14. Bex
Chapter fourteen
Bex
Mornings always roll in too hot here, even behind decently thick curtains.
It's definitely Sunday, and the sun outside Kit's window is not shy about its presence.
I'm awake before my eyes fully open. There's that distinct heaviness in the air, the kind that insists it's daytime even if your body disagrees.
Then I realize where I am.
The immediate clue is the width of the mattress.
This isn't my bed back in Brooklyn, with its sagging corner that squeaks whenever I move.
It isn't the rental three streets over either, where the pillows smell like whichever essential oil Sofia loaded into the diffuser this week.
This mattress is firmer, with the kind of crisp edges you expect in a hotel, and the pillows smell faintly of bleach and not a single spice.
But the final, biggest clue is the person next to me.
Kit is asleep, turned on her side, her dark curls spiraling across her cheek and half into her eyes. She's breathing quietly through parted lips, the sheets only half covering her. One of her arms is thrown out toward me. Almost protective. Almost.
I stay very still, trying to contain the immediate surge of memory.
Because last night was many things, but calm wasn't one of them.
It arrives in steps, reassembling itself in bright pieces: Nico's shop and the bottle spinning on the floorboards.
The dare kiss. The courtyard at Bacchanal, wine and a jazz quartet playing to twenty people like it was the most important show in the world.
The walk through the city hush. The chapel.
The officiant who acted like none of it was odd. The rings.
The rings.
My gaze flicks to the nightstand and finds them.
Two plain silver bands, next to a chapel receipt.
At first I'm relieved we had the presence of mind to take them off before we fell asleep.
Then the relief curdles into something else.
That tiny pile of metal is a brute-force reminder that last night was not a dream.
I sit up carefully, bracing my elbow so I don't jostle Kit. The sheet slithers down my torso, leaving me in only a T-shirt I pulled on at some point while we dozed. My skin still feels faintly sticky from the humidity, but under that there's a memory of her hands.
No regret. That's the strangest part. The entire scenario, a two a.m. wedding with adrenaline for a chaser and Kit's fresh ink still under its wrap, should be meltdown territory. If I had half a grain of sense, I'd be freaking out.
But my instinct isn't panic. My instinct is: This is going to be the single biggest problem I have ever had to navigate.
And not because I don't want it.
But because we just turned a casual (ish) crush into a full-blown legal arrangement in the middle of a wedding weekend that's not even ours. If that's not an extraordinary problem, I don't know what is.
I flex my fingers. My left hand feels weirdly light without the ring. Then I remember how it felt to slide the other one onto her finger. For the briefest second last night, the entire idea felt so right, I almost believed in it wholeheartedly.
Kit shifts. I freeze.
She stretches her arm with a soft sigh, stirring. Then she opens her eyes, blinking in the morning brightness. I watch her try to register her surroundings: first the bed, then me, then the fact that we're both here, half tangled, in a hotel room that is definitely not large enough to hide meaning.
She doesn't leap away. She doesn't gasp. She just rubs at one eye, expression shifting from sleepy confusion to an awareness that's definitely not small.
The moment she sees the rings on the nightstand, her face does a series of micro-adjustments, each one acknowledging a new horizon of reality.
By the time she meets my gaze, I know she's remembered.
She inhales, staring at me with an expression that is not horror. It's something else, layered with about fifteen internal arguments.
I clear my throat, scanning her face for any sign this was a catastrophic mistake in her world. All I find is tension and a flicker of that stubborn earnestness she had last night.
We stay like that for maybe ten seconds, just breathing. Then I figure I should break the ice.
"Morning," I say softly.
She gives a shaky exhale. "Morning."
A swirl of silence. I'm not sure who's supposed to speak next.
Eventually, I force a little half-shrug, trying to lighten the tension. "So. Turns out we got married last night."
Her brows arch high, and for a heartbeat, she looks like she might either laugh or cry.
Then she sits up, pulling the thin sheet over her lap.
Her hair is thoroughly disheveled, and there's a faint pillow line creasing her left cheek.
A detail that makes her look younger, or vulnerable, in a way that startles me.
"Yeah," she says, voice cracking. "We did."
I rub my temple, feeling the first wave of practical ramifications crawl through my brain. "And we have three weeks until Sofia's wedding at Hollyvale. And, oh yeah, you're the wedding planner. And the maid of honor. And I'm a bridesmaid."
