Page 93 of Resurrection
"Maybe," I admit. "I’m still figuring it out."
"Sounds like something you should do before they give the job to someone else," he says, half joking but with that fatherly edge that tells me he means it. "Unless you don’t want it."
I nod, the tug between everything I want and everything I don’t know how to have stretching me thin.
They dive back into their breakfasts, chatting about plans for the day, leaving me to wrestle with the weight of the decision I have to make. My fork hovers over the plate as I check my phone once more, hoping for a sign. Anything to tell me I’m not about to screw this up again.
I remove the text draft again and again.
One word. Delete.
One more word. Erase.
Fuck it.
I’m going out.
When I arrive, the casino is a riot. Loud, crowded, and blissfully anonymous. I can hide here, drown in whiskey and slot machine symphonies. Better than staying home, wondering what to say to Naomi or if I should even say anything at all.
I hit the bar hard.
Drink like I’m chasing something I can’t catch.
People are everywhere—locals trying to forget, tourists hoping to strike it rich. I grab a seat at the end of the bar, the dark wood worn smooth by the restless hands of every sucker that’s come before me. I flag down the bartender, a guy with more piercings than I’ve got tats.
"Whiskey," I say. "Keep ’em coming."
The first sip goes down easy. Too easy. It warms the edges of my uncertainty, blurs the lines of the decision I can’t make. The music, the laughter, the clatter of coins spilling into trays—it’s all so loud, I can barely hear myself think. Good. I don’t want to think.
A woman to my right is yelling at the TV above the bar. The ball on the roulette wheel misses her number and she lets out a stream of words my mom wouldn’t approve of. I catch her eye and nod. "Tough break."
She laughs, takes a swig of her beer. "Story of my life."
I raise my glass in solidarity. "I’ll drink to that." The whiskey burns like I want it to.
"Tourists," the bartender says, shaking his head and pointing with his chin toward a group near the poker tables. They’re snapping pictures like they’ve never seen a card deck before. That is, until security shows up and tells them to stop. They scatter.
"Real high rollers," I say, downing another drink.
"Bet they spend more on souvenirs than chips."
"Bet you’re right," I agree. "At least they know what they’re doing here."
The bartender smirks and slides me another whiskey. I drink like it's my last night on earth, trying to lose myself in the crowd and failing. There’s always that nagging voice, reminding me I’m second best. A substitute. First in The Deviant, now with Vortex, and probably with Naomi too. I can’t outrun it, no matter how hard I try.
"Always second best," I mutter, feeling the sting more than the booze.
The guy next to me, balding, wearing a Hawaiian shirt that screams mid-life crisis, chuckles like I’m talking to him. "Ain’t we all, buddy?"
I nod, not really seeing him. The room’s starting to tilt in ways that make it hard to focus. I’m too drunk to be subtle and not drunk enough to stop caring.
"Another," I say, but the bartender’s got that look—the one that says I’m cut off.
"Maybe you should call it a night, man."
I’m about to argue, to say I’ve got it under control, but the world’s got a different opinion. "Yeah. Maybe."
"Call someone?" he suggests like I’m fifteen again, and I feel that familiar tickle of embarrassment.
