11. Katerina #2
"I know," she answers, as if it's an obvious fact. Her tone isn't smug. It's gentle.
The city behind us looks small and quiet now, the carnival energy of Bourbon far away. We can almost see the ocean in the Mississippi's movement. If we ignore the industrial silhouettes, it feels infinite.
We slip into a silence that's the opposite of awkward. Usually, whenever there's quiet, I scramble to fill it with polite conversation, professional updates, or some show of competence. Now I just gaze at the dark water, letting the lapping hush reduce everything else to insignificance.
Every so often, Bex shifts her weight. I sense the shape of her body only a few inches away from mine, an awareness that flickers in my peripheral mind. It's a strange comfort, as though we share some secret vantage point over the rest of the city.
I try not to replay the night. The memory returns anyway. Her mouth on mine in the shop, the crowd noise dropping away. The bench in that pocket park an hour later, the creak of old wood, no audience at all.
"That was the second impulsive choice tonight," I mumble, more to myself than to her.
I realize I spoke aloud only when she turns. "Which one, the kiss or the tattoo?"
I let out a breathy laugh. "Both, I guess."
She nods, and our eyes meet. "Sometimes you need a little impulsiveness."
A pulse of something resonates through me. It's equal parts excitement and fear. This entire night has become a quiet unraveling of all the safe choices I typically make.
I reach up to smooth the single rebellious curl that's come loose at my temple. My hair, which I'd pinned so carefully at the start of the bachelorette gathering, is starting to surrender to the humidity.
Bex catches the movement, cocks an eyebrow. "You've been fighting that same curl all weekend. It's undefeated."
I laugh softly. "You're telling me it's not working?"
She chuckles. "Better than you think."
My heart flutters. I glance back to the water.
We drift forward along the promenade, our footsteps echoing on the concrete. The city skyline expands in the distance, including the faint outline of towers. There's no loud music here, no crowd. I savor the hush.
Eventually, Bex says, "We should probably circle back. It's getting late."
She doesn't sound like she wants to.
Neither do I. But I'm the one who nods. "Yeah. Probably."
We turn around. At the far side of the park, we find another exit ramp. Streetlights create pools of illumination on the sidewalk as we re-enter a more residential neighborhood.
Bex's phone buzzes. She pulls it out to check. The glow lights her face, along with the small grimace she always makes just before remembering that ignoring messages is an option. She slides the phone back into her pocket.
Bex slows her pace to match mine without seeming to decide to. Our shoulders drift closer, and neither of us adjusts course.
By the time we exit onto Chartres Street, I'm certain it's after two in the morning. My eyes sting at the corners from the lateness, but I'm also thrumming with an electric awareness.
I glance at Bex. "Thank you for tonight."
She shrugs modestly. "Thanks for trusting me enough to say yes."
I hold back my next response. Because the truth is, I said yes to everything. The tattoo, the spin of the hot sauce bottle, the slow, deliberate kiss. Like I was waiting for someone to break the pattern of my life.
And maybe that someone is her.
I follow Bex's lead as we head deeper into a neighborhood that edges the French Quarter, the roads narrower, the older houses crowding in. We walk side by side, shoulders occasionally brushing. I'm not sure if those touches are accidental or purposeful.
The hush is no longer tense. It's thick with something else: a sense that neither of us is ready for the night to end.
My phone is off. I told myself I'd keep it on in case any wedding emergencies arose, but at some point I silenced it. A small rebellion.
We pass a cat perched on a stoop, its yellow eyes glinting at us. It doesn't run away. I want to comment on how it's the calmest cat I've ever seen, but I swallow my words because the atmosphere feels too delicate.
My hotel is another half mile down. I know what awaits if we keep heading in that direction: a well-lit lobby, the flicker of fluorescent overhead, an elevator ride that ends in my mostly colorless room.
I'm not longing for that.
We turn onto a quieter side street, one lined with a row of balcony railings overhead. Bex is telling me something about how she first visited the Bywater with Nico, how they ended up at a pop-up bar in a shipping container. I'm half-listening, half-lost in the glow of the streetlamps.
Then she stops talking mid-sentence. Stares at something across the street.
I follow her gaze.
A small, narrow chapel building. The sign in the window reads OPEN FOR CEREMONIES, 24 HOURS. The bold letters flicker slightly, a neon that might be on its last legs. Through the window, a single lamp illuminates what looks like a tiny altar and maybe a potted fern.
A quick laugh escapes my throat. Not because it's inherently hilarious, but because the notion of a 24-hour wedding chapel in New Orleans at two in the morning is simultaneously perfect and ridiculous. Which, come to think of it, is the entire city in a nutshell.
Bex exhales a soft snort. "Well, my sister did say we should just get married."
She says it like a joke. She's referencing that offhand remark Sofia made after we performed our dare-kiss in front of everyone. Sofia teased, "Oh, you two should just get married yourselves," which earned a round of rowdy laughter.
It was definitely a joke. Someone else joked about officiating it on the spot. Everyone forgot about it five minutes later.
Except apparently me. And apparently Bex.
I don't laugh at Bex's remark. My reaction is to look at the chapel door, the worn handle, and then back to Bex. There's a too-long pause where I consider a truly unhinged possibility.
Her dark eyes catch the flicker in mine. She sees it. I see her see it.
That half second is enough to make my pulse thunder.
So I do the easy thing. I deflect. I let out a dry snicker and say, "It's a good bit. Really. Maybe we can propose a comedic spinoff wedding. But I know you wouldn't actually pick me."
Something in her expression changes. The set of her shoulders. The tilt of her chin. She steps half a pace forward. "What does that mean?"
I open my mouth, but no easy explanation surfaces.
"I just mean we're from different worlds, Bex.
You have a life in Brooklyn that's all about motion, spontaneity.
You get to choose what you want, who you want.
I'm up to my neck in... responsibility. This is a great night, and I don't want to make it weird, but let's be honest: I'm not the person you pick. "
My voice sounds too raw. My own words sting in my ears.
Bex stops walking. I take two more steps from habit, then realize she's behind me. I pivot around.
She looks at me, that steady gaze that got me into the tattoo chair, that talk in the courtyard, that entire unraveling of my usual plan. "Let's go in," she says.
For a second, I'm sure she's joking. But I see the seriousness in her eyes. She's not teasing.
My skin prickles. "We can't do that."
"You said I wouldn't pick you. I'm picking you," she says, each word quiet and deliberate. "So let's go."
That logic is nonsense. My entire mind screams that. And yet, the sincerity on her face is so real it robs me of air.
I look at the chapel sign again. My heart pounds so hard I almost can't think.
No. This is deranged. We do not just walk into a 24-hour chapel and—
But I remember how it felt to step off the ledge tonight.
First with a tattoo, then with that kiss, then with wandering the city until my feet throbbed.
I have never done things like this in my entire life, and yet, each time, I felt a surge of something close to relief, like some piece of me has been waiting to exhale.
I can feel that piece swirling now, at war with my rational side. The rational side says absolutely not, we are done, let's go back to the hotel. The other side says maybe you already know the answer.
Bex's stare is unwavering. She's not pushing me. She's inviting me. That's it.
I step toward her, and my voice trembles. "Okay."