“I love you,” I say the words before I can stop myself, but I mean them just as much as I did the first time I said them.

She chokes a little, her face twisting as tears start to fall. “Well I fucking hate you.”

I swallow. “No you don’t.”

She turns to face me, letting me see the tears staining her face with mascara. “I want to.”

And I know she means that. If she didn’t love me, if I didn’t love her, none of this would hurt the way it does. I should tell her everything now, but by the way her lids sink low and her words slur together, I know she’s too drunk to process it anyway. I don’t want her drunken pity, I want her sober forgiveness.

We pull up to the house and I jump out and open her door for her, helping her out of the cab and helping her up to the door. “Are you okay? Are you going to be sick?”

She laughs a small, subdued laugh and rolls her eyes. “I’m fine. I’ve been drunk a few times before, you know.”

“I just want you to be okay.”

Her eyes shoot to mine. “I find that hard to believe.”

Swallowing, I take a step backward and nod. There are other words hanging between us, other things that need to be said, but neither of us grab for them. We just let them stay suspended as we stare at the other, waiting. Finally, Skyler wipes a fresh tear from the side of her face and reaches for the door handle.

“See you in Vegas,” she says, but she pauses, looking over her shoulder. “Oh, and happy birthday.”

She closes the door and I glance down at my watch. It’s just past midnight on the sixth of April.

Yeah.

Happy birthday to me.

When I check into my room at the Aria, I can’t help but feel like a bird in the pouring down rain – so desperate to fly, yet with no means to get off the ground. I’m broken, and I just wish the only thing that could fix me wasn’t the one thing I need to stay away from.

The past month has been absolute hell. I somehow managed to make it through the rest of the semester and finish out my classes, but just barely. Practicing for the tournament has been nothing but me playing like complete shit. I’m off my game, and it’s not a secret, anymore.

I drop my luggage and sit down on the bed, looking around at the beautiful room. I have an incredible view of the strip from my window and the bed is luxurious. Whites and purples cover the room and every amenity is top of the line and brand new. The Aria is one of the newer hotels on the strip and this is the first year they’ve hosted the American Poker Club Tournament. I just wish I had someone here to celebrate this amazing room with me.

I thought it would be Kip here with me. I planned on asking him to join me before everything happened. My Little was going to come but I knew she wanted to get a head start on her summer classes, so I told her it was okay. I’m sure the other girls would have come, too, but to be honest I was tired of them asking if I was okay. Why is it that I can hold everything together until someone asks me that one question? I’m fine, until you ask me if I’m fine.

Then I’m not fine, at all.

It’s the exact same feeling when I think about Kip calling me. He checked on me the day after formal and I basically told him to fuck off, and he has. But isn’t it funny how sometimes we tell someone to fuck off but then wish more than anything that they would just call?

They’re hosting a tournament pre-party tonight downstairs and even though I don’t want to go, I know I need to make an appearance. For one, everyone in the blogosphere has been talking about how I’ve been off my game, so I need to try to fake that I’m fine so they see I’m still here to compete. Plus, I want to scope out my competition. A lot of people register last minute, just like I did, and I want to see who I’m going to be facing the next two days.

I pull out the black cocktail dress I packed for the party and slip it on, curling my hair and touching up my makeup before heading downstairs. The party is already packed and I run into a few friends from past tournaments almost immediately. When I say friends, I mean either competition or other female players. For some reason, we all gravitate to one another. I guess because we all understand what it’s like to be on the “hot or not” list.

Stupid sexist magazines.

I grab a plate of hors d'oeuvres, even though I haven’t really eaten anything in the past three weeks, and snag a glass of honey whiskey from the bartender before finding a table near the back of the room. The lights are off, but there’s multicolored uplighting and lights that move with the music from the DJ. On any other day, I would be stoked to be here. I would be taking in everything and how amazing it is here in Vegas, one of my favorite places in the world, but right now I just can’t. I need to get myself pulled together before tomorrow.

I just really don’t know how.

“This seat taken?” He asks, and I know it’s Kip without even looking up from my plate. I shake my head and he sits down. For some reason, I still can’t look up.

“Hi,” he says softly, and I find the strength to pull my eyes to his. He’s dressed in a long sleeve white button up and black vest, and of course he’s wearing his glasses. Awesome. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, his hair styled perfectly, and he looks tan. Maybe he’s been lounging by the pool living the good life. I don’t know, but whatever he’s been doing, he looks amazing.

And I know I look like shit.

“Hi.”

He takes a pull of his drink, surveying me. “You look beautiful tonight.”

I really want to make some smart ass comment back to him, but I just don’t think it’s worth it. And I need my head on straight tomorrow. I can’t let him faze me tonight.

“Thank you. So do you.”

He cocks a brow. “You think I’m beautiful, huh?”

I roll my eyes, but a smile threatens at the corners of my mouth and it’s the first time I’ve had that urge in a while. “Like a shark before he eats his prey.”

“So what you’re saying is that I’m like Sparky?”

I laugh a little, forgoing playing with my food on my plate and taking a drink instead. “Sparky is fluffier than you. I think I like him more.”

“Hey, I’ve put on a few pounds. I might be fighting Sparky for that fluffy title here pretty soon.”

He doesn’t look like he’s put on even a single ounce. In fact, he looks like he’s lost weight – especially in his face. It’s then that I take a closer look at him – the bags under his eyes, the tired expression behind his smile. Maybe this hasn’t been as easy for him as I thought.

“Skyler, I need to talk to you.”

I close my eyes, setting my drink on the table. “Please don’t do this, Kip. Not before tomorrow.”

“It’s not about us,” he clarifies, but then he bites the inside of his lip a little. “Well, not entirely. I just need you to know something before tomorrow, before we start this tournament. I want you to understand.”

Pulling the glass to my lips, I drain the rest of my whiskey and cross my arms on the table, bracing for impact. I have no idea what he could possibly say to make me understand why he’s here, why he’s doing this to me. But, I remember running to him on our cruise, desperate to make him understand the whole Erin situation when I knew I didn’t even deserve him listening to a word I said.

I owe him the same courtesy.

“Skyler,” he starts, and the way he says my name is almost too much. It’s almost enough for me to get up and walk out. “I did come to Palm South to seek you out. My dad has been watching you play for years and when he found out you were entering this tournament, or well, rumored to be, anyway – he made me a deal. If I came to this school and got close enough to you to learn how to take you down at this tournament, he would pay for me to go to my dream school – UCLA.” He pauses, probably reading the confusion on my face. “Please don’t take it personally. My dad doesn’t have a vendetta against you or anything, it’s just that he thinks you’re the best in the game right now. And you’re also one of the youngest. I don’t know, I guess he felt like if everything he’s taught me about the game could help me beat you or at least keep up and compete, he would be ‘beating the best’, in a way. He even made that crazy fucking file that you found.” He runs his fingers through his hair, but keeps going. “It’s like he’s living through me. And I didn’t understand that before, not for a long time. But I get it now.”