23. Katerina
Chapter twenty-three
Katerina
Between the morning's final run-through and the Russos' arrival, I steal an hour for my own walkthrough of the ceremony site.
The chairs are neatly arranged next to the arbor draped in white flowers and holiday greenery.
The table linens arrived on time. The band equipment is in place.
Candles, twice as many as I planned, wait in tall glass vases for tomorrow's dinner tables.
Everything is labeled precisely. I double-check the arbor flowers and find them secure.
I even confirm the correct spelling of "Kerne" on the place cards, a detail so minor it makes my chest ache with relief when it's correct.
No problems. None at all.
It should feel like pure victory. Months of planning distilled into a perfect execution.
But the restlessness inside me only grows.
I recall Bex's line from before: I can't tell if you hate surprises or secretly crave them.
It's lodged in my chest like a small burr, needling me. Right now, I feel both.
The rest of the day belongs to other people: the Russos arriving, the final pass on the lawn, the rehearsal dinner unfolding in its wash of toasts and tears and Lucia's unexpected kindness.
By the time the patio empties, darkness has long since fallen, and Hollyvale's Christmas in July has reached its crescendo out beyond the property line.
I glimpse people laughing at the edges of the grounds, heading into town.
I overheard staffers mention a bonfire near the north shore.
Lights bob along the lake in the shape of little canoes or rowboats, each decorated with wreaths.
I can even smell woodsmoke drifting in the mild breeze.
If I were a different person, I might head after it.
Seek out the thick of the celebration just to feel human connection, to taste the swirl of it. But that isn't me.
By ten, I'm on the porch of my cottage with a glass of water instead. I yawn, body tired, mind buzzing. I don't want coffee this late, and wine would only make me uneasy tomorrow. So water it is. Enough to keep me anchored while everything else spins.
I grasp the porch railing, gazing over the yard.
Twinkle lights line every path, turning the landscape into a gentle sea of glow.
The enormous pine near the lake is decked out in ornaments that catch the reflection of the water, scattering pricks of color across the rippling surface.
Above it all, the sky is a deep inky blue that swallows the stars.
I can just make out the pluck of a guitar drifting from somewhere across the lake.
Not an official stage, no. More likely a local band or a group of friends who brought out instruments to keep the holiday mood going.
Christmas in July, I think with a small, quiet wonder.
A celebration that doesn't wait for the right season.
Joy that's willed into existence because someone decided it would happen.
I try, briefly, to imagine my own family consenting to that kind of out-of-season festivity.
They'd probably be appalled. You don't mix holiday traditions like that, Katerina, my father might say, half-joking but mostly serious. I feel the old pang in my gut.
A figure appears on the path. I tense. Then I recognize the shape of Bex, hands in her pockets, hair ruffled from the breeze, moving at an easy stroll.
She looks like she isn't headed anywhere in particular, just letting the night lead her.
The moment she notices me on the porch, she pauses.
Something bright flickers in her eyes, like a silent question. Should I disturb you?
I lift my glass, an invitation. Bex comes closer, stepping onto the porch steps with cautious quiet.
Short denim jacket, the same one with the half-peeled Molotov Something patch near the elbow that gives her away as a longtime metal fan and makes me feel something odd and fond whenever I notice it.
I also notice one lock of hair at her temple, pressed flat by the jacket's collar.
That detail tugs at my chest unexpectedly.
I take a breath and say, "Couldn't sleep either?"
A small, lopsided smile touches Bex's mouth. "Didn't even try. Figured I'd see what the fuss was about down by the water." She slides onto the step, resting her forearms on her knees. "There's a bonfire out there. But it felt... too loud for me right now."
I come down one step and sink onto the porch beside her, though I keep a careful distance. "How was it?" I ask quietly.
Bex shrugs. "Full of people having a good time. Singing off-key carols about a holiday that's five months away. It's kind of ridiculously charming."
I look out over the yard again. The reflection of colored lights bobs in the narrow lines of the lake's surface.
