Everything Is Perfect When You're a Liar (30 page)

“You here for the fight?” Pasqual asks. Jesus, Pasqual is nosy.

“No,” I say, blowing my smoke out the window and squinting into the sun. Maybe I'll start tanning again. “David Copperfield invited us down.”

“How do you know him?”

“He's a fan of mine.” I hear myself and wince. God, I'm an idiot. It's lucky I'm a girl—I'd be such a dick if I were a guy. “I'm a writer.”

“Wow.” Pasqual turns around to see if he recognizes me and looks like he thinks he does, which is funny for the second he does it. “What have you written?” he asks.

“A few pilots for NBC and CBS. A book. I just sold a movie to Warner Bros. Actually, absolutely nothing I've written has been produced or published yet. I guess it's pretty much a bunch of bullshit . . .” I inhale more carcinogens, pretending they're reversing the aging process. I'm talking to Pasqual but also mastering the art of not wrinkling my face while I smoke. It's a fine art. “Right now I'm pretty focused on my body and not dying.”

James pays Pasqual for our ride, then pays him a little more to go and pick up Matt and Angela while we check into the hotel. Our suite is in tower two of the MGM's three towers and there's a connecting suite for Angela and Matt. It's the perfect setup. We can have our own space but be neighbors. We'll be Chandler and Joey and they'll be Monica and Rachel.

We have a kitchen, living room, bathroom, separate bedroom, and a very large en-suite bathroom. I have no complaints, even if the suite is only on the third floor of a thirty-six-floor tower, because I'm a gracious person and this room is a gift. James goes for a walk to get some coffee, and I turn on Judge Alex on the bathroom TV and have a shower.

It's my first shower in Las Vegas, and I feel weird about it. I know this place is a desert. I feel terrible for using so much water, even though I know that's dumb, because there are thousands of people in this hotel alone, cleaning themselves or swimming in giant pools of water, lifting their bikini tops to reveal expensive boobs and downing shots of Patron. As I stand beneath the shower stream, though, those boob images are replaced with images of African children hand-pumping dead wells in the desert, and the water falling on me feels illegal. So I quickly turn the shower knob to the left and get out of the shower.

I look at myself in the mirror. I'm doing better. My stomach is flatter. My thighs are slimmer. But I still look like I'm more than 50 percent fat. Skinniest fat ever. No one can ever see this mess. I'm so glad I'm married. I hope James doesn't go first. I'll have to spend all of his death insurance money on fixing my body so someone else can see me naked and not be scared.

I wipe my hand on a towel, pick up my phone, and text Angela.

I quickly put on my bikini, clench my butt cheeks to scan for cellulite (tons), and throw a dress on as I walk out to meet James in the living room.

“Angela and Matt aren't in the next room!” I announce, hands on my hips like some old lady, except my dress is still over most of my face and my eyes are the only thing showing. James holds my cappuccino out for me as I pull the rest of my dress down.

“Nice look,” he says. “Where are they?”

“Tower three.”

“Why are they in tower three?”

“IN A PENTHOUSE SUITE on the twenty-sixth floor with a WAY BETTER VIEW THAN US!” So much for being gift gracious. Oprah would not publicly approve of how much this was irritating me, but deep down she would get it. She has taste, after all.

I decide this minor flare-up counts as my cardio for the day, and we should move on.

“Let's go get them.”

James reaches over to push the button for the twenty-sixth floor in the elevator of tower three. Underneath the number 26 on the elevator button are the letters . . .
PH
.

“They
are
in the pent—”

“NO.” I put my finger on his lips. “Don't say it out loud. It's not a big deal.”

James says through my finger, “I'm not making it a big deal. It's just cool that they're in the penthouse.”

I nod earnestly. “It
is
cool.”

Matt and Angela open the door. “Angela!!” We hug. Over her shoulder, I immediately see a bed in the room and realize what's up: they don't have a suite. It's small. I feel a sad sense of relief and momentarily loathe myself. “Your room is so cute!”

