29. Katerina
Chapter twenty-nine
Katerina
Boston greets me with the particular silence of an apartment I curated for competence and calm: gleaming floors, a color-coordinated closet, a nightstand drawer where I hide the marriage license the moment I'm through the door.
I unpack with mechanical precision, order Thai food I barely taste, and answer my mother's Tuesday check-in call with the practiced ease of someone who has spent a lifetime perfecting the art of saying nothing true.
Did I meet anyone interesting at the wedding?
Not really, I tell her, and hear the word land exactly as flat as I intend it to.
My mind flashes to Hollyvale again. Specifically, the memory of walking along the path with Bex after the reception, the desperation clinging to my chest. Bex wanting to be open. Me wanting to hide.
Sofia's voice drifts into my mind from the conversation in the stripped-down venue: Don't protect yourself out of this one.
I shut my eyes. If I close them too tight, I see Bex's face: the steadiness, the frustration, the heartbreak.
I force my eyes open instead, stirring my tea with jerky movements.
After a moment, I carry the mug to my desk. Slide into the chair. Stare at the screen, the cursor blinking in an empty search field. I don't recall deciding to do it, but my hands begin typing: documentary fellowship opportunities.
My breath catches. The results flicker on screen, a half dozen relevant programs, each with different deadlines.
I click on one at random, scanning the summary.
Intensive mentorship from established filmmakers, partial funding, expectation of a project in production by year's end.
A coil of nerves winds in my stomach. I'm good at production schedules, but am I bold enough to apply for something that might disrupt my entire professional routine?
My mind circles. This might require stepping away from the wedding planning business if the fellowship demands full-time attention.
I imagine telling my parents. They'd likely respond with polite confusion or, worse, stony silence.
But I also remember how alive I felt the few times I let myself film something raw and unscripted.
I remember Bex's expression in New Orleans, intrigued by