We walked down the hallway that separated the Mandalay—built fourteen years before and already shabby—from the Delano, its newer, boutique counterpart. A relief, to exit the lights of the casino, the eyes, the oxygenated air. A relief, to stand by the window of our white suite on the twenty-sixth floor and look down on the strip, the bodies of its patrons erased by distance. I counted breaths, focused on that distance—my body from the crowd, my body from the ground, from Leah, our spot on the beach, my mother in a ridiculously large sunhat, spreading out a blanket. I took a picture of my reflection, distant lights inside me and beyond. And Jake, stepping into the background, wrapping his arms around my waist, both of us high and safe, conjoined. He unzipped my jeans. His fingers moved inside me and the heel of his hand pressed a dull ache into my whole body, a thick stamp, marking me his.

Downstairs, he shot Vegas content of me in my silver dress, leaning over the craps table, sitting at the slots, hand on the lever. He instructed every pose, even outtakes, blurry images of my teeth and smile; a picture with a bite of ribeye lifted to my mouth. We left too much steak on our plates when we finished. We ran through the casino holding hands and it was like running through sand, a crowded beach, bodies to weave in and out of, eyes that turned to watch us. It was possible that Jake was in love with me. Was I in love with him? Possibly. If he was. I imagined a chapel, an Elvis impersonator, candy rings and sincere words. But I couldn’t marry Jake, couldn’t marry anyone. Marriage was a cage, a career killer for someone young like me; if Jake asked, I would have to say no. I would have to call my mother. I would have to return. Home to where coupons were clipped and portions were weighed, for the sake of waistlines and wallets. It felt for a moment like relief, to have to go back, to have no other choice.

But the car Jake ordered took us to a club, not a chapel. Cavernous and dark and full of naked women. They danced on a stage shaped like a spilled drink, all those round and seeping circles. Jake said, “No phones here, babe,” and I put mine in its clutch.

He bought a table, led me to it, and we sat in a pair of plush chairs. The women danced, appearing and disappearing through fake fog and lights, like specters in a dark wood. I stood. I would join them. Jake told me to sit.