Angela looks like an Italian Alexa Chung. Matt looks like Gary Oldman's son, Edward Norton, or Kip from
Napoleon Dynamite
. But Matt wears really nice French clothing and has a better jaw than Kip.

Angela breaks away from our hug. “Thanks for sending Pasqual for us!”

“Was he weird?”

Matt nods. “He asked if we wanted to have a
good time
. He really wanted to show us a
good time
. He told us he could get us
anything
.”

Matt raises his eyebrows evocatively and walks over to the table in the corner of the tiny room, by the window with the incredible view. (NO BALCONY.
WE HAVE A BALCONY
.) He grabs his wallet and addresses James: “Come with me to Walgreens? I need booze and contact lens solution.”

Angela's arms fly up in the air. “I did not leave your contact solution behind! It wasn't my fault!”

Matt shakes his head and I change the subject. Nobody really needs a contact lens solution argument.

“Angela and I are going to the tower two pool. Meet us there. Then COPPERFIELD.” I run my hands over my thighs. “Time for bathing suits. I have to warn you, I still have cellulite. Tracy Anderson better not be full of shit.”

The MGM Signature has a whole selection of private pools, separated from the main MGM party pool by concrete fences. They're available to rent for one hundred dollars an hour and are totally empty. From the other side of the fences, the towel boys manning these pools watch as I try three times to unlock the gate, without success. “Fucking card keys never work. I swear to God my body demagnetizes them.” Finally, I shout, “I REALLY AM STAYING HERE. IN THIS TOWER! THIS ISN'T A GAG!” The towel boys pretend they can't see us, even though we're standing three feet away from them, separated only by the bars of the fence and prestige. “JUST OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR FOR ME!!” I yell, pushing on the door like an animal, like Mike Tyson might do in the same situation. I'm yelling
to
them, of course, not
at
them; I have no desire to engage in negativity with the people responsible for making my pool experience sublime.

Finally, I figure out the how-to-put-the-key-into-the-door diagram, because I've tried every other combination. I slide the card into the slot and the door pops open easily. Like a joke.

Angela and I trip into the pool area. I'm furious, but trying to act like a queen in my
Real Housewives of St. Barts
bathing suit cover-up and sunglasses.

“Towels?” the short young guy asks. I pull down my sunglasses and look at him, like a gunslinger in a saloon.

“I want a lot of towels.” He laughs, but I repeat myself. “A lot.”

He mimics my serious expression, then nods, passing me a dozen giant towels.

“Why all the towels?” Angela hops over a puddle of water as we cross the pool deck, headed for the chairs.

“Power. It was a power move, Ang. They thought it was funny that I couldn't get in, so when I got in I took all the goddamn towels. I'm full of power moves. This way, no one fucks with me.” I always like to pretend I want to be the alpha of any new situation.

We pull all the empty chairs in this “exclusive” pool area into a circle and take a few in the first row that face the pool. The pool will be our TV. I stack up several towels on each of the deck chairs. “See? It's like a mattress to soak up our sweat. Or a fort I can crawl into to hide my bikini.”

“Genius,” she says, sitting down and testing her chair out with a few bounces.

As I watch her, I realize I'm getting hot standing there outside in my dress. I realize what's supposed to happen next. But I can't do it.

“I'm not taking off my dress, Ang, I can't do the bikini yet. I really didn't have enough time with Tracy and Wheelchair Jimmy for this sort of thing.”

She laughs. “You're FIIIIINNE!! Besides, no one is here.”

“I'm not fine. And those guys are here!” I point at the only other groups of people at the pool: a crowd of drunks and some skinny girls who are sitting across from us. I pull my sunglasses back down over my eyes and lean back into my power towels, for drama. “I'm old, Ang. I've had three kids. If James died I could never date again. I couldn't bear to have another guy look at my body in its weathered state. James is conditioned to love it no matter what. It's like he doesn't even KNOW any better anymore.”

