18. Bex
Chapter eighteen
Bex
It started the moment I stepped onto the porch that Thursday afternoon, the sense that everything about this place runs on parallel tracks: Christmas in July on one side, wedding mania on the other.
And in the center is me, half wishing the two tracks weren't quite so entangled, half thrilled by the chaos.
By Friday morning, that entanglement is official.
I wake up in my assigned cottage with a hazy memory of hugging Sofia the night before, a swirl of conversation at the welcome dinner, and a final quiet walk down the path alongside Kit.
If I try, I can replay every second of that silence, those thirty or so steps, and the faint reflection of colored lights against Kit's dark curls.
Which I need to stop doing, obviously.
Because it's morning now, the wedding is two days away, and the schedule is bananas: some mixture of wedding tasks for the entire bridal party and a resort gearing up for a giant holiday festival. All at once.
I shower, throw on a pair of jeans and a navy T-shirt, and check my phone. No messages except a text from Lexi about meeting for coffee. I lock the door behind me and head toward the main building.
What I find there is borderline comedic.
Servers bustle between the lounge and the dining area, ferrying pastries.
A staffer in an elf hat hangs a six-foot candy cane decoration in the garden.
Another staffer places small, lit angels along the gazebo path.
Amid this sea of Christmas images, a few wedding vendor employees wheel in crates marked TABLE CLOTHS and CENTERPIECES.
Everyone weaves around each other like ants in a maze. Somehow, nobody collides.
It feels bizarre but also cozy? I recognize the vibe from my own shop during high-demand weekends: half the crew dealing with arrivals, half the crew tackling tomorrow's projects, everyone jumping in wherever needed.
"Bex!" comes Skye's voice from somewhere behind me.
I turn. Skye beckons from the door leading into the side hall, a clipboard under one arm. "We're doing a ceremony space walkthrough now. Mind helping us with the layout?"
"Sure," I say, adjusting my T-shirt. "Where's everyone else?"
"Sofia's with Jordan, finalizing vow wording. Lexi's presumably seeking coffee. Casey's somewhere with a camera. Kit needs a bridesmaid's perspective while marking where everyone will stand. Would you mind?"
I blink. "I can do that."
Which is how I find myself in the middle of the formal ceremony space, a wide stretch of lawn near the lake, facing Kit.
Kit has on a pale gray pencil skirt and a tucked blouse, her binder perched on a small folding table. She looks so calm, so in charge, that I get an immediate, inconvenient rush of admiration. I always suspected Kit was the best in her field. Watching her in action makes it obvious.
"Bex," Kit greets me, scanning a page. "Thank you for being here. I'd like to confirm the processional order from your vantage since you'll be in line. That means we'll stage you in the alcove, then walk you around the arbor."
Soft lines form between Kit's eyebrows. She taps the page with the tip of her pen. I feel an odd tug, remembering the times I teased Kit for overthinking every detail. I still admire it. The thoroughness, the unwavering precision. The opposite of how I handle my own life.
"How do you want me?" I ask, trying for playful.
Kit's gaze flicks up, then quickly down again. "Just stand near the arbor, facing me for now. We'll mark placement."
"Sure." I amble over. As I step in place, I catch a whiff of pine from a nearby decoration. The staff has apparently strung garland around the posts here, too. I half expect Santa to come strolling across the lawn.
Kit crouches at the spot where I'm standing, measuring something with a small tape measure. I can feel the warmth of her presence, a foot away. I try not to think about how close we were at that chapel in New Orleans, how the officiant's voice rang out in that hush. How it felt to say yes.
Kit stands. "So you'll be here, then we'll have Lexi next to you, and so on." She adjusts the binder's page. "I need to verify sightlines for the photography. We don't want the large candy cane sculpture in the background of wedding photos if we can help it."
I snort softly. "I mean, that might be a unique statement: a big peppermint swirl in all the pictures."
Kit pauses. The corner of her mouth twitches. "Yes, well, I'm trying to keep the holiday décor from overshadowing Jordan and Sofia's ceremony."
