“Nate the Great! My man, how are you?” Tyler Berkley lifts his Ray-Bans and gives me a huge high five as I walk into the lobby. My high five is more sedate than his. But as Albert Schweitzer once said, you don’t leave a brother hanging.

“I’m doing good, apart from still being hounded by a nickname that should’ve died ten years ago,” I say, though I clap Tyler on the shoulder. For Tyler, ten years is no time at all. I’ve long since traded in my stained college tees for a professional suit and tie. Meanwhile, Tyler’s still wearing board shorts and a tank top, like it’s senior year. Even flip flops, God help us all. Some things don’t get old. At least, not to Tyler Berkley.

“Where’s the party?” I ask, peering around the bustling lobby. The place is expansive, cream and gold, with enormous and colorful blown glass flowers decorating a section of the ceiling. The marble floors are polished and buffed to perfection.

“Party’s right this way, my man,” Tyler says with a grin. He puts his fingers in his mouth and whistles loudly. A couple of perfect ten girls in sundresses walk by, eyeing us with disdain.

Not like Tyler notices. “Hey! Nate’s on deck!” he calls through cupped hands, making this process as embarrassing as possible. He then starts whooping, and I sigh as I roll my suitcase over to meet the wedding party. Tyler may be a man in his early thirties, but age would never matter to him.

Already, I can see Mike, the groom himself, talking to the lady at the reception desk. I try to steer myself around a cluster of people standing right in the center of the lobby. They’ve got that dazed, touristy look about them.

“Whoa!” A woman bolts around the herd of people, runs smack into me, and almost sends me to the ground. I manage to stay upright, but she’s not so lucky. She tumbles to the floor, her bag tipping over and the plastic handle making a loud smacking sound. I hold out a hand to help her up—I know I’m kind of a dick, but I hope I’m not an asshole.

Still, even with this gallant gesture, I can’t help judging the bag itself. It’s shiny and purple. I prefer a more sedate color palette.

“Thanks,” she says, taking my hand and pulling herself to her feet. Her smile is wide and bright, like crashing into people on a regular basis is just her way of saying hello. “Man, is it hopping or what?” She laughs, pulling her purse up onto her shoulder. Her laugh is kind of charming, actually. And even though I’m questioning her taste in luggage, I also find myself taking her in.

She’s short and curvy, her strawberry blonde hair flyaway. She’s got big blue eyes and a genuinely warm smile. Cute and approachable. Normally I’d be tempted to keep talking to her. But right now, I’ve got this bachelor party to deal with.

“You shouldn’t run around like that,” I tell her, and glance over at Mike. He’s waving, giving a puzzled shrug. The woman huffs.

“Thanks, Dad,” she mutters. Rolling her eyes, she, well, rolls away, her suitcase traveling behind her.

There she goes. It probably wouldn’t have amounted to much, anyway. I tend not to do well with women who are into shiny things. They’re the kind of people who like crocheting and cats. And crocheting things for their cats.

Finally, I finish my journey across the lobby and join Mike and Tyler.

“Vegas, baby!” Tyler yells, pumping his fist in the air.

Here we go—another Swingers line. I swear, I think that movie is Tyler’s bible.

“Don’t look at me like that, Wexler,” he says, jabbing his finger in my face. “You want the strippers and booze as much as I do, man.”

“I’m pretty sure you outdo me in that department,” I tell him. Tyler just laughs.

“Rough flight?” Mike asks, pulling me into a quick hug and slapping me on the back. “Or just being your usual charming self?”

“Sorry, guys. Probably just tired. Where’s Stacy?”

Mike’s fiancée is here as well, with her own bachelorette party in tow. Much as I’d like to warn him off marriage—it’s a dying institution, one that worked when it was designed for combining lands and trading cattle—I have to admire his choice of wife. Then again, it shouldn’t surprise me. Even in our Northwestern days, Mike was always into the smart, sexy type. So was I, for that matter. But I don’t have a type anymore. It’s safer this way.

“She and the girls are checking out the casino,” Mike says, grinning.

“Slots, right?” Tyler guffaws like he made a dirty joke.

“No, blackjack. Stacy’ll probably clean them out.”

“And then we’ll be in trouble with hotel management.” I finally get to the registration desk. The woman behind it has perfect hair and a perfect smile. “The tables are all rigged,” I say. “Did you ever hear of Jeffrey Ma? He was an MIT student, learned how to count cards—”

“Nate. Dude. Not this weekend, okay?” Mike says, clapping me on the shoulder. “This is about love, man. Not numbers.”

Mike’s a good guy. There’s no reason he should still be friends with a dick like me. But I won’t lie; I’m glad that he is.

“Check it out,” Tyler says, nudging me right in the ribs. “Ladies off the port bow.”

I look over to the tanned girls in sundresses who had rolled their eyes at us earlier. They continue rolling their eyes as Tyler whoops and asks them to come over.

Mike shakes his head, and I sigh.

“Maybe we can hang with them later. Set you up good, man,” Tyler says, punching me in the arm. Hell, maybe I do need to lighten up. It’s Mike and Stacy’s wedding, after all, not mine.

Not my wedding. That thought slips past my protective barriers to punch me right in the gut. I know why I’m in such an especially shitty mood right now, and it has nothing to do with women running into me, or Tyler hitting on everything in sight.

It’s the wedding itself. It’s who I don’t have at my side. Not anymore.

Well, fuck it. This is Mike and Stacy’s big celebration, and I’m not going to wreck it for them. I won’t let myself be that weak.

The girl behind the desk slides me a paper envelope containing my keys. “Enjoy your stay, sir. Welcome to the Bellagio,” she says, smiling.

“Thanks,” I say. I even force a smile of my own. Who knows? I do it enough, maybe the smile will eventually become real.