Page 36

The Road To Las Vegas

Song : Mine Would Be You - Blake Shelton

The sky was a soft, watercolor blue with streaks of gold just beginning to stretch across the horizon.

Morning light shimmered off the hood of the car, and the air was full of that strange New Year’s Eve tension—like the universe was holding its breath, waiting for something ridiculous and beautiful to happen.

I looked over at Jon, his left hand on the wheel, his right hand reaching for mine.

He had that stupid smirk on his face like he knew exactly how unhinged this was and loved every second of it.

“I still can’t believe you proposed to me in a bar,” I muttered, half-laughing, half-shaking my head. He glanced at me sideways.

“Well, it was a nice bar. And you were lookin’ at me like you wanted to marry me anyway.” I snorted.

“I was drunk.”

“You were in love.” I hated how right he was. And I hated how much I loved him for it.

Outside, the trees thinned into the open highway, the radio hummed with some country love song I didn’t know, and We were on our way.

No fancy venue, no Pinterest board, no months of planning—just us, a dress, some bootleg liquor, and the kind of love that made absolutely no sense and every kind of sense at the same time.

As we merged onto I-10 West, I looked over at him—flannel shirt sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched on his nose, a smug little smirk on his face as he’d just won the grand prize at a county fair—and thought, I’m really about to marry this man.

We stopped at Buc-ee’s about an hour later because Jon said it was “a spiritual obligation,” which was how I ended up in the parking lot with two beaver-themed hoodies, a bag of ghost pepper jerky, and a deeply regrettable breakfast taco that tasted like regret and bathroom cleaner.

Jon bought a camo travel mug the size of a toddler and a BBQ sandwich that he described as “life-changing.” I wasn’t convinced, but he looked so happy about it, that I let it slide.

Back on the road, we cranked up the playlist—90s R&B, early 2000s emo hits, and just enough Morgan Wallen to make me question my life choices—and settled into that strange road trip rhythm where time becomes a suggestion and calories don’t count.

Somewhere near San Antonio, I made the mistake of checking Instagram.

That was when I saw it. Patricia. Again.

There she was, perched on a green velvet chair in what looked like a furniture store or someone else’s very expensive living room, holding a wine glass like she was trying to manifest a Real Housewives casting call. The caption read:

Patricia_purelight:

When you’ve survived narcissistic abuse, betrayal, AND cat poop hexes, you come back stronger, hotter, and spiritually cleansed ????

#Survivor #JusticeWillBeServed #DelilahTheDevil

“Is this bitch still talking about Jeanine’s cat poop thing?” I asked, nearly choking on a Funyun. Jon sighed.

“What is it now?” I turned my phone toward him.

“I’m Delilah the Devil now.” He shook his head.

“Honestly, that’s kinda badass. You sound like a Bond villain.”

“She’s unraveling like a dollar store sweater, Jon.”

“I mean, technically, she’s already unraveled. This is just the fringe.” I laughed, then added, “Should we be worried she’s gonna show up in Vegas and throw fake blood on my wedding dress? ”

“She can try,” he said.

“I’ve got pepper spray and two fists of righteous vengeance.”

We drove for hours, stopping only to stretch our legs and marvel at how endless Texas was. It was like the state expanded just to spite us. At one point, I turned to Jon and said, “Are you sure we’re not just in a simulation? Like, what if we’re still in Houston and none of this is real?”

“If this is a simulation, it’s got terrible snack selection.”

By the time we hit New Mexico, the sun was beginning to droop behind the mountains, casting everything in that golden, cinematic glow that makes you feel like you’re starring in your own indie film.

We pulled into a little roadside diner outside of Roswell—because of course we did—called “Betty’s Galaxy Grub.

” The sign was flickering, the windows were foggy, and the waitress looked like she could beat Jon in an arm-wrestling match and still have energy left to chain-smoke a pack of menthols.

The food? Questionable. The coffee? More like caffeinated mud. The vibes? Immaculate.

Jon ordered a chicken-fried steak the size of his face. I got green chile enchiladas and tried not to think about Patricia. But just as I was dipping a tortilla chip into salsa that may or may not have been made in 1998, another notification lit up my phone. Another post.

Patricia_purelight:

Some of us don’t need a rushed Vegas wedding to feel loved.

Some of us actually respect the sanctity of commitment.

Enjoy your glittery mistake, Delilah.

#SomePeopleWillMarryAnyone #ProstitutionChargesPending #Tragic

“Okay,” I said calmly, setting my phone face-down.

