Vegas With Dad's Best Friend

So, when he offers to take me with him to dinner, I want more than anything else to accept – it’s like my prayers have been answered. I just see one huge roadblock that might prevent me from getting there.

“The thing is,” I say, blushing with embarrassment. “I can’t really afford to eat out. I got a package with my hotel where I can eat at the buffet, so I don’t have to spend anything extra.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Jonas says. He squeezes my hand, and just for a moment, I don't want him to ever let go. “I'll pay for your meal. Consider it a welcome to Vegas gift.”

“Then what was this?” I asked gesturing to my tea.

“An apology for your first Vegas experience,” Jonas says, his cheeks dimpling with a smile as he stands up. “Come on, let's go. I know you're going to love this place.”

I get up, not quite sure that I'm doing the right thing still but knowing only one thing for sure, I don't want to leave his side. Even if I do feel awkward about relying on his hospitality, at least it means I get to be with him for a little bit longer. Even if I wasn't afraid of being on my own here, I would still feel the same way about that.

Everything about him is so wonderful. He's exactly like I remembered, but even better. It all seems like a bit of a cruel joke.

Here’s the man of your dreams, Savannah. He even wants to spend time with you. But don’t get too attached, because, at the end of the week, you’ll go back to never seeing one another again.

He’s even offering to pay for my dinner just because I’m scared. He’s not a man, he’s an angel sent to earth.

I get up and follow him out of the café, not failing to notice how so many pairs of eyes follow him as well. Not just the women, either. There are at least a couple of men who watch him, either with lust or envy, I can’t tell.

Out on the street, the bright sun prompts me to dig my sunglasses out of my purse and put them on. It’s a big contrast to the calm interior of the café, where background music masked the conversation around us. Now, I can hear so many people talking loudly around us, shouting at one another, the traffic, the music and sounds spilling out from casinos and other venues as we pass by. It’s always on the go here, always alive. Even as the evening is starting to draw in, nothing shows any signs of slowing down.

“So, what’s this restaurant like?” I ask, curious about exactly where I’ve agreed to go to. I hope it’s not something I don’t know how to deal with. Like sushi, or one of those places where they prepare the meat right at your table. I’ve never done something like that, and I wouldn’t know where to start.

“Oh, it’s pretty nice,” Jonas tells me. There’s something so casual and off-hand about the way he speaks he could be talking about going to a KFC, or he could be talking about going to the Ritz. With him, I get the feeling “nice” is more likely to refer to the Ritz. I hope I’m not going to feel out of place there. “It’s modern American cuisine. Lots of stuff you’ll be familiar with, I promise. Things like hamburgers, but deconstructed and done really, really well.”

“Deconstructed?” I repeat. That doesn’t sound good.

Jonas laughs. “Sorry. Foodie talk. It means, you know, broken down. Don’t expect a bread bun with a patty inside. More like a piece of bread presented over there, a hamburger-esque thing presented over here, a gherkin pate, a… I don’t know, a cheese soufflé instead of burger cheese. It sounds like a lot, but trust me – you’ll be surprised how much you recognize is going on when you put it in your mouth.”

I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be thinking about Jonas and the phrase ‘put it in your mouth.’ I’m silent for a moment, kind of stunned. When I do manage to gather myself back up, I hope he doesn’t think I’m a total idiot.

“There isn’t a… dress code at this place, is there?” I ask. He’s making me nervous with the way he describes the place. I have a feeling it’s not going to be the same level of restaurant that I’m used to.

“No,” Jonas says. I catch something in his voice that makes me think he’s not being entirely truthful, and when he looks at me and sees the question in my eyes, he laughs. “Well, yes. This is Vegas. No shirt, no shoes, no service. And they don’t like to see sneakers or t-shirts. Which is fine, because you’re not wearing either – they’ll let you in, no problem.”