Page 25

The Las Vegas Escape

Song : One Man Band - Old Dominion

W e were this close to slipping out unnoticed.

Just a few more steps, one quiet click of the door, and we ’ d be free.

But, of course, chaos has a way of sniffing you out when you ’ re trying to ghost it.

We walked upstairs with our bags and Nacho in tow, only to be met by the truly unsettling sight of Patricia in the hallway—wearing mismatched socks and purple latex gloves—on her knees with a bottle of Pine-Sol and a wad of paper towels.

“Oh, just cleaning up the cat poop Jeanine put in Vance’s suitcase,” she said as casually as if she were describing her breakfast.

“She does this to trigger me.” Jon and I froze mid-step like we’d wandered into a deleted scene from Unsolved Mysteries: The Idaho Files.

“She put actual cat poop in the suitcase?” I repeated slowly because I needed confirmation that this was, in fact, the batshit moment I thought it was. Patricia nodded, still scrubbing like she was trying to exorcise a demon from the carpet.

“She’s been targeting me ever since she found out I’m a Pisces moon.”

And just like that, we had crossed the threshold from “Maybe this woman’s just eccentric” to “Oh, she’s full-blown unstable and probably shouldn’t have unsupervised access to children, crockpots, or sharp objects.” Jon gently nudged my arm.

“Babe. Vegas.” Right. Escape mission, go.

We grabbed Nacho, tossed our bags into the rental car (a cherry red Toyota Camry, because if we were fleeing madness, we were doing it with cruise control), and peeled out of that driveway like it was the last chopper out of ’Nam .

The open road never looked so romantic. There’s something wildly therapeutic about watching Idaho disappear in your rearview mirror, especially when the sun is setting and your dog’s ears are flapping in the wind like he’s the main character in a dog food commercial.

We took turns DJing, which meant Jon graciously let me play 2000s R&B for three hours straight until he begged for a little Nirvana to “balance the vibes.” Nacho sat between us, perched like a judgmental potato, occasionally sneezing on the gearshift.

It was a solid six-hour drive to Las Vegas, but honestly?

It felt shorter with the thrill of freedom, a working A/C, and zero Patricia sightings.

By the time the neon glow of Vegas rose from the desert like an electric mirage, we were already feeling like different people.

Cleaner. Lighter. Considerably less likely to be invited to join a cult.

We pulled into Harrah’s Casino & Resort around 10 p.m.—Jon had booked us a room using his military discount like the absolute hero he is.

I swear, the woman at the check-in desk swooned when he handed her his ID.

I’d have to get that bitch fired later - mental note made, god Patricia is rubbing off on me… not going to get that sweet girl fired…

“We’re dog-friendly, right?” I asked sweetly, pointing to Nacho, who was sniffing the base of a slot machine like it held the secrets to the universe.

“Of course,” she said. “We’ll even send up a little treat basket.” If Nacho had thumbs, he would’ve fist-bumped her.

Our room was perfect. Not fancy, but crisp white linens, a city view, and most importantly, zero passive-aggressive group texts. We crashed hard that night, limbs tangled, Nacho curled at our feet, snoring like a 65-year-old trucker with a sinus infection.

The next morning, Vegas welcomed us like an old friend with bad decisions and bottomless mimosas.

We started with brunch at Yard House—Nacho got a special “dog-friendly” patio seat, complete with a water bowl and more attention than a Kardashian at Coachella.

I had the Nashville hot chicken sandwich, which was possibly sent from heaven, and Jon devoured a cheeseburger like it owed him money.

Then we wandered the Strip. Jon held my hand the entire time like we were on some kind of romantic recon mission—him in cargo shorts and mirrored sunglasses, me in a sundress that flirted with every breeze.

Nacho trotted beside us in his tiny harness like he owned the place, occasionally stopping to bark at Elvis impersonators or rogue pigeons.

The sun was hot, the sidewalks glittered, and for once, we didn’t feel like two people running away from something—we felt like two people running toward something better.

That night we ate at Virgil’s Real BBQ, where I nearly wept over the mac and cheese and Jon declared the brisket “almost as good as mine.” Nacho got a bite of cornbread under the table and looked personally offended when we didn’t also order him a rack of ribs.

