16. Bex
Chapter sixteen
Bex
I've had almost three weeks between New Orleans and Hollyvale, and I've spent every day of them lying to everyone, including myself.
The lying started the second I stepped off the plane in New York and inhaled that mix of roasty coffee, bus fumes, and a million attitudes colliding.
Which is home, apparently. I hopped the subway back to my apartment in Brooklyn, collapsed inside, and told myself I was relieved to be unentangled from one Katerina Bennett.
Then I checked my phone to see if there was any new text from Kit. Of course there wasn't. Obviously. I tried not to be disappointed. I've been trying not to be disappointed for two and a half weeks now, every time I check, which is often, which is another thing I'm lying about.
The last two days before the train are the worst of it.
Work is the best distraction. I have three sessions booked at the shop, two new clients, plus a regular waiting on an elaborate phoenix piece, and I throw myself into all of it, gliding the needle over skin with practiced precision.
Normally that focus clears my mind entirely.
Today I keep losing count of how many times it drifts to Kit.
Fourteen minutes since the last thought? Possibly eight.
I'll be shading a line, and suddenly I'll remember the exact tone of Kit's voice when she said, "We'll figure it out.
" Standing in that hotel doorway, delivering the most uncertain vow I'd ever heard like it was a promise.
That flicker of something in her eyes, fear or stubbornness or a challenge, I wasn't sure.
I just know it made my chest clench in a way that hasn't released since.
And now I have to stand here playing it cool, because how exactly do you explain that you accidentally married someone who made you reevaluate your whole stance on wanting too much?
I've always been the family screw-up. The one who didn't follow her father's plan, the one who annoyed her mother by skipping college to become a tattoo artist. Maybe that's why I had the nerve to do a midnight ceremony with a woman I'd only just realized I wanted.
Or maybe it's because the moment I looked at Kit, everything else went quiet.
Either way, I am not dealing with it right now.
After the shop closes that evening, I walk the few blocks to my favorite neighborhood Italian spot.
I slide into a booth, stare at the menu, and overhear the table next to me discussing a wedding they attended.
Immediately I feel that traitorous swirl in my stomach: Sofia's wedding, Kit's presence, the fiasco of my parents' halfhearted approach.
I realize I'm scowling at the thought of my parents.
On cue, my phone buzzes. Mom. Tuesday call. I sigh and pick up, promising myself I'll keep the conversation breezy.
"Hey, Ma," I say, half hoping Lucia will be too busy to ask for details. But that's naive.
"Hello, dear. I'm just checking in before the wedding. How's Sofia?" My mother's voice has that polite edge. The kind that asks for bullet points, not personal details.
"Sofia's good. Everyone's good."
"Is she excited? She only texted me once to say the wedding timeline is set. I didn't want to push."
I feel the subtle dig there. My mother might pretend neutrality, but the tension over Sofia's relationship with Jordan is still raging. "She's excited," I say. "Everyone's excited."
My mother makes a faint hmm. "Your father and I will fly out on Saturday morning. That's the day before the ceremony, right?"
"Right." My gut clenches. "I'm heading there earlier. Thursday."
"Will you coordinate with Sofia on arrival times? We want to make a good impression. You know how these events can reflect on the family."
I roll my eyes so hard I almost pull something. "Uh-huh, sure."
"Wonderful. I trust you'll keep things professional," she says, her tone dipping into that vague area of disapproval.
I stiffen, my mind flicking to the ring tucked away in my sock drawer. "Always," I say, my voice tight.
"Well, safe travels, darling," Lucia finishes. "We'll see you Saturday. Please text if anything changes."
"Sure."
Her breath hovers on the line for a moment, then, "Love you."
"Love you too," I return automatically. By the time I hang up, I've lost my appetite.
I let my plate of spaghetti go cold, then force myself to eat half just to keep my stomach from complaining.
Through the entire meal, I keep thinking about the difference between my parents' version of "love you" and the feeling I had in that chapel with Kit.
One is stiff, layered with conditions. The other was impulsive, terrifying, and, somehow, real.
I tell myself I made it all up in my head. It was probably just the adrenaline of the moment.
Still. I grab a to-go container for the leftover pasta and walk home with my mind spinning.
The next day, my last full day in Brooklyn, brings more clients.
I throw myself into the phoenix design for the three-o'clock slot, going deep on shading.
If my father saw me working with this kind of methodical artistry, maybe he'd realize this job isn't some aimless hobby.
