25. Katerina
Chapter twenty-five
Katerina
Ibask in the quiet hum of success as I watch the last wedding guests trickle away from the reception lawn.
The white tent stands half-empty now, staff weaving in and out to collect table linens and centerpieces.
The band has already packed up; only a trace of music lingers in the night air, like an aftertaste of brass and fiddles.
Christmas lights still glow along every railing, the same lights that will stay on each evening in July.
They cast small halos on the grass, reflecting back off the lake in broken, shimmering lines that make me think: This was everything I planned, and more.
Skye is at my elbow, thanking me with a handshake that turns into a gentle hug, a surprising but genuine gesture of gratitude. I return it with the same sincerity. I feel that familiar glow of a job done well, which rises and peaks at the end of any flawlessly executed event.
"We couldn't have done this without you," Skye says quietly.
I just smile, trying to be modest. "You could have. But I'm glad you let me be part of it."
Skye's eyes flick toward Jordan and Sofia, who stand near the arbor in hushed conversation. "We'll walk down to the lake for a few final photos. You get some rest, okay?"
I nod. "Of course. Good night." I watch Skye retreat, relief and contentment coursing through me.
This is why I love wedding planning: that sense of culminating grace, the knowledge that for one day, everything sparkled perfectly.
I draw a slow breath and scan the lawn for any straggling vendors, dropping back into checklist mode.
Caterer: accounted for. Tables: cleared. DJ: gone. Décor: to be dismantled tomorrow morning, per the schedule taped inside my binder. Perfect. Every box, checked, in order.
Only then do I allow myself the indulgence of letting my shoulders relax.
I tuck my clipboard under my arm and step onto the main path leading away from the lawn.
The cottages are a short stroll from here, each one framed by the same festive garlands.
Tomorrow I'll oversee the teardown of the wedding area, write up final notes, and possibly sleep for fourteen hours straight.
I run tonight's audit as I walk, the way I always do.
Ceremony: flawless. Timeline: held to the minute.
Vendor incidents: zero. Bride: radiant. It's the cleanest post-event ledger of my career, and yet the audit keeps returning one uncatalogued line item, the same one it's returned all evening.
Bex, across the lawn, catching my eye and holding it.
A nod that contained everything and committed to nothing.
I don't have a column for that. I've checked.
I turn onto the path and, within a few steps, sense movement behind me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the familiar shape of Bex falling sidelong into step.
My pulse kicks. I try to keep my posture composed, but the awareness sizzles through me.
We walk quietly for a half-minute, neither speaking, a companionable hush that has grown comfortable over the last week.
Eventually, Bex breaks the silence with a quiet exhale. "Nice job tonight."
I give a small nod, hoping I sound casual. "Thank you. You all made it easy."
Bex snorts softly. "I'm sure we did. Because we're famously organized." That teasing edge in her voice is gentler than usual, a hush of post-party exhaustion. Or perhaps something else.
I try not to dwell on the something else.
But the memory of last night, the porch, Bex's words, the pivot we almost made, keeps flickering through my mind.
My eyes trace the shape of her profile in the orange glow of a string of bulbs.
There's a small curve in her ear, a silver stud that glints in the half-light.
Physical detail. Involuntary. I force myself to look forward.
The hush stretches again until Bex says, "So, I found out my parents are heading back home tomorrow morning."
I nod, breath tight. That was expected. They came, they hovered at the edges of the weekend, and Marcello never sat down for the ceremony at all. "Is your mother leaving early too?"
"Yep. Both of them. They came, they watched from the sidelines, and now they're off." Bex inhales. The path crunches underfoot. "I was thinking about... telling them before they go." A small pause. "Not about the marriage, exactly. But that there's someone."
My feet stop moving on reflex. One second, we're walking side by side; the next, I'm rooted in place, forcing Bex to pause, too. The lake shimmers to our left, a line of half-submerged lights dancing across the surface. I feel the lurch of my heart. "You want to tell them," I repeat.
"Yes." Bex turns, so we stand face-to-face in the center of the path. "I'm tired of carrying something real around like I should be ashamed of it. Or hide it. We're not doing anything wrong."
My lungs compress. Because I agree, don't I?
This doesn't need to be a shameful secret.
But that logic is drowned out by a wave of pure panic.
Not specifically about the parents, though the Russo dynamic is definitely complicated.
More like an entire meltdown that says This is too soon, I don't have a plan, I still cannot figure out how this ends.
I clear my throat, stalling. "We said we'd figure out what this is before telling people. Right? We... we said that. Your parents just got through Sofia's wedding. It's terrible timing to throw them another shock. They're still... coping."
A tightness ripples over Bex's features, not anger exactly, but intense focus. "I'm not telling them the marriage part," she echoes. "Just that I've met someone. It doesn't have to be a drama. Why can't we say we're seeing each other?"
