One Night in Vegas

Chapter 1: The Breaking Point The printer jammed again. Ava heard it before the light started blinking — that particular grinding hesitation, the sound of something catching — and she was already out of her chair. She'd fixed it enough times to know: side panel, third roller from the bottom, paper folded back on itself like it was embarrassed. She worked it loose carefully, one corner at a time. "Oh my god, thank you." Sarah from Contracts materialized at her elbow, already reaching for the documents as they slid through. "Seriously, lifesaver." Ava started to say something back but Sarah was already gone, heels sharp against the tile, phone rising to her ear mid-stride. Ava stood there a moment with the jammed paper still in her hand — wrinkled, slightly warm — then folded it once and dropped it in the recycling. Back at her desk. Coffee, cold. Spreadsheet, glowing. On the wall above her monitor she'd tacked a postcard of a Hopper painting — Automat, the woman alone at the table, cup in front of her, one glove still on. She'd put it up the first week of the job, some idea about keeping herself company. That was five years ago. She didn't really see it anymore. Her degree was in studio art. Painting, mostly — big canvases, oils, the kind of work that got turpentine under your fingernails and kept you in the building until two in the morning because something wasn't right yet. One professor had used the word urgent about a piece she'd done junior year, and she'd carried that word around for months like a stone in her pocket, rubbing it smooth. She took a sip of cold coffee and went back to the spreadsheet. Her phone buzzed against the desk. "I'll be running late, meet you at 7 instead?" Kyle. Of course. She'd left work early, changed into the navy dress, put on makeup for the first time in weeks. She typed back okay and hit send before the frustration could turn into something she'd have to deal with. The restaurant was one of those mid-range Italian places — checkered tablecloths, candles in wine bottles, lighting soft enough to make everything feel more romantic than it was. Ava sat alone at their table with her napkin in her lap, watching couples lean across tables and share bites of pasta. Seven-fifteen. She checked her phone, then put it face-down. The waiter came by. She shook her head and said she was waiting for someone. Her cheeks burned a little, though he didn't seem to care. Kyle walked in at seven-twenty, jacket over one arm, tie loosened, eyes on his phone as he crossed the room. He looked up when he reached the table and gave her that half-smile she used to think was charming. "Sorry," he said, dropping into the chair across from her. "Work was insane." "It's fine," she said, automatically. He ordered a beer, she asked for water, and then the silence moved in — the kind that had been visiting more and more lately, the kind neither of them knew how to ask to leave. "How was your day?" she asked, because someone had to. "Steady," he said, eyes on the menu. "Same stuff. You?" "Fixed the printer again. Helped Sarah with her—" "That's good," he said, not looking up. Good. Right. She smoothed the napkin across her lap. "I was thinking this weekend we could check out that new exhibit at MoMA—" "Ava." He set the menu down and met her eyes, and her stomach dropped because she knew that look. "We need to talk." "About what?" He glanced around the restaurant, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I just... I don't think this is working anymore." The words landed and didn't make sense yet, her brain a beat behind. "What do you mean?" "You're great, Ava. Sweet and caring and reliable. But I don't feel that spark anymore. We're too... safe. Predictable." "Boring," she said. The word scraped out before she could stop it. He winced but didn't deny it. "I need someone more alive. Someone who takes risks, does spontaneous things. You're just so..." He paused. "Plain." *Plain.* The word landed square in her chest. Heat flooded her face. She thought about all the times she'd made herself smaller for him — skipped gallery openings because he wanted to watch the game, wore what he liked instead of what she liked, laughed at jokes that weren't funny. Dimmed herself down to something easier, more convenient. And still. A couple at the next table glanced over. "Don't make this harder than it has to be," Kyle said, lowering his voice. Ava stood up and pulled her coat from the back of her chair. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper but she got it. "I'm not making anything hard," she said quietly. "I'm leaving." "Ava, wait—" "Don't make a scene," she said, and walked out. The rain had started — soft, steady, sticking to her hair and face. She pulled her coat tighter and walked fast, didn't look back. Her phone rang before she made it halfway down the block. "You sound weird," Mia said. "What's wrong?" Ava's voice cracked when she answered. "Kyle dumped me." "He what?" "Just now. At the restaurant. Said I'm too plain and boring." "I'm going to kill him," Mia said. "I'm going to actually murder him, Ava, I swear to god—" "Don't," Ava said. But she was almost smiling, despite everything. "He's not worth it." "You're damn right he's not. Where are you? I'm coming over." Twenty minutes later they were on Ava's couch, a bottle of wine between them, takeout containers Mia had grabbed on the way scattered across the coffee table. Mia was still ranting, hands going, calling Kyle every name she could think of, while Ava picked at lo mein and tried not to cry. "He's an i***t," Mia said finally, turning to look at her straight-on. "You're not boring. You're the person everyone goes to when things fall apart because you actually care. That's not boring — that's rare." "Maybe he's right, though," Ava said quietly. "Maybe I am too safe. I can't even remember the last time I did something just because I wanted to." "Then do something now." "Like what?" "Something wild." Mia's eyes lit up with that reckless energy Ava both loved and feared. "Get a tattoo. Book a trip. Go to Vegas." "Vegas?" Ava laughed. It came out hollow. "Why not? When was the last time you did anything crazy?" Ava pulled out her phone. Her heart was already racing. She opened the airline app, typed in Las Vegas, watched the options load. There was a flight leaving tomorrow morning — stupid early, red-eye special, cheap, available, completely reckless. "Mia, I can't just—" "You can. You're going to." One click. That's all it would take. She clicked. The confirmation screen loaded, bright and official. Flight 2847 to Las Vegas, departing 6 AM. "Oh my god," she whispered. "What am I doing?" She stood up, walked to her bedroom, pulled her duffel bag from under the bed. Started throwing things in without thinking — jeans, shirts, that dress she'd bought on impulse and never worn because Kyle said it was too bright. She caught her reflection in the mirror. Hair messy from the rain, mascara smudged, eyes wide and a little wild. She looked like herself. She'd almost forgotten what that was.