My mom was right about this Black Lilith Moon shit.

“My mom was right about this Black Lilith Moon shit.”

“You're insane.” Angela stands up off the chair and removes her cover-up to reveal a cute navy '60s-style one-piece bathing suit.

“Oh my God.” I push my sunglasses back up and look at her like she's the sun. I want to stare directly at her, but her perfection might blind me. “You look GREAT. You're always thin, but you look ballerina-healthy great.”

Angela sits back down and looks at me the way I look at annoying toddlers who aren't listening to me. “We look
the exact same
,” she says slowly, probably hoping I'll listen and shut up. “We look the exact same, but you have bigger boobs.”

I point at her. “Your stomach skin NEVER stretched out to here to make room for babies!!” I reach out past my body, as far as I can reach. I'm exaggerating, but barely.

“I'm like that fat Subway guy's ‘after' body. JARED. I have Jared's skin.”

“You do not! What are you wearing tonight?” Angela asks, getting comfortable in her chair.

“
I DON'T KNOW.
Maybe a pair of giant pants? I could wear a giant pair of pants and pretend I've lost a ton of weight, and when no one believes me I can just bend over and show them the shrunken-apple skin hanging from the middle of my stomach.” I decide to leave my dress on. I'm dying in the heat, but it's better than admitting to the mess underneath. Drake would never holler for this ass—not yet.

A waitress appears. “Would you ladies like a menu?”

“NO!” I snap.

“WE WOULD!” It's Matt and James. They're carrying a Walgreens bag. Matt is eating nuts.

“Matt, what the hell are you eating?” Angela asks.

“Cashews,” he says excitedly.

“Cashews are delicious,” James says. God, they're not helping me feel any younger.

“Better question,” James says, popping a nut into his mouth. “Kelly, why are you wearing that dress?”

I look down at the sweat-stained dress I'm trapped in—a swath of cotton, smothering me like a pillow. I just shake my head.

That's when I notice something: a glint from the waitress's midsection. A BELLY-BUTTON RING. The older waitress, wearing a brown bikini. The older waitress, who's fully tan, with fake boobs and a rhinestone in her belly button. Who is totally cool with wearing a bikini as her work uniform. She's had a kid. Only one—I can tell from her skin—but she's done it. I stare at the rhinestone in her belly button. I wish I could be so ballsy. Flickering light, catching the sun, and calling out: “LOOK AT ME! I AM A SHAM DIAMOND IN A BELLY BUTTON, BECAUSE THIS BELLY IS WORTH LOOKING AT!”

I hated that rhinestone.

“We just want chips, guacamole, and salsa,” James says, passing the menu back. He doesn't even notice her rhinestone-worthy stomach. I've ruined him.

“Awwwwww, sorry, that's not on the menu,” she whines sweetly, like she's talking to a kitten or a handicapped person.

“We can't just get chips and salsa? With a little guacamole on the side?” he asks. Belly Button shakes her head, as if a sad-face emoticon is the only thing registering in her brain at that moment.

James takes the menu back, looks at it for a second, then returns it.

“All right. We'll have the nachos with the chicken, onions, cheese sauce, sour cream, jalapeños, guacamole, and salsa on the side.”

“Wouldn't you be so embarrassed if your mom worked here?” I say under my breath to Angela as the waitress walks away. I'm never catty. Cattiness is a girl-on-girl crime. I'm not biased; I have as much contempt for men as I do for women. I'm just being a regular asshole.

James and Matt sit down beside us. “Hey—we saw Pasqual at the drugstore!” James says.

“Yeah.” Matt laughs, eyeing up my towel situation. “He's weird. He just yelled at us from across the street. Kel, why do you have all those towels?”

“We got them for you guys,” I say, as if this should be obvious. “Take the top ones, I've already sweated through them. We should totally call Pasqual and let him take us on an adventure!”