3. Katerina
Chapter three
Katerina
I’m sure the polite answer should be no.
But I find myself nodding instead.
Bex holds out her hand, not in a grand flourish, just a direct gesture that feels casually certain.
Her words were something like, “Come on, let’s dance,” and I was prepared to refuse, except I’ve already had two cocktails, and she asks in a way that suggests she doesn’t expect me to do anything but say yes.
So that’s what I do.
Yes.
She leads me away from the small table, and I can already feel my heart pounding because this band is playing something fast and brassy, and I don’t know the steps.
Usually, I can fake my way through a broad range of wedding-dance must-haves.
Swaying with a partner, the occasional line dance if a bride insists, that sort of safe repertoire.
But what’s blaring from the corner stage right now is not gentle or easily faked.
It’s a riot of trumpet wails and a driving drumline that’s urging everyone to surrender to chaos.
I am not great at surrendering to chaos.
We reach the dance floor, which is less an actual floor and more like a narrow corridor of people.
A trumpet squeals. The crowd jolts sideways.
Bex puts a palm against my hip so I don’t bump into an older couple.
It’s… startling. She’s warm and steady against me for a moment, then shifts her hand away as the crowd rearranges.
I realize I’m just standing there, so I start moving my feet in what might be a half-step to the music, but the beat is too quick.
I glance up at Bex, who absolutely knows what she’s doing.
There’s a playful bounce in her step, a casual swing of her shoulders.
She tries to guide my arms lightly, not forcing.
More like gentle suggestions: go left, turn once, keep breathing.
I feel a laugh bubble up, probably from nerves. “I’m going to step on you,” I warn.
“You won’t.”
I almost do.
She catches my elbow before I collide with someone.
Her eyes flash with amusement. In the swirl of neon from the bar signs, her features look momentarily sharper.
The line of her jaw, the hook of that silver ring on her index finger, the small star inked just below her collarbone.
I notice each detail in about half a second, then forcibly reclassify them: these are simply reference points, the way a dancer might track where to place her hands.
But it’s not purely that. My stomach is fluttering, and I can’t pretend it’s just the music.
“Relax, Kit,” Bex murmurs, close enough that I can hear.
I try. And for some reason, after about thirty seconds of flailing, I do manage to let go of the urge to orchestrate. I’m not scanning the crowd for potential collisions. I’m not worrying about looking ridiculous. Which I undoubtedly do, but I can’t fix that right now.
I let the awkwardness happen.
Somewhere in the back of my head, the part of me that runs my life is drafting an incident report.
Item one: you are dancing badly in public.
Item two: you agreed to this without consulting the itinerary.
Item three: the itinerary does not have a tab for this.
I wait for the report to escalate into panic, the way it always does.
It doesn’t. It just sits there, filed and ignored, while my feet keep failing to find the beat.
It’s strangely freeing to admit I have no idea what I’m doing.
My pulse stops hammering quite so hard. I let Bex lead me into a spin that doesn’t quite land, and I cling to her forearms to steady myself.
That’s how close we are. Close enough that I can smell citrus, maybe from her hair product, or from her last drink.
When the band changes tempo mid-song, winding down from frantic to something more mellow, we slow too, shifting in place. I’m a little breathless. It’s not from exhaustion as much as it’s from the hyper-awareness of everything about her right now.
She leans in. “You okay?”
My laugh is unsteady. “Spontaneity isn’t a category I budget for.”
“I know,” she says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you’re doing fine.”
I shake my head, the music still rolling in waves around us. The horns diminish, letting the saxophone take over. “I guess you’re used to jumping into random things without a plan.”
Her mouth twitches. “Guilty. But I do plan some stuff, you know.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.” She slides a hand along my waist as a passerby jostles her from behind. Then she steadies herself, but doesn’t pull away immediately. My pulse picks up again.
There’s a moment where the band’s volume dips. We’re suddenly in a small pocket of relative quiet. The rest of the crowd keeps dancing, but we’re in our own strange bubble.
Bex’s voice is lower now. “You really brought an entire weekend itinerary?”
I’d laugh if it didn’t feel so revealing. “I did.” My cheeks warm. “I even laminated it. Actually, I got stressed when my taxi was two minutes late.”
She stares, eyes flicking to my hairline where I can feel perspiration threatening to break through. “Two minutes,” she says softly, like that detail matters. “That’s not exactly late.”
I nod. “The city’s bigger than I remembered, and the roads were jammed.” I shrug. “Anyway, not a big deal.”
She exhales a small laugh. “It is a big deal. You hate not controlling stuff.”
I bristle, but not in a defensive way. More in a what-do-I-say-now way. I drop my gaze. My hands fidget. “You make it sound like I’m ridiculous.”
“No.” Her tone is honest. “I just watch you manage every room you walk into. I’ve always wondered what would happen if you stopped.”
I swallow. She’s so direct that it almost feels like a challenge. But it’s less abrasive than I expected. She’s curious. That disarms me more than if she laughed.
“I’m not sure I know how to stop,” I admit, a soft confession.