"It's kind of a once-in-a-lifetime mash-up," I say, folding my arms. "Christmas in July meets the Russo wedding."
Kit shifts her weight. "Precisely."
For a second, I feel the urge to close the distance. To ask Kit how she's really doing, to bring up the flight back from New Orleans, the ring, all of it. But the moment is too public, too loaded.
I wait for Kit's next directive.
The day continues like that, Kit orchestrating details, me inevitably part of them, until I find myself in the main barn helping her set up a cluster of folding chairs. I try a few jokes; she's in total work mode. That's fine, I tell myself. I love seeing that laser focus on her face.
Except "love" is maybe a strong word. I file it under observation: I find it interesting from a purely professional standpoint.
We get a quiet moment in the corner of the barn with a copy of the floor plan. Kit is on her knees, marking X's where the chairs will go. I crouch beside her, noticing the single curl that has escaped her otherwise neat hairstyle, curling against her neck like it's given up.
It takes my breath for half a second. I file that reaction under surprise: obviously it only startled me because I'm used to Kit's hair being immaculate. Absolutely.
Then Kit moves her hand to shift the paper, and my fingers automatically rest over hers to point at a different line. That contact lasts two seconds at most. Nothing eventful.
Her hands. Steady. A slight tremor near the ring finger, as if she's hesitating.
I pull away, clearing my throat. That's enough to short out my brain for the next four hours.
I end up wandering back to my cottage in late afternoon, trying to bleach the memory from my mind. I don't succeed.
The resort is a festival in fast-forward, family members arriving, staff setting up giant ornaments, carolers warming up near the main building.
When I catch a glimpse of Kit again around six, she's talking to Sofia about tomorrow's rehearsal and dinner.
I pause on the walkway to watch them for a second.
Kit's posture is upright, professional. The film camera tattoo on her wrist, clean lines, that single accent stroke on the lens I drew, peeks out from under her sleeve.
I exhale. That design was Kit's, all the way down. A dream she said out loud exactly once, standing at my station like it cost her something. All I did was hold the machine steady. A lens that stays open to possibility. Let that swirl around in me, apparently.
Deflection. I turn away, deciding not to linger.
That evening, after the day's tasks wind down, I need to decompress. I pull out my phone and call Nico, who answers with a booming cry of "Mrs. Bennett, I presume."
"Don't," I warn, pacing in my cottage's small living room. Nico is the one person I told. I called them from Brooklyn the first week, swore them to secrecy, immediately regretted it, and also felt better than I had in days. That's the trade with Nico.
"Okay, sorry," they say, but they're clearly laughing. "So let me get this straight: you're shacked up at the wedding venue, your official but entirely bizarre wife is also there, you're avoiding each other in a swirl of tinsel and candy canes. Did I miss anything?"
I sink onto the sofa, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Yes, you missed that it's not that big a deal. Also, the candy canes are not relevant."
"Everything is relevant," Nico counters. "All the chaos. The forced proximity. The color-coded binders. This sounds exactly like your brand of trouble."
I let out a hollow chuckle. "We're ignoring it, basically," I say, letting the truth slip out. "I mean, we're not... like, we haven't had a real conversation. We're focusing on wedding tasks, which keep throwing us in the same place."
"Aw, so you're dancing around each other in a Santa-themed labyrinth, occasionally brushing hands while setting up table décor?" Nico teases. "Tell me that's happening. Please."
I look at the ceiling. "Yes, maybe. She was placing chairs. I touched her hand for about two seconds. That was enough to scramble me all day."
Nico makes a delighted noise. "Oh, you're so in it. Congratulations."
My stomach flips at that word: congratulations. It implies something real, something worth celebrating. I shift the phone to my other ear. "It's not like that. I don't know what it is. We're basically just trying not to blow up Sofia's wedding. But it feels kinda big."
"How big?"
"Like..." I hesitate. "Big enough that my chest gets tight every time I see her? But I can't stop wanting to see her? That kind of big."
I hear Nico's soft exhale. "Dude. You might be done for."
I close my eyes. The memory of that night in New Orleans, both the good parts and the terrifying ones, has been circling like a restless bird in my brain. I can still hear how Kit's voice sounded when she stammered her vow.