But that's a fantasy. Instead, I picture him focusing on the one imperfection in the line work, pointing out everything I could improve.
I remember how he glowered at Sofia's engagement announcement, how he quietly resolved he wouldn't be "part of that." He changed his mind only under social pressure, or so it seemed.
When Maya arrives mid-afternoon, I'm cleaning up from the phoenix session. The shop feels sticky with summer heat, even with the AC rattling in the back. Maya checks my expression. "You sure you're okay? You've been weird since you got back."
I flick a glance at my reflection in the metal mirror. Tired eyes, maybe a little restless. "I'm fine. New Orleans was just pretty intense. I needed about a week of sleep."
Maya's gaze slides over me, hunting. "Get any new ink while you were down there?"
I shake my head. "Did one, though." I turn away, heart pounding. "Best line work I've done all year."
"On who?"
"A first-timer." The film camera on Kit's wrist, clean lines, one accent stroke on the lens, and the memory hits my chest in that same complicated way. "You'd never guess it was her first."
Evening comes, and I close the shop. I walk home, unlock my apartment door, and find myself standing in my bedroom, gaze on the sock drawer. I take the ring out, place it against my palm.
Instinct tells me to slip it on just once, to see how it feels again. I do. The metal catches the overhead light, a faint glint. I study it, remembering the officiant's voice, the heady swirl of a city that never quite lets you hide.
My reflection in the mirror looks uncertain. I think about texting Kit. But what would I even say? Hi, still have the ring, are we still ignoring that we did a thing? Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.
So I take it off and place it in the inner pocket of my jacket instead. I'll bring it to Hollyvale, see how that changes things.
In that moment, my phone chimes. A text from Sofia:
"Hey, sis. Just checking in. Heard you're arriving Thursday. Jordan wants to do a casual meet-up that night, probably in the lounge. No pressure if you're tired."
I text back: "I'm in. See you then."
So that's that. Tomorrow I catch the train, haul my duffel bag, and waltz into Hollyvale, where Kit Bennett will presumably be acting all calm and professional.
I wonder if Kit has told Sofia anything. Probably not. Because if Sofia knew I'd legally married her wedding planner, there'd be a meltdown of comedic proportions.
I huff out a laugh. This is so ridiculous.
Yet the next time I check the clock, I count that it's been twelve minutes since I last thought about Kit. Which is slightly better than ten. I am apparently making progress.
The next morning, I zip up my duffel: jeans, a decent black dress for the wedding, my traveling tattoo kit in case a guest wants spontaneous ink.
The ring goes in the jacket pocket. "Screw being careful," I mutter, yanking the zipper closed.
I'm tired of whispering disclaimers in my own head, tired of shrugging off everything I want as though wanting less is safer.
I'm going to Hollyvale to stand by my sister on her wedding day. Maybe I'm also going to see if something about that night in New Orleans was real, or if it was just a dream we both wanted to forget. Either way, in about twenty-four hours, I'll know.
I head out, locking the door behind me.
The train ride starts normally: me trying to read a paperback novel, failing because I keep imagining Kit's face across from me in the seat. That neat posture, the cut of her jacket revealing exactly zero emotions, and the little line between her eyebrows that only appears when she's uncertain.
Three chapters in, I give up and put the book away. I flick through my phone, half hoping Kit might have texted at the last second with some urgent detail about the wedding. Nothing.
I catch myself wishing for it. I want an excuse to talk to Kit?
Deflection time. I open my sketch app and start doodling: a small vintage film camera, framed in film-reel geometry, a few subtle stars scattered around the lens. I file it under potential new flash for the shop. Definitely not anything to do with Kit.
The train rattles along, carrying me closer to Hollyvale.
I can practically feel the July sun over the lake, the swirl of hesitant excitement that always surrounds big family events, the tension of a father who might or might not show up with a forced smile.
And then there's Kit, who will be there, somewhere, pretending none of what happened in New Orleans matters.
Except I'm not sure I want to pretend.
I drum my fingers on my seat. This is going to be interesting. Probably messy, definitely complicated. I'm weirdly looking forward to it.
When the train finally pulls into the little station near Hollyvale, I heft my bag and step onto the platform. I pause and taste the air, fresher than the city, a hint of summertime pine trees and that intangible sense of possibility.
I think of Kit.
Then I grin, adjust the strap on my shoulder, and start walking.
No more caution.