11. Katerina
Chapter eleven
Katerina
Idon't think I've ever let a night run this far past my mental curfew before.
It's after midnight, possibly nearing one in the morning, and I am not in my bed, not in my hotel with an organized itinerary for tomorrow.
I'm walking through the Bywater neighborhood of New Orleans with a new tattoo under plastic wrap, a mild wine buzz, and Bex Russo's voice in my ear.
I tell myself this is just another piece of local flavor. Research, perhaps, for the documentary I once thought I'd make. That's my reclassification: purely observational. Not personal.
But I can't quite ignore the warmth of Bex's presence at my side, or the way I keep glancing at the line of her shoulders, the slight bounce in her step.
She's guiding me again down a series of side streets that look nothing like the neon carnival of Bourbon or the tourist mecca of the French Quarter.
This is calmer, older, with trees rising along the curbs and soft lamplight making the shadows tall.
We turn a corner, and Bex points to a squat, pale-yellow building with an unassuming sign: BACCHANAL. The word is painted above a doorway that looks more like an entrance to a corner store than a bar. "Welcome to the real New Orleans," she says, voice low.
She's told me that phrase three times tonight, and each time, she's taken me somewhere more surprising.
I peer at the building's worn exterior. "Are you sure it's still open?"
She shrugs. "It's open. And even if it isn't, we'll find out." She says this with the same casual confidence that got me a camera inked on my wrist a few hours ago.
Bacchanal's front room feels like a small wine shop, old tile underfoot, wooden shelves loaded with bottles.
An employee behind the counter waves when we enter.
Soft voices drift from somewhere out back.
Bex slides me a look, then leads me through the narrow aisle toward a sign that reads "Courtyard. "
We step into an open space framed by high walls.
A scattering of mismatched lawn chairs, café tables, and half a dozen flickering candles set the mood.
A small jazz quartet warms the air with a languid tune.
No microphones, no stage. Just four people playing because it's a Saturday spilling into Sunday morning, and apparently that's enough reason here.
String lights loop overhead, giving everyone an inviting glow. Maybe twenty patrons total. Most look like locals: no fanny packs, no souvenir T-shirts, no cameras slung around necks. Just people sipping wine in the heavy summer air.
Bex glances down at me, half an inch of height on her side, and asks, "White or red?"
After the night we've had, I want to say neither, but I get the sense this is part of the experience. "White, I guess. Something cold," I answer.
Bex nods, gestures for me to follow her to the interior counter.
A chalkboard above it lists various wines by the glass, with playful descriptions about fruit notes and dryness.
She orders a glass of something crisp for me, something deeper for her.
I stray to a fold-out table by the door, drawn by the sight of cheese laid out in neat triangles.
A helpful staffer says we can get a small charcuterie plate if we like.
I glance at Bex, who's at the register. She nods once, still in conversation with the cashier. I take that as permission to say yes. My stomach is in knots, wine plus adrenaline plus everything else swirling in me, so maybe a little cheese will ground me.
We end up with two wine glasses and a paper plate of brie, Gouda, some almonds, and a chunk of bread. The staffer laughs kindly as Bex passes them a tip jar donation. Then we head to the courtyard's edge, away from the bulk of the tables, so we can see the band and still talk quietly.
I hold my glass. It feels cool against my palm. The condensation rolls under my fingertips.
The music is slow, the trumpet muted, the bass a gentle thrum that tilts my mood from anxious to... something softer. Bex sets the charcuterie plate on a ledge behind us and takes a sip of her wine. She sighs in contentment.
I glance at the quartet: a trumpeter, a guitarist, a bassist, and a singer who occasionally hums a languid melody. They blend into each other smoothly, as if they've done this forever or maybe just tonight. It's not about perfection. It's about being here.
I swallow, suddenly wanting to confide something. The conversation in my head is: Don't do it. But my mouth betrays me. "This," I say, gesturing toward the band. "This is the kind of thing I used to dream about capturing. With a camera."
Bex tilts her head. "Like documentary style?"
My voice comes out a bit uneven. "Yeah. Places that matter to the people who live in them. Tiny, out-of-the-way corners, real gatherings. I wanted to interview the owners, the musicians, ask them why they keep doing it even if it doesn't make money or get written up in fancy publications."
