14. Bex #2
Kit leaps into action, gathering clothes from a small suitcase propped on a stand beside the dresser.
She's in full managerial mode, except for the hair.
Now that I think about it, I spot her travel binder near the TV.
Open, with a sticky note stuck at an angle that's definitely not type-A. Feels almost scandalous for her.
Her eyes dart to me. "You probably need to get back to wherever you're staying. Shower, change. Or else you'll walk in wearing the same clothes from last night."
"Right," I laugh drily. "That would be suspicious, huh?"
She nods, fiddling with a brush she just retrieved from her suitcase. "I can't let them see you leaving my room, not this early."
The urgency in her voice is new. I feel it too, that sense of oh God, we need to preserve normal appearances.
I scoop up my T-shirt from the floor and step behind the small partition by the door to tug it on properly. My reflection in the mirror is a bit jarring. My hair is all over the place, and there's a faint bruise-like mark on my neck from what we're calling an enthusiastic moment.
I jam my arms into the sleeves of my denim jacket, then slip on my jeans. While I do, Kit reappears in the reflection with her brush. She tries to wrestle her curls into submission. They don't fully cooperate. She grimaces, probably assigning the situation a threat level.
"We can't exactly break out the wedding planner lines to fix that," I murmur, half to myself.
She shoots me a look in the mirror, both exasperated and oddly fond. "I can handle messy hair, believe it or not."
"Of course you can. You handle everything," I say, only half sarcastic.
Her brush stills for a moment. That comment seems to land somewhere in her chest. Maybe it's exactly how she perceives herself. The one who always has to handle it all.
I take advantage of the lull to step closer. Just a fraction. I catch a faint whiff of her shampoo, something subtle and clean. She meets my gaze in the mirror again, eyes uncertain.
I raise my hand, intending to just move a strand of hair out of her face. The moment I do, our eyes lock in the reflection. It's too intimate. Too real. I drop my hand.
She exhales, returning her focus to the brush. "We have to go," she says softly.
"Yes."
I slide on my sneakers and slip my phone into my jacket pocket, next to the ring.
The room is basically tidy except for the bed, which we definitely don't have time to fix.
I glimpse the used coffee cups from two days ago on the desk, an old itinerary printout.
So many pieces that feel routine, in direct contrast with the life-altering step we took last night.
Kit runs the brush one last time, then sets it down with finality. "I'll wait a minute before I leave, so we're not seen together. You go first."
I swallow. "You sure?"
She nods. "Yeah. And Bex?"
I stop at the door, glancing back.
She hesitates, swallowing. "We'll figure it out."
It's the most uncertain vow I've ever heard, but she delivers it like a promise. Something stirs in my chest. I lick my lips, a thousand responses tumbling inside me. I settle on a nod.
Then I slip out the door, letting it click behind me.
Walking through the corridor and down the elevator alone is nerve-wracking. My heart hammers with the fear that somehow somebody will see me and know. But the hallway is deserted, and in the lobby, only a bored staff member checks their phone behind the front desk. They barely acknowledge me.
I push out into the bright Sunday morning, the sky already punishing with that intense sun. My phone buzzes with a new text. Finally, I check it.
It's from Sofia: "Hey, Bex, brunch near the Quarter at 10:15, lobby of your building. You in?"
I type back something vague and affirmative. Then I hoist my jacket over my arm, careful of the pocket with the ring in it, and hurry along the street. My shoulders ache from tension. I need a shower and a plan.
My mind replays images in a nonstop loop: last night's vows, the officiant's small half smile, the slip of silver onto Kit's finger. The memory of leaning against her in bed, the city noise drifting through the open window.
Crap.
It occurs to me that I haven't told Kit about the bruise on my neck. She might have one too. We probably had no business being that enthusiastic in the final hours of the night, but, well, it happened.
I file that thought under potential public embarrassment. Not under how much I enjoyed the moment.
Right.
I walk faster, weaving through a group of tourists with coffee cups and small pastry bags. I break away onto a side street that heads toward the place I'm sharing with Sofia and Lexi.
This is going to be a real circus.
By the time I get inside, Lexi is nowhere to be seen.
The small living room is cluttered with her half-packed suitcase, some shoes strewn about, a bra hanging on a chair.
The shower is running in the back. Sofia's door is open, but she's not in there.
Probably out for coffee or chatting with Jordan.
I release a massive breath, grateful I don't have to face immediate questions.
I slip into the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind me.
The mirror is a harsh truth: my reflection screams "I slept in my clothes, and something else might have happened.
" My neck does indeed show a small purple mark near the collarbone, which is going to be tough to hide. My hair is a tangled mess.
I let out a shaky laugh and flick my gaze to the faint ring indentation left on my finger. It's barely there, but it's there.
Then I turn on the faucet, splashing water on my face.
We're definitely not telling anyone. Not until after Hollyvale. Which means I can't wear the ring, I can't mention it to Sofia or Lexi, and I definitely can't let my parents catch wind. The mental image of how Marcello Russo would respond to an impulsive secret marriage? I shudder.
Kit's parents would likely be equally horrified, or maybe coldly disappointed. She's told me enough to guess. They want a controlled, respectable life for her. This might not qualify.
I drip water down my chin, then grab a towel. Why am I not more panicked? Usually, a decision of this magnitude would reduce me to sweaty anxiety. But I'm not shaking or cursing or mentally drafting an annulment.
Yes, it's definitely going to be complicated. Probably messy. Part of me regrets the inevitable friction it'll cause. Yet another part of me is quietly at peace about it.
Because, for better or worse, I've known Kit for years. Mostly in passing, sure, but I've always seen her. She's always seemed so guarded, so poised, like the outside packaging of something you suspect is more interesting inside. We never had the chance to peel back those layers until now.
And last night, we peeled back an entire lifetime's worth.
I toy with the toothpaste next to the sink, letting myself indulge one final minute of calm. Because once the day starts, it'll be all brunch logistics and group texts and three weeks of pretending.
Finally, I suck in a breath, strip out of my clothes, and hop into a quick shower.
Sofia texts me around 9:40: "Lobby at 10:15. Don't be late, we're doing the Hollyvale rundown."
I text back, "I'll be ready."