On the way to Reno, we pulled over to look at the river. For the first time ever, we did not get out of the car. We did not climb down to swim in the cold water and make love on the big flat boulders as we used to do when we were dating. Instead, we continued driving, nibbling on the treats my parents had sent in a picnic basket. Soon we were out of the beauty and into the city.
The Peppermill was like the glowing castle from the Neverending Story. Brilliant white, intricately carved, and solid. As we approached, I was disheartened. There were statues of giant naked men on either side of the entrance and against the curb were limos that advertised the live nude girls of Mustang Ranch.
Jared guided us to our air-conditioned room. He slicked back his wavy hair and donned his “lucky” gambling shirt: images of dice and playing cards on black polyester. Whether or not the shirt worked, my husband was a winner, nearly every time. It was his resolve, I thought. And his charming smile, which usually brought me up from even the lowest of blues.
The shirt was baggy. Beneath the folds, he looked like some other man. I couldn’t see his form. Lost. I wore white lace and magical sea opal beads. Hoping to be found.
“Let’s go find a table and order cerveza,” Jared said. I was already thinking back to the icy river water and evergreen trees. Thinking forward to lounging in our room. My mind wanted to dwell anywhere but in the smoky present.
By midnight, Jared had been gambling for ten hours, minus the intermission for a giant buffet salad. We had our free Coronas. Teas. Ice waters. And then some. We had laughter and jokes and multitudes of conversations, but for me the evening was growing stale.
When I mentioned to other gamblers that we were on our honeymoon, the typical response was, “You should be in your room, not here!”
“Jared, let’s go to our room.” I was getting antsy.
“But I’m winning, guerita.”
“You’re always winning—you’re so good at this.”
I had used up my forty dollars and another of his forty dollars. Really, the only thing I enjoyed about blackjack was asking the dealers questions about their lives and singing harmonies to the music that marked the passing minutes, song upon song upon song.
“Please,” I said, envisioning the hot tub that awaited us in our room.
The waitress who was serving our blackjack table was, like all the other waitresses, wearing a black leotard with a push-up bustier. A generous amount of sculpted flesh was jiggling above her top, and she brought drinks to Jared more frequently when she realized she’d caught his eye. He made it obvious, gazing as she leaned over to wipe up dribbles of water.
They began a not-so-subtle exchange. Warming up quickly to his attentions, she was already calling him precioso.
“Why isn’t she talking to me?” I asked.
“Because you don’t have any money—you’re not playing.”
I went to the bathroom, stood in front of the mirror for a couple minutes. I was not glowing like a newlywed.
After my self-scrutiny, I came out only to find Jared standing between nearby slot machines with the gushing waitress. Apparently, they had left the table together and were now standing a foot apart, giggling. When I approached, they separated, nearly lurching like people do in the movies when they’ve been discovered.
After she strutted away, I asked Jared what they had been doing.
“Nothing, guera. You’re too jealous.”
“Can we go to our room now?” I said.
“You want me to lose?”
Another hour passed, with the attentive waitress hovering. The dealer had instructed me to step away from the table since I was not playing. I could stand behind my husband, not even beside him. I leaned against his back, hands on his shoulders. He was strong.
But really, who was this man I had just married? I thought after more than a year, I knew him fairly well. Was he always like this? I wasn’t sure. Had he changed? Maybe it was I who had changed. I played with my necklace, trying to absorb its purity. My thoughts made no sense. I asked again if we could go to our room. Nagging now.
“You can go. I’m staying,” Jared said.
“I’m not going without you,” I said.
“Motherfucker!” He stood up and threw his blackjack chips.
People at the table tipped back in their seats.
“And these two just got married?” I heard someone say, as if in disbelief.
Jared grabbed my hand and pulled me from my stool. I snatched my purse off the table. As he rushed me through the late-night crowd, I asked him to let go of my arm. He conceded, at the same time throwing his open bottle of Bud Light. It seemed to float up toward the elegant light fixtures. Beer foam splashed in slow motion.
The hotel carpets were psychedelic, blurring by as we speed-walked in silence. Riding the elevator up a few floors, I secretly wished I was at the Vintage Clothing fair.
Jared unlocked our room, flicked on the light, and made his way to the mirrored armoire near the bed. He stood still, meditating into the mirror. In one stream of movement, he grabbed a water glass and smashed it against his forehead. Then he lunged at me.
I didn’t move. Or maybe I flinched. Tunnel vision.
“Asshole! Stupid!” he yelled, arms in the air, eyes beady.
Jared went limp, like a scarecrow. Propped up solely by his own determination. His face was drenched in crimson, shards of glass sticking out of his hairline. I asked him to stay still and he complied as I picked out tiny splinters with my lavender fingernails.
As he continued to bleed, I followed my husband’s trail with a towel. Suddenly he dashed to the door. Open, closed, gone. I heard him patter down the hall. I didn’t follow.
How could this be happening again? I called my friend Julie—the same friend I tried to call from Reno the previous summer when Jared had flipped out. No answer. What if I canceled this marriage? Halfway resolved, I threw my black satin “Honeymoon Hottie” panties in the trash can.
When I woke up a few hours later, the sun was out and Jared sat rigid beside me in the bed. He liked to be up early when on vacation, no matter what. I admired his punctuality, but not today. His face was taut. Had he slept at all? How had he spent the rest of his night? Could I ease him back to his friendly self?
I got up and splashed water on my face. Jared was busy looking at his phone. Extracting my panties from the trash, I washed them with citrus hotel soap, and gently hung them to dry.