She hums, quiet. "So why didn't you?"
I blink. "I—" Usually I have a quick explanation: I'm busy, wedding planning is fulfilling, I can always do a documentary someday. But she's not letting me slip by with that. "I made a different choice," I say.
"That's not the same as answering," she says, voice low.
It's disarming how easily she can slice through my protective wrap. She's done it before, when I was in the tattoo chair, or when I was spiraling about whether I could handle an impulsive kiss.
I try not to think about that kiss. The memory still thrums under my skin, more potent than the wine.
I take a breath. "Growing up, everything in my house was about respectability.
My parents' word for success. They're old New England money, which means everything is about how you appear to the world.
I learned how to orchestrate events for other people's happiness.
That was considered a respectable application of my skill set.
Making documentary films? Not so much. Too risky, not stable.
And there was... a sense in my family that you're either going to excel or you're going to fail.
So I folded. I built a business that looks good in their eyes. "
I'm gripping my glass too tight. I loosen my hold, exhale. "I'm good at it. I know I'm good at it."
Bex nods, the courtyard lights catching highlights in her hair. She doesn't say "but are you happy?", the question I see flickering behind her eyes. She just waits.
I swirl my wine. "Sometimes," I say, feeling my voice shake, "I think about how I spend my days creating these staged visions of perfect weddings, immaculate premieres, father-daughter dances. But it's never actually mine. It's for show. For someone else's album."
A heavy pause. Then Bex says, "I get that. My parents love me, but in their heads, they're still waiting for me to do something 'real.' Maybe a 9-to-5 with benefits. Meanwhile, it's been ten years, and I'm still putting art on people's bodies for a living."
I think of Marcello and Lucia Russo, who built a certain life in Brooklyn, who probably envisioned something else for Bex. "You don't regret it, though, right?"
She snorts, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. "Nope. I don't. I just... thought I didn't care that they disapprove. But I'd be lying if I said it never got under my skin."
"So you still worry what they think?"
She shrugs, sets her glass on the little ledge, picks up a slice of bread. "Some days, I don't care. Others, it eats at me. Hard to unlearn that craving for acceptance, right?"
I nod, my throat tight. "Right."
We let the music fill the space between us. The singer's voice resonates gently. Bex is spinning the silver ring on her index finger, a slow, absent rotation, the metal catching the candlelight with each pass. My eyes trace the curve of her knuckles.
A flutter slides through my stomach. I reclassify it as mild embarrassment from oversharing.
But a few minutes later, the band segues into an even slower tune, and Bex's eyes close briefly, like she's letting the notes settle in. The quiet hush of the courtyard makes it feel like we're the only two people who exist right now, standing against the world's edges.
I set my glass down, pick up a piece of Gouda, take a tiny bite. It's rich, slightly salty. The entire moment is intimate in a way that makes me a little dizzy.
Finally, Bex murmurs, "You ready for the next spot?"
I tilt my head. "You have more to show me?"
She smiles, a small, confident smile. "I definitely do."
The walk from Bacchanal to Crescent Park isn't long, but it carries us through another quiet neighborhood, the streets lit by those older streetlamps that cast everything in a warm glow.
We pass a half-crumbling building that once housed a sugar warehouse, or so Bex claims, but I can't verify because the sign is rusted beyond recognition.
When we approach the park entrance, an inconspicuous archway that leads onto an elevated concrete path, I breathe in the faint smell of the Mississippi River. Brackish water, old wood, a whiff of industrial grit.
Bex leads me up the ramp, and a moment later, we're on a raised promenade. The water flows darkly below, wide and steady, the city's lights reflected in blurred streaks across its surface. There's barely anyone here. Maybe a couple far down the walkway, their silhouettes barely visible.
I tuck my hands into the pockets of my dress. I never realized how disorienting it can feel to have your arms float free without a phone or a binder or anything to hold.
A faint breeze lifts a lock of my hair near my cheek. I glance sideways at Bex. She's taking this in with that half-smile, scanning the skyline. The glow from a distant bridge catches on her face, painting soft lines down her jaw.
Warmth spreads up the back of my neck. I look away, focusing on the water. "This is... the best thing I've seen all weekend," I say, too quietly at first. Then I repeat, "Really."