"It's so odd," I admit. "I keep trying to think how I'd film it.
Like, what angle you'd choose for a documentary if the premise was Christmas in July.
" I pause, swallowing. "I've been thinking about that a lot lately.
Angles, story arcs." I trail off, uncertain if I want to share the rest.
Bex, quiet, tilts her head. "You said you used to make short documentaries, right?"
I nod vaguely. "Back in college. Nothing big, just class assignments or small local stories. I almost forgot how much I loved it until recently. The last few years, I got so used to letting that part of me go."
"Why'd you let it go?"
I inhale the warm pine-scented night air.
I try to think of a safe answer. "It never fit.
Not with my parents' idea of what success looked like.
Or my own idea, I guess. Wedding planning was easier to justify.
" I feel myself flush, because the words sound like an admission of guilt.
"It's not that I don't like planning weddings. I do. But..."
I trail off again. Bex says nothing, letting the silence stretch open. The hush holds. That hush is so different from the hush of a church or a conference room. It feels like a hush that allows truth to stand on tiptoe, just waiting to be seen.
Finally, I set my glass down, exhaling. "I've been working on a documentary treatment.
Eight pages, so far. I'm applying for a fellowship program.
Just to see if I have a chance." My voice catches on the last word, and I hate how vulnerable it sounds.
"I told my parents. They neither opposed it nor supported it.
They just dismissed it. As though it was something I'd grow out of.
" I force a laugh that doesn't sound real.
"Which is funny, right? Because I'm pretty sure I grew out of ignoring it. "
Bex's eyes are on me, dark and intent. "What's the doc about?"
I try not to be self-conscious. "The Russo family.
" I realize I've said it too fast, too certain.
I blink, stumbling. "Not specifically your family in a personal sense.
Just... your father's immigration story, your mother's background, Sofia bridging corporate hospitality culture with old Brooklyn traditions, you forging your own path in tattoo artistry.
I mean, not a literal biography. More like using a lens.
A lens to examine how first-generation dreams get reconfigured by the next generation.
And how tension can grow in the space between.
" I realize I'm basically babbling, so I stop cold.
Bex has gone absolutely still. Her body doesn't shift away, but it feels like she's turned to stone. My pulse hammers. "I'm sorry," I blurt. "I should've asked if that's even fair. It's just... the way your family is grappling with tradition right now is..."
Bex shakes her head, cutting me off. "Don't apologize.
" She bites her lower lip. "That's exactly what it is, though, right?
That tension. It's like they sacrificed so much to build a life.
And when Sofia and I show up as ourselves, they can't handle that it's not exactly what they pictured.
" She lets out a slow breath. "So you want to tell that story? "
I nod, more openness creeping into my expression than I intend. "Yes. I think it matters. I think it might help someone, or maybe it'll help me. I'm not sure. But it feels real."
Bex's hand shifts on the porch step, just half an inch closer to mine.
"I never thought of my family's story like that, from a lens vantage, I mean.
" She gives a wry laugh. "I guess I see it from the inside, so it's mostly just frustration and heartbreak.
But hearing you say it... it does sound important. "
My heart feels too large for my rib cage.
I want to offer a hundred disclaimers, not to mention the impetus behind my interest. Yes, part of me recognizes it's personal.
The rest of me recognizes that personal is exactly what makes it worth filming.
I look at Bex, watch how the soft glow of the overhead porch light touches the line of her jaw.
My own mind circles the observation: Bex's jaw is set in a way that implies she's been clenching it. A tension just below the surface. She's dealing with so much. Reclassify: the reason I noticed is purely because if I were filming, I'd want to capture that tension. That's all.
It isn't all.
Bex meets my eyes gently. "So you're applying for a fellowship?"
"Two, actually," I confess. "One in New York, one in Boston.
They each have different focuses, but it's basically documentary filmmaking grants to develop a feature-length project.
I'd do the filming on weekends or whenever I could find time away from the wedding business.
" I press my palms together as if I'm making a vow. "I just... I want to do it properly."
"You should," Bex says simply.