15. Katerina #2
Of course, my mind flashes immediately to Bex.
The last time we really talked was across a café table that Sunday morning, both of us pretending for an audience, her knee steady against mine while she told me we didn't have to plan it.
The exact angles of her profile in that morning light still smolder in my memory, uninvited. I try to push it aside.
I have two days, then Bex.
I inhale deeply and head back toward my cottage.
After a room-service dinner I barely taste, I change into pajamas and open my laptop again. The fellowship application page comes up. I toy with the language, rewriting one paragraph about the importance of capturing "authentic moments of union."
Authentic. I stare at the word, then close the file. It isn't that I lack ideas, I have notebooks full of them, spanning from high school to undergrad to last year. But every time I try to write them out now, my mind jams a gear I don't know how to shift.
I set the computer aside, walk to the small kitchen window, and look out into the summer darkness.
In the distance, near the edge of the property, I can still see a faint glow from the Christmas lights, hear the distant hum of conversation and laughter.
Even at the quieter corners of Hollyvale, the energy feels alive.
I fold my arms over my chest, my gaze drifting toward the carry-on where the ring waits. I press my lips together, telling myself it is still only a formality. That ring means absolutely nothing unless we decide it does.
I told Bex we'd get through Hollyvale first. That we'd stand where we're supposed to stand, get her sister married, and figure out the rest, figure out us, after. She agreed. She pressed her knee harder against mine under that table, and I called it an answer.
Then I waited two weeks for a text or a phone call or something, and neither of us reached out.
I tell myself it was wise to keep things quiet, no sense complicating the wedding.
I remind myself every day that I am not thinking about it, not thinking about Bex, not thinking about that frustrating, mesmerizing half smile that tells you she's noticing exactly what you're trying to hide.
By 10 p.m., my exhaustion finally overrules my swirling thoughts. I pull the curtains closed, make sure my binder is in plain sight on the table for tomorrow, and slip into bed. The hum of an air conditioner lulls me into a half-sleep.
In that midpoint between waking and dreaming, I find myself drifting back to New Orleans, Bex's elbow brushing mine in the street, the flicker of the city lights in her thick black hair. The memory arrives uninvited, the way it always does.
I turn onto my side. I tell myself, once again, that the next two days will be enough time to rebuild my composure. By the time Bex arrives, I will be fine. I will be so calm and collected that no one will suspect a thing.
The next morning is a whirlwind of logistics: final contracts with Skye, the florist's delivery schedule, confirming with Casey the photographer that everything's on track, all while Santa hosts a cookie-decorating station in the lounge and a group of elves roams the courtyard singing carols.
I stick to my binder and am mostly successful at tuning out the rest.
By late afternoon I retreat to the cottage and take the ring out of my carry-on for the third time, summoning the same logic I've repeated a dozen times: this can be undone easily.
Probably. I press it back into the zippered pocket and add a line to my mental to-do list. Discuss ring with Bex eventually.
Yes. Definitely. In a calm, reasoned way.
That evening, the resort kicks off an official pre-25th party on the main lawn, complete with a local band and children's activities.
I can see it from my cottage window: string lights crisscrossing overhead, families dancing on the grass.
I linger inside, laptop open, unable to tear my gaze from the windows.
I tell myself to ignore it. I remind myself I have wedding details to finalize.
I try to draft an email to the caterers confirming the flavor of the personalized mini desserts.
Right in the middle of typing "let's go with the salted caramel drizzle," my thoughts go abruptly to Bex again, the taste of beignet sugar from that midnight café still somewhere on my lips.
I shut my eyes.
Outside, the band starts a lively brass number. People clap. A few children squeal in delight.
I save the email as a draft, close my laptop, and stand. I cannot concentrate while the whole property thrums with noise. I'll do better at an actual desk in the main building, where I can block out distractions.
Grabbing my binder (my security blanket, truly), I head outside.
The balmy air wraps around me, thick with the smell of cut grass and sweet vanilla from some dessert booth.
The music is even louder here, a trumpet wailing across the lawn.
Families stream by, kids with face painting and cups of lemonade, adults wearing Santa hats in the middle of summer.
I thread through the crowd, binder clutched to my chest like armor, and catch myself watching a couple dance under the lights.
My chest tightens for reasons I refuse to name.
I once told a friend I wanted to film a documentary about the everyday celebrations people create for themselves, not the curated, cost-focused weddings I manage now.
I drowned that dream in calligraphy samples and floral budgets, and it's working fine.
I push open the lobby doors, and it occurs to me that in less than forty-eight hours, Bex Russo will walk through this same space.
I swallow, stepping into the air-conditioned quiet of the lobby. I will be ready. There is no scenario in which I, Katerina "Kit" Bennett, lose my composure over something we did on a dare.
I head to the empty reception desk, the staff is out at the party, and perch on the stool, flipping open the binder to keep my mind off midnight chapels and silver rings and the recollection of Bex's laugh in my ear.
How did I get here? A half smile flickers across my lips.
That question is bigger than a to-do list can solve.
I look at the giant Christmas tree across the lobby, ornaments glowing in the dim light. I have always wanted something that felt real, I admit quietly to myself. Maybe that's why I said yes in that chapel. Why I haven't undone it yet.
For a moment, I feel that flicker of possibility again, the one that makes my heart beat faster. Then I tuck it away in a tidy mental folder labeled "not the priority right now."
Finally, I bury myself in the binder notes, letting the comforting rhythm of tasks calm that restless spark. Lists are safe. Schedules are safe. I know how to handle those.
I will handle everything else later.