"Yeah," I admit. "Maybe."
Silence stretches for a moment. Then Nico says, "Look, if you need to talk it out more, call me anytime. Maybe you want to talk to her? The wife, I mean?" They chuckle.
"Stop calling her my wife."
"Don't act like it's not legally true."
I groan. "I'll call you later." I hang up before Nico can add more commentary.
I flop back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling fan spinning overhead. I spent all day near Kit, close enough to notice that faint line between her brows that only shows when she's genuinely worried. And yet we haven't really spoken about anything that matters.
I rub my own left wrist, the mirror spot, remembering how it felt to press the needle into Kit's skin there. It's borderline embarrassing how many times I've replayed that.
And the ring tucked away in my jacket? I check sometimes, just to reassure myself it's there. I hate how comforting that is.
I close my eyes. Tomorrow is the rehearsal, the big family dinner, and the final day before every vow becomes official. Official. As if I haven't already done that once in a New Orleans chapel.
I should probably talk to Kit, see if we want to file an annulment or bury the paperwork in a time capsule or something. But some voice inside me says: not yet.
I want to see how it plays out. I want a chance to stand next to Kit without ignoring the tension between us.
The next morning, bright and early, the whole bridal party runs a quick pass of the ceremony steps in the courtyard, a giant snowman incongruously perched near the fountain.
Kit walks us through the positions in a smoothly tailored navy dress, binder in hand, crisp and thorough enough that even Lexi listens without fussing.
When she steps up beside me to gesture at the aisle, "you'll walk after Lexi, make a right turn here," I feel a small jolt at her proximity and file it under wedding adrenaline. It's over in under an hour.
Afterward, everyone scatters to handle final errands. I find myself alone in the barn again with Kit, placing name cards for the rehearsal dinner.
"Thank you for helping," Kit murmurs, kneeling by a table. "I know it's not the most exciting job."
I crouch beside her. "I don't mind."
I slide a card into place, noticing how close our arms are. If I shift my elbow two inches, I'll brush her forearm.
The air feels thick with all the words we're not saying.
"Is that all the cards for the bridal party?" Kit asks, rifling through her stack.
"Yeah, I think so." I gesture to the remaining pile. "These are extended relatives. Don't know if they're actually coming or not." I wince, thinking of my father.
Kit hesitates. Then she reaches for that half stack and gently puts them aside. "We'll have them on hand, just in case."
My throat closes briefly. I swallow.
Kit stands, dusting her knees. "All right, that should be everything for now." Her tone is firm, professional.
I rise to my feet. The barn door stands open, letting in blasts of summer heat. I catch the smell of hay, mingled with the faintest hint of peppermint from somewhere.
Kit turns to go, but I can't help myself. "Kit," I say quietly.
She pauses.
I search her face. "Are we... good?"
Kit's lips part, then she exhales. "We're functioning," she says, voice soft.
"That's not exactly the same thing."
Her gaze darts away. She clasps her binder tight enough that her knuckles whiten. "I don't want to complicate the wedding."
My chest tightens. "Right."
We stand there a moment longer, the distance between us impossibly short and impossibly far at the same time. I open my mouth to say something else, maybe even ask if she wants to talk tonight. But Kit draws a quick breath and steps toward the door.
"Let's reconvene at the rehearsal dinner," she says, as if scheduling an appointment.
I watch her walk out.
I realize my hands are shaking, just a little. Competence is doing weird things to me. Or maybe it isn't the competence alone. Maybe it's all of it. The hush in Kit's voice, the tension in her spine, the camera on her wrist that I can't un-see.
I need fresh air. Or maybe not, given how the swirling candy cane aroma is messing with me. I leave the barn, heading for the side path that leads to the lake. If I walk far enough, I can find a quiet spot behind the line of pine trees.
I just need a minute, then I'll pull myself together for the rehearsal dinner.
And after that, well, maybe tomorrow. Or after the wedding.
Sure. That's the plan.
I shove my hands in my pockets, feel the hard outline of the ring I tucked there, and keep walking.