“This woman needs a sedative and a hobby.” Jon just raised one eyebrow.

“Still think we should’ve brought Nacho? He could’ve sniffed out the crazy.”

“She’d try to kidnap him and teach him reiki.”

“She’d charge him for a chakra realignment.”

We were still laughing as we left the diner, stomachs full and hearts weirdly light.

The next stretch of road was long and quiet, the stars beginning to bloom across the sky like someone had spilled gold sequins across it.

Somewhere outside Gallup, Jon pulled into a suspiciously nondescript gas station with neon lights that screamed “We sell more than gasoline.”

“Uh, what are we doing here?” I asked, watching a man in a straw hat exit with a gallon of milk and a suspicious smile.

“I heard from Josh this is where the good gummies are.”

“Define ‘good.’”

“The kind that makes you hear God—or your ex-girlfriend crying from three states away.” I blinked.

“That’s a strong sell.”

Twenty minutes later, we were back on the road with a brown paper bag containing three packs of mushroom gummies in flavors like “Citrus Zest” and “Pineapple Enlightenment.”

“This feels wildly illegal,” I muttered.

“It’s not illegal if you don’t get caught,” Jon said, popping a gummy into his mouth.

“Also, it’s New Mexico. The laws are more like suggestions.”

By the time we reached the Arizona border, we were delirious from too many hours in the car, one too many psychic mushroom snacks, and a shared sense that we might actually be doing something kind of… beautiful. Unhinged, ye s. But beautiful.

We detoured to the Meteor Crater just before dusk, because Jon was determined to see “the biggest dent God ever made.” The wind howled as we stood on the edge of that massive, gaping hole in the earth, our jackets flapping like cheap superhero capes.

“It’s just a hole,” I said, unimpressed.

“It’s a holy hole,” Jon replied, completely serious.

“A sacred crater of celestial violence.”

“You’re lucky I love you.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t pushed you in yet.”

We kissed at the edge because, of course, we did. The wind tangled my hair, and Jon’s beard tickled my cheek, and it was all so ridiculous and perfect I nearly cried. Hours later, we rolled into Las Vegas just past 6 am.

The strip rose like a neon fever dream: glittering, obnoxious, and impossible to ignore.

Lights blinked from every direction. Giant digital screens advertised celebrity residencies and half-priced buffets with the same urgency.

There were people in sequined bras and feathers just casually strolling past us.

A guy in a Pikachu costume smoked a cigarette near a casino entrance like it was the most normal thing in the world. And then—finally—Harrah’s.

We pulled into the valet line in our dusty, bug-splattered Chevy truck.

The valet gave us a once-over that screamed, You’re not the first couple to show up here looking like roadkill in love, and you won’t be the last. I grabbed the wedding dress from the back seat like it was a sacred object and followed Jon into the blinding lights of the lobby, dizzy and excited and dangerously close to happy tears.

Jon turned to me with that signature grin and said, “You ready to become my moonshine wife?”

“I swear to God if you say that at the altar, I’ll walk.” He kissed my forehead.

“Deal.”

Tomorrow, we’ll pick up my parents from the airport.

Tomorrow, I’d get the bachelorette celebration of my dreams (just Jon and I) Tomorrow, we’d stand somewhere ridiculous and do ridiculous things…

But tonight? Tonight we were just two tired lunatics in love, standing under casino chandeliers with mushroom gummies in our pockets and a future that looked just as wild as the road behind us.

The air hit us like a wall when we stepped out of Harrah’s—bright lights, flashing billboards, the smell of vape clouds and street tacos, and that familiar Vegas electricity humming beneath everything.

I’d swapped my sweatshirt for a cropped white tee that said ' Bride Vibes' in sparkly lettering, and Jon insisted I wear the rhinestone crown and white sash that said 'Bride to Be' like it was the law.

“You look like the bachelorette version of a unicorn,” he said as we walked toward the High Roller.

“Good. That’s exactly the energy I’m trying to manifest.”

The walk to the LINQ Promenade felt like we were inside a glitter cannon.

Everything was loud and sparkly, and I lost count of how many people shouted, “Congratulations!” or offered unsolicited marriage advice, including one guy in a lobster costume who shouted, “Never go to bed angry! Or sober!” We grabbed our tickets for the High Roller and crammed into one of the massive glass pods, the view opening up as we slowly lifted above the Strip.

Jon stood behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder.

“This city’s nuts,” he murmured.

“Perfect place for us, then.”