Kit nods. "And our families."
"Yep." I try to keep my tone light, but the weight of that single reality is almost too big. My parents are, well, let's just say they'd have a few pointed words about impulsive life choices.
Kit's brow furrows. "We haven't told anyone. Right?"
I snort. "When would we have found the time?"
She leans forward, planting her elbows on her knees, fingers laced together in front of her mouth.
"We can't. Not yet, at least." She's frowning.
"Especially not with this wedding. Sofia and Jordan trust me to keep everything on schedule.
And I'm not sure the bride's sister and the wedding planner spontaneously marrying each other in New Orleans was part of the schedule. "
I scoot closer, the mattress shifting under my weight. "So you're saying we keep it quiet for now."
"Yes," she says immediately. Then she hesitates. "Unless. Do you want to tell them?"
I picture my mother's face. She'd react with either outrage or stony silence. Neither is appealing. Also, telling Sofia right before the biggest event of her life that her baby sister just eloped might overshadow everything she's worked for. That wouldn't be fair to her.
"No," I say firmly. "I think we definitely keep it quiet until after Hollyvale. At least."
Kit's shoulders slump in relief. "I'm thankful you said that. I thought you might think secrecy is a betrayal of some kind."
I shake my head. "No. This is self-preservation. On so many levels."
We share a small, grim half-smile. Already, the mood is shifting from that breathless, post-wedding daze into the logistical tangles of real life.
I glance at the nightstand again. The rings. My stomach does a flip.
She follows my gaze. "Should we do something with those?"
"So we don't accidentally flash them around?"
She nods. "I guess we should hide them. We have the official license in my bag, so no one's going to see it unless they rummage. But the rings might draw questions."
It's surreal that we're calmly discussing camouflage for the wedding bands we purchased eight hours ago.
I swing my legs off the bed and rummage for my jeans, which are tossed on the floor near the closet.
My phone, still set to silent, is in the front pocket.
I fish it out. Multiple missed texts, presumably from Sofia or Lexi or maybe Nico.
Kit, meanwhile, pulls on her bra with a quick efficiency, face set in determined concentration.
She's usually so polished. Right now, her hair is a chaos of curls, and there's a faint smudge of old mascara under her left eye.
Combined with that pillow line on her cheek, it's enough to send a flicker of unsteady warmth through my chest. Because I'm the only one who's seen her like this. Undone. Unguarded.
I file that detail under normal morning observations. It's normal for people to look undone in the morning. My reaction has nothing to do with how she looks real instead of staged.
Right.
She picks up the rings delicately, cupping them in her palm. For a second I think she's going to drop them both into her purse and that will be that. Instead she separates them, turning one over like she's confirming which is which, though they're identical down to the scratch pattern.
She crosses to her carry-on, unzips the small interior pocket, and tucks one band inside. Zips it shut. Pats it once, the way she probably pats confirmation emails.
Then she comes back and holds the other one out to me.
"Yours," she says. "I'm not keeping both. That feels like." She pauses, hunting for the word. "Custody."
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. I open my palm, and she presses the ring into it, her fingertips lingering half a beat longer than the handoff requires. The metal is cool and impossibly light for something this heavy.
"Somewhere no one looks," she adds. "Please."
"I have a sock drawer in Brooklyn that has never once been organized," I say. "Nothing has ever been found in it, including by me."
"Perfect." She almost smiles. "Its natural habitat."
I zip the ring into the inner pocket of my jacket for now, and we exchange a loaded glance.
I blow out a breath, dropping onto the edge of the bed. "So. We're married."
"Yep."
"I know it's insane, but for some reason, I'm not freaking out."
Kit rubs the back of her neck. "Same. I'm not calm, exactly. But I don't feel like running." She tries to smile, but it comes out wry. "I'm just trying to figure out how we address it without addressing it."
Her phone buzzes, catching our attention. She glances at the screen. "Oh God. Brunch with Lexi and Sofia at ten fifteen. Wrap-up before everyone flies out. Sofia wants to walk through the Hollyvale schedule for the next three weeks." She squints at the time. "That's in a little over an hour."
I check my phone. Indeed, it's almost nine. "We can't be late to that or they'll think something's up."