lot of debt and he was drinking a lot from feeling like a failure, and then one day, he got into a car accident because he was driving drunk.

“I guess my mom’s not completely wrong because something bad has happened to us in Vegas, but she blames the location instead of my dad’s own behavior. It’s not rational, but grief does strange things to people.”

That should be enough information to shut him up.

“Sorry, man. That must’ve sucked,” David says.

“Nah, that’s okay. It happened a long time ago.”

The elevator door opens at the ground floor, and we have to go through the casino to get to where we’re supposed to meet the other guys.

I’m not a fan of huge casinos like this one. This place has been designed to manipulate people into gambling their hard-earned money away.

The warm lighting and cool air-conditioning keep people in a state of sedentary comfort, making it more likely that they’d stay on their seats at the slot machines or at the poker tables.

When they’re hungry, they just follow the neon lights to find fast food restaurants where they buy greasy, unhealthy food—all just a few feet away from their aforementioned seats.

It’s a recipe for heart attack and short life expectancy.

But, I can’t bring myself to blame the casinos, much less Vegas, for what happened to my dad—or whatever’s happening to any of these suckers in this casino right now.

My dad was solely responsible for his choices to gamble, to drink, and to drive under the influence. Vegas didn’t make him do all those things; he did.

Besides, as long as you don’t go overboard, gambling is fine.

In fact, I think I might’ve indulged last night. I woke up to a bunch of bills scattered all over my bed this morning. Not a bad way to start the day.

I don’t remember much about last night, though. I guess I drank too much and operated on autopilot.

I vaguely recall going to the casino and talking to some girl . . . but I was alone this morning—unless you count David, who was sleeping in the other bed in the same room.

It’s no wonder I didn’t manage to pick up that girl, though. I can’t even recall what I said to her, or what she looked like. I’m pretty sure she was hot, although I was also wearing beer goggles, so she could’ve been an ogre for all I know.

For some reason, though, I have this vague memory, from last night, of me talking to the skateboarding kid from the day before. But I must be mistaken because I saw that kid in San Francisco, and I was already in Vegas last night.

Maybe I shouldn’t have drunk so much . . . but the best man ordered a few bottles of vodka and whisky, then kept refilling everybody’s shot glasses. Besides, Earl’s getting married—that’s a good excuse to let loose and party.

Earl’s best man, Trey, is a doctor he works with. He seems like an okay guy, although he can be a little pushy. He also seems to be really into partying.

That’s why, despite Earl having said repeatedly that he doesn’t want a crazy bachelor party, Trey has arranged for one anyway. We’re going to have dinner at this seafood buffet place, and then we’re off to a strip club.

“There you are! Are you guys ready to party?” Trey asks loudly as soon as he sees us walking out of the casino-slash-hotel where we’re staying. The air is hot and oppressive, even though it’s already dark.

“Yeah!” David responds enthusiastically. “Sure.” I give Trey a big grin.

“Awesome! I’m so excited I’m literally about to explode,” Trey says.

That would be an interesting sight, although sadly I’m pretty sure he meant “figuratively.”

I don’t really mind going to the strip club with a bunch of guys, because this is what people come to Vegas for, right? This is not how I spend most of my weekends, but I’m having a vacation right now, so who cares?

I feel a little bad for Earl because he’s probably not going to like the surprise.

But these guys are already high-fiving and talking excitedly about watching girls take their clothes off on stage. Somehow I doubt this bunch is going to willingly walk out of the strip joint to have a quiet barbecue in someone’s backyard.