Bex’s expression doesn’t shift to pity, which is good because I don’t want pity. There’s a sympathy in her eyes, but also a flicker of understanding. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I get it. Hard to let go sometimes.”
Something in my chest loosens. We’re standing close, and the room’s temperature has me feeling a little dizzy. “Wedding planning is built on controlling details. But that’s not really why I got into it, you know?”
“Why, then?”
I tamp down the immediate impulse to shrug it off.
But she’s looking at me like she actually wants an answer.
My nose wrinkles. “I like seeing these…moments between people. The quiet stuff. Like the father of the bride getting choked up before the ceremony, or an older aunt pulling the bride aside at the reception to share a story about her own wedding day. That slice of real life? That’s what I’m after. I love it.”
She tilts her head. “Because you’re a closet romantic?”
I laugh, though not as loudly as I expect. “Not exactly. More like… I once made documentary-style videos in college. Short ones, filming families or local businesses. I liked capturing the behind-the-scenes feelings people had. The real stuff.”
I pause, then wave a dismissive hand. “But that was just a hobby. I was an amateur, and none of it went anywhere.”
Bex’s brow pinches. “Why didn’t it go anywhere?”
I shrug, my stomach tightening. “Not practical. Plus, wedding planning felt like a real career path.”
She’s silent for longer than I expect, eyes on me. “Sounds like you still want it, though.”
My cheeks heat. “Oh, not really,” I deflect. “I just… I guess I liked that work because it felt personal. People’s stories matter.”
She’s not letting me off the hook with that. “You miss it?”
Her question somehow lands in the center of my chest, and I don’t know if I want to answer. My entire life’s approach is to do the correct next step. Admitting regrets isn’t on brand.
I open my mouth to deliver some offhand remark, but the words stick in my throat. Finally, I force out, “Yeah, maybe a little.”
It’s three words. Barely a sentence. But I’ve never said it out loud before, not to my parents, not to Sofia, not even to the mirror.
I said it to Bex Russo on a dance floor in New Orleans, and the world did not end.
She’s still standing there. The band is still playing.
Nothing has collapsed except one small load-bearing wall I’ve spent a decade maintaining.
Across the dance floor, Lexi hollers, “Hey, lovebirds, we’re headed out!” Her voice cuts directly through the music.
I blink. Bex steps back. The physical distance becomes noticeable. I smooth my dress automatically, trying to reassemble the remains of my composure.
Her gaze flicks to my chest for half a second, like she notices the way I’m heaving a bit from dancing. Then she drags her attention away.
I follow her line of sight to find half the group already drifting toward the exit. The bartender is clearing glasses, the band is setting up for the next set. A moment ago, it felt like time was paused. Now it’s rolling forward again.
Bex gives me this small, almost private smile. “Thanks for the dance.”
My heart knocks against my ribs. “You’re welcome,” I answer, because I can’t think of anything else.
Then we squeeze past sweaty dancers and rejoin the group. Sofia grabs my arm, giggling about a bartender who insisted she try a shot of something neon purple. I let her lead me forward, casting one last glance at Bex. She looks back, too.
I feel strangely raw. Like I just got caught with my guard down in front of someone who actually saw it.
I straighten my shoulders. I’m still Kit Bennett. I have a binder. Or at least, a laminated itinerary.
But in the space of that one dance, something’s changed inside me. I don’t fully understand it.
We regroup on the sidewalk outside, the thick New Orleans night pressing around us.
The heat, the leftover brass echoes from inside, the swirl of chatter in the street.
Everything jostles for attention. Apparently, the official plan is to hop to Bourbon Street.
Not my idea of calm, but we’re here for Sofia, and I have to honor her big fling.
Lexi is practically bouncing with leftover adrenaline. Casey’s busy loading a fresh memory card, presumably to capture our next stop. Skye and Sofia share an excited grin. Bex stands to the side, running a hand through her hair, that ring catching a glint of passing headlights.
I slow up next to her, feeling that same odd swirl I felt on the dance floor. She doesn’t say anything. She just lifts an eyebrow in silent question.
I clear my throat. “So. Bourbon next?”
She smirks. “Your itinerary say so?”
My lips twitch and I manage a wry smile. “It did actually list Bourbon as a possible location. So yes.”
She rolls her eyes in mock exasperation. “All right, Ms. Organized. Let’s do Bourbon.”
Sofia calls for us to hurry, linking arms with Lexi. I catch the tail end of some joke about a mechanical bull. That’s ominous.
We start walking as a group, forming a ragged line. I can feel the city’s pulse ramping back up as we enter the more tourist-thick blocks. The neon signs overhead flicker pink, green, and electric orange. A man on the corner is outfitted in Mardi Gras beads, shouting about two-for-one daiquiris.
Bex walks near me, not close enough to touch, but near enough that if I turned my head, my nose would brush her jacket sleeve. I wonder if we’re going to talk more about the documentary thing, but the group’s chatter drowns out any possibility.
Inside, I’m still replaying that question she asked: You miss it?
Yes. Yes, I do.
And I told her so, which shocks me more than anything. I told her I miss it, and she didn’t dismiss me.
She just listened.