Chapter 1: Neon and Nervous Energy
The email landed in my inbox with the innocuous subject line: "Action Required: Velocity Conference Logistics." Velocity was the ridiculously named annual user conference for EngageFlow, the marketing automation platform that Lucy practically lived in and I begrudgingly administered. Usually, this email meant booking a block of dreary hotel rooms near the convention center in some forgettable mid-tier city. This year, however, the location was Las Vegas.
My first thought was a reflexive sigh. Vegas. Three days of forced networking, stale conference air, and pretending to be fascinated by roadmap presentations. My second thought, however, was Lucy.
"Did you see the Velocity email?" Her message popped up in Slack almost instantly. Lucy had an uncanny sixth sense for anything EngageFlow related.
"Just opened it," I typed back. "Vegas, huh?"
"I know! Wild. Chris is bummed he can't make it work, schedule-wise. You?"
"Same boat. Jennifer has that big charity gala planning committee thing she's chairing. No way she can bail."
A beat of silence, then: "Well... at least we'll have each other? Misery loves company?" Followed by a winking emoji.
I smiled faintly. "Something like that. Company expense account in Vegas isn't the worst kind of misery."
And that was that. Simple, practical. The way things always were between Lucy and me. We were work friends, colleagues who genuinely got along despite the decade separating us and our fundamentally different roles in the small ecosystem of OptiSource Software. We navigated the choppy waters of software integrations and marketing campaigns together, a reliable IT-Marketing duo. We talked almost every day, shared office gossip, occasionally grabbed lunch.
But lately, something had shifted, subtly, almost imperceptibly, and entirely within the confines of my own head. It started a few weeks ago, on one of those rare days when the usual lunch crew had scattered, leaving just Lucy and me to wander down to the Thai place on Pike Street. Walking back, sunlight glinting off the Seattle drizzle, I'd noticed the looks. Not just the appreciative glances men always gave Lucy -- she was, objectively, stunning in a way that seemed almost effortless -- but the secondary looks directed at me. A flicker of envy from a guy in a suit, a nod of grudging respect from another walking past with his own, much plainer, companion. They thought we were together. And a weird, illicit little thrill had shot through me.
My wife, Jennifer, is attractive, smart, successful. We have a comfortable life. But Lucy... Lucy turned heads in a way that rearranged the air around her. That day, walking back from lunch, I'd felt a ridiculous, borrowed sense of pride. And later, alone at my desk, the fantasy had begun to spool out: What if? What if I was the guy lucky enough to be on the arm of someone like Lucy, someone who commanded that kind of attention just by existing? It was a harmless thought experiment, I told myself. A mental vacation from the comfortable predictability of my life. I had zero intention of ever letting it bleed into reality. Our friendship was easy, uncomplicated. Why ruin it?
The flight to Vegas was predictably mundane. We talked work strategy for the conference -- divide and conquer the sessions, compare notes, identify actionable takeaways for our small team. Lucy meticulously planned which vendor booths she needed to hit for competitive intel, while I mapped out the technical deep-dives I could probably tolerate. She was ambitious, laser-focused beneath her easygoing exterior.
"Okay, schedule," she declared, pulling up a notes app on her phone as the plane began its descent over the sprawling, glittering grid of Vegas. "Conference sessions don't really kick off until Wednesday afternoon. So, tonight is fun night. Maybe hit a show? Or find a good bar?"
"Sounds like a plan," I agreed. "Tomorrow morning we can maybe sleep in a bit, grab a late breakfast, hit the pool if it's not offensively crowded?"
"Perfect. Maximize relaxation before the EngageFlow onslaught."
The taxi ride from the airport was a sensory overload -- flashing lights, towering hotel facades, the sheer, unapologetic excess of the Strip. Our hotel was one of the newer, sleeker ones, all gleaming chrome and abstract art. Check-in was smooth, and the desk clerk informed us our rooms were adjoining, separated by a connecting door. "Convenient for colleagues traveling together," she'd said with a practiced smile. I nodded, trying not to read anything into it, while simultaneously noting the tiny spark of something -- awareness? potential? -- the information ignited in my chest. Stupid.
We agreed to meet downstairs in an hour after freshening up. I dropped my bag in my room -- spacious, modern, impersonal -- and splashed water on my face. Looking in the mirror, I saw the same Sam I always saw. Thirty-three, starting to see faint lines around the eyes, hair still mostly black, build leaning more towards 'desk job' than 'gym rat'. Decent looking, Jen always said. But not the kind of guy who usually walked into a room with a woman like Lucy. Except tonight, apparently, I was.
When I met Lucy by the elevators, I had to recalibrate. Gone was the business-casual attire of the office. She wore a dress the color of a deep sunset, a silky material that clung just enough to outline her slender figure. It wasn't scandalously short, but it was definitely shorter than anything I'd seen her wear before, showing off long, toned legs. Her hair was down, cascading over her shoulders, and her makeup was subtle but enhancing, making her large eyes seem even more captivating. It wasn't an outrageous outfit by Vegas standards -- far from it -- but on Lucy, it was magnetic.
"Whoa," I said, hopefully sounding more appreciative-friend than leering-colleague. "Someone's ready for Vegas."
She laughed, a light, easy sound. "When in Rome, right? Besides, my Canucks are playing game three tonight. Gotta represent, even if it's just finding a sports bar."
"Lead the way," I said, falling into step beside her.
As we walked through the opulent casino floor towards the upscale sports bar tucked near the back, I felt it again -- that subtle shift in the atmosphere around us. Heads turned. Men paused their conversations, their eyes lingering on Lucy. And then, those secondary glances flicking towards me. Not hostile, more curious. Assessing. A few even held a hint of that same envy I'd noticed back in Seattle. The feeling it produced in me was a confusing cocktail: pride, definitely, a strange sort of proprietary amusement, but also a deepening unease, a guilt that felt sharper here, amplified by the neon and the proximity and the damn sunset-colored dress. She belonged to someone else. I belonged to someone else. This was just... borrowed light.
The bar was buzzing, screens flashing highlights, the low roar of conversation punctuated by cheers and groans. It was sleek, more lounge than dive bar, with plush seating and expensive-looking cocktails. We scanned the room and spotted two empty stools at the polished mahogany bar.
"Perfect," Lucy declared, sliding onto one.