I swallow the anxiety tangling in my chest. I try to keep my voice calm. "Because we don't know what we are right now. And your parents have a track record of reacting badly to things they don't understand. We promised to do this carefully."
"That's right, we did." Bex's words are slow. "But I'm not sure who we're protecting at this point. Them, or you."
My breath snags. "It's not about me," I insist too quickly. "It's about not complicating their feelings further. Sofia just got married, presumably they're on the edge of acceptance or at least partial acceptance. Let's not pile on more."
Bex's eyes narrow, but not in a harsh way. More... assessing. "You said we'd figure out what we want. Doesn't telling them at least confirm we want something real? That we're... actually in this?" She pauses. "Or do you not want that?"
The question makes my stomach drop, because it's so black and white. I fumble for a rational approach. "It's not that simple."
Bex studies me. "No, it's not simple. But it's also not as complicated as you make it. Sofia's wedding is over. The dust is settling. If we're going to face it, we face it."
I realize I'm clutching my clipboard in a near-crushing grip. I force my fingers to loosen. I'm panicking, I think. I'm retreating behind logic. And the flash in Bex's expression says she can see it, too.
My mouth feels dry. "Could we please... not yet? Maybe wait a few days? Let the newlyweds have their moment, and then we talk about it calmly."
Silence. Only the quiet crackle of the bulb lights overhead, the faint shuffle of the last guests headed to their cottages. Bex's posture tenses. She exhales. "Right," she says softly, frustration laced in her tone. "That's the same logic we've used for weeks."
My voice sharpens. "Because it's valid." I hear the edge there, the defensive ring. I want to call it back, but Bex's gaze darkens in response.
Then Bex speaks, quiet but firm. "I get it. You're a good planner, and this is out of your comfort zone. But I think there's more going on. You've been protecting yourself from something since New Orleans, and I don't think it's your parents' disapproval."
My pulse pounds. My chest feels like it's caving. "That isn't fair."
"Tell me what part is wrong," Bex challenges, stepping half an inch closer. Her jacket rustles, that worn denim with the half-peeled band patch at the elbow that I find so disarming. The orange glow lights the side of her face, highlighting the tension in her jaw.
I look for an immediate objection, but find none.
Because Bex is too perceptive. She isn't completely right.
I do worry about my parents' disapproval.
But that isn't the only thing tangling me up.
I'm terrified in a deeper sense, terrified that if I unclench everything, I might tumble out of the safety net of my own design.
My eyes flick sideways, scanning the path for a retreat. This time, no reclassification is strong enough to steady me. "I just need time," I manage, voice taut.
Bex's face lowers, her expression shuttering. I realize Bex isn't furious. She's disappointed. That's somehow worse.
"Okay," Bex says quietly. "Take it." She pauses for a beat that feels like heartbreak, then brushes past me on the path and keeps walking, footsteps fading in the night. Possibly heading to her cottage, possibly heading nowhere.
I don't move. I stare down at the dusty stones beneath my heels, heart pounding erratically.
The Christmas lights overhead thrum, as if mocking the sudden chill.
My clipboard feels absurd in my hands. The job is done.
The wedding is complete. And yet here I am, in a moment that feels like a crucial turning point... except I chose not to turn.
I breathe in. Pine and lake water drift up, tinged with the faint memory of bonfire smoke. I feel, for the first time since that night in New Orleans, the sensation of something important slipping through my fingers.
Twice, I almost call after her. The first time, her name gets as far as my teeth before the old machinery catches it: and say what?
I have no revised position. No new information.
Calling someone back without a resolution to offer is just prolonging the negotiation, and I would rather stand here with my spine straight than fumble in front of her.
The second time, she's already too far, a shape dissolving between the lampposts, and the window closes the way windows do when you spend them checking your own reflection in the glass.
I make myself walk. I climb my porch steps and step into the darkness of my cottage, shutting the door behind me. A short while ago, that door would have symbolized control. Tonight, it feels like a boundary that cuts me off from the one person I don't want to lose.
I don't turn on the lamp. I stand in the dark and run the audit again, because that is what I do, that is the entire architecture of me.
Item one: Bex asked for something reasonable.
Item two: I said no. Item three: my reasons were sound.
Timing, families, the newlyweds, the plan.
I review the reasons twice. They hold. They are good reasons, defensible reasons, the kind I could present to any client with full confidence.
Item four: Bex's face when it shuttered.
The audit stalls there. It keeps stalling there.
I try to file the evening under prudence, under professionalism, under we'll revisit this in a few days when everyone is calmer.
None of the labels stick. There is no tab for the specific sound of footsteps fading on gravel, or for the fact that the person walking away was the one person who ever asked me what I'd film if I could film anything.
I set the clipboard down on the table, very neatly, very straight, and stand there in the dark with my hand still on it, like the order of objects might hold when nothing else is.
It doesn't help.
For the first time in fourteen years, I have executed everything perfectly and lost the thing that mattered anyway.