We planned to stay in Vegas from Wednesday to Sunday, and while we were here, we’d started saying things like “When we come back next time…” and “Maybe we should look at condos near the Strip.” There was something about being away from the madness, from Idaho’s makeshift spiritual commune, that made us both remember who we were: two people who loved food, freedom, and each other…

and a dog who just wanted to chase pigeons and nap on clean sheets.

By the second night, we’d completely shed our former selves—the exhausted duo who had been navigating dog pee breaks, unpacked trauma, and people named Tory who think mushrooms have “consciousness.” In Vegas, we were hot. We were untouchable. And we were getting our groove back.

After dinner at Virgil’s that night, we walked the Strip again, this time slower, shoulders brushing, fingers interlaced like we were teenagers ditching curfew.

The desert heat had softened into something sultry, and the city lights flickered around us like they were in on our little secret.

Nacho was passed out in his sling—yes, a dog sling—tucked against Jon’s chest like a fur baby kangaroo, dead to the world after too many barks and not enough naps.

We returned to our hotel room just before midnight, laughing as we kicked off our shoes and dropped the to-go box of ribs on the nightstand like it was precious cargo.

Jon set Nacho down gently on his dog bed, pulled the blackout curtains tight, and gave me a look I knew very well by now.

That look said: Come here. Slowly. And don’t ask questions.

So I did. He caught me by the waist just before I made it past the foot of the bed, pulling me in so our hips aligned.

My hands slid up the back of his neck, fingers threading through hair that had grown just enough to tug on.

He kissed me once—softly—and then again, this time deeper until I forgot how to breathe properly.

He walked me backward until I hit the mattress.

Our laughter slowed. His hands found my hips.

My dress found the floor. There was no rush—just tension, built from days of flirting with disaster, dodging children, and surviving Idaho’s own personal reality show.

His body pressed against mine, all heat and purpose, and it felt like we were finally taking back the hours we’d lost to chaos.

We didn’t talk much. We didn’t have to. The sheets twisted.

His mouth traced the line of my jaw, my collarbone, my chest. His voice in my ear—low and raspy—sent goosebumps across my entire body.

Every inch of him felt like a promise I’d almost forgotten I deserved.

After we were both satisfied from obviously coming too much, we lay tangled in a sweaty, satisfied heap of laughter, breathless and high off everything we’d reclaimed. Nacho snored through the whole thing. Rude.

By Sunday, we were running on a beautiful mix of exhaustion, overpriced coffee, and just enough adrenaline to pretend we might never leave.

Our morning began with room service—Jon ordered a “manly” omelet stuffed with three meats, and I ordered a huge breakfast burrito from Guy Fieri’s restaurant because I fully intended to eat it like a woman who hadn’t been publicly shamed by a crockpot of frozen meatballs just five days earlier.

Nacho, now fully adjusted to Vegas luxury, refused to drink from his travel bowl unless it was perched on a folded towel.

Diva. We spent most of the day lounging on the hotel casino floor, old-fashioned and bud light in hand, sunglasses on, looking like the cover of a couples’ timeshare brochure but with way more sarcasm and less commitment.

Jon mostly looked up food and talked to Nacho.

I read a rom-com and people-watched. Nacho laid under my chair most of the time, wearing a tiny dog shirt that said “Las Vegas” because Jon thought he should have his own souvenir.

At one point, Jon leaned over and whispered, “I could stay here forever with you.” And for a moment, I believed we might.

We took our time packing up that evening, dragging our feet like teenagers who didn’t want to leave summer camp.

I shoved a few hotel shampoos into my toiletry bag for absolutely no reason other than spite.

Jon held up the leftover ribs like they were sacred artifacts and asked if I thought Nacho would care if we tried to bring them back.

We checked out just after sunset. The Las Vegas Strip lit up behind us like a farewell banner, and I took one last mental snapshot—me, Jon, and Nacho nestled in the backseat of our cherry red rental, ribs in the trunk, skin a little tanner, and not a single mentally unstable housemate in sight.

As we pulled onto the interstate, Jon reached for my hand and laced his fingers with mine.

“Back to Idaho Falls,” he said with mock doom in his voice .

I sighed. “Do you think they’ve moved on from cat poop yet?” He laughed.

“No chance.”