6. Bex #2
We drift together with the group to the spa, which is a short ride away.
The rest of the afternoon is an amusing blur of robes, essential oils, quiet music, and giggling about who booked the hot-stone massages.
I don’t see Kit much during that stretch.
She goes off to get a facial, I do a foot soak with Sofia and Lexi.
But occasionally, as we pass each other in the hallway or lounge, I catch her eye. She looks calmer. Her hair’s up in a wrap, and her face has that post-spa glow. She actually smiles at me in passing, soft and surprisingly vulnerable.
The spa releases us into late afternoon, and we regroup over snacks in the hotel lounge.
Everyone’s partway through fruit salads, wraps, or mini desserts.
Lexi is on her phone, brainstorming designs for her potential tattoo.
Casey is half-listening, half scouring Yelp for a dinner spot.
Skye is updating Jordan by text about how the weekend’s going, presumably leaving out certain details about mechanical bulls and questionable shots.
I find Kit perched at the edge of a small armchair with an iced tea in hand, scanning Lexi’s phone images. Lexi is showing off ideas: geometric hearts, a stylized bouquet, a tiny wedding bell.
Kit studies them. “They’re cute. Probably better if they’re small, right?”
Lexi laughs. “Yes, definitely small. I’m not exactly trying to get a giant chest piece. But I want something that says, ‘We had a wild weekend in New Orleans for Sofia’s wedding, and it was worth it.’”
Kit nods, smiling politely.
“You sure you don’t want one?” Lexi prods, flipping through more photos.
Kit waves her off. “I’m positive. Not my aesthetic.”
She says it in a light tone, but I notice the slightest waver in her voice. I wonder if anyone else hears it.
Lexi doesn’t press too hard. She shrugs. “All right, your call. But I think it’d look great on you.” She gestures vaguely at Kit’s arm or collarbone.
Kit’s cheeks go a little pink. “I’m going to pass, thanks.”
I linger near them. “Nico’s flash book is pretty varied. You might be surprised how many minimal designs exist.”
Kit glances up at me, a flick of something in her eyes. “There’s no reason for me to get one. I— it doesn’t align with my brand,” she says, wry amusement in her voice.
“Your brand?” I echo.
She gives a self-conscious shrug. “You know what I mean.”
I let the moment hang. She quickly goes back to sipping iced tea. End of topic.
But in my mind, that’s exactly the reason. She’s carrying a brand that was never fully hers, like a persona she’s had to maintain. So maybe letting a tiny spike of rebellion slip through would do her some good.
Back in my room, I stare into the mirror while combing my hair.
It’s near six o’clock now, and we’re all regrouping at eight to head to Nico’s shop.
Dinner’s at a casual place, so no need to dress fancy.
I slip into comfortable jeans and a sleeveless black top, arms fully visible. Tattoos on display.
I check my phone. A text from Nico:
NICO: “We are pumped. We have setups for 3 or 4 quick tats if needed. Also we got brews. Big night?”
I grin and reply:
BEX: “Big night. We might see tears if Lexi chooses that weird design she’s eying.”
I exhale, toss my phone onto the bed, and roll my shoulders. My reflection stares back, face slightly tense.
Kit said no multiple times. I’m not going to argue with any of them. If she watches all night from the wall with a seltzer, fine. Genuinely fine.
But my heart pounds a bit at the memory of her face when we danced. The careful mask slipping. She looked so alive in those seconds, messing up her steps and laughing anyway.
That is not the side of her most people see. I don’t think it’s a side most people have ever been offered.
I want more of that. Not for a victory. Just because watching her come alive did something to me that I haven’t sorted out yet, and I’d like the chance to feel it again.
I pick up my phone, rummage for a water bottle, snag my jacket, pat my pockets for my wallet, and step into the hallway. Whatever happens at Nico’s tonight, I want the door open for her. That’s all. The walking through is hers.
As I lock my door and head for the elevator, I pass by her room. She’s stepping out, rummaging in her purse for her key. Her eyes flick to me, and we both pause.
She’s dressed in a simple sundress with a short-sleeved cardigan.
Understated, but the color is deep plum.
I notice the line of her collar, the place where her skin meets the fabric.
My mind briefly wonders how a small design would look there.
Maybe a single line drawing. A silhouette of something meaningful to her.
I file that under professional interest. Placement is literally my job. It has nothing to do with the curve of her shoulder, which I am no longer looking at.
She offers a small smile. “Ready for dinner and then the big event, I assume?”
I nod. “Yep. You heading down?”
She crosses to me, adjusting the strap of her purse. “Might as well, if you can handle me asking for the hundredth time if you’re sure Nico wants all these people invading their workspace.”
I laugh. “Trust me, they’re fine. They’re excited.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, just gazes at me a beat too long. My stomach flips.
Then she says, “Okay,” so softly I barely hear it.
We walk toward the elevator in step, the hush of the hallway around us. For a split second, I catch the faint scent of her perfume, something subtle, maybe citrus with a floral note. The elevator arrives, and we ride down in silence.
Just as we get off, she clears her throat. “I appreciate you letting me just watch.”
I shoot her a sidelong look. “You do whatever feels right. I won’t push you if you’re not into it.”
She nods, pressing her lips together. A flicker of relief, or maybe disappointment, moves across her face. I can’t be sure.
I follow her into the lobby, our footsteps echoing. The rest of the group is waiting, half-laughing over some story Sofia is telling about Jordan. I slip into the conversation easily, but underneath it, that flicker of relief-or-disappointment on her face is still with me.
She wants someone to make it easy. I can’t do that part. All I can do is make it possible, and then stand very still and let her decide.
And maybe, just maybe, she’ll surprise herself enough to choose something real.
I hope she does. Not for me. Although I’m starting to suspect that’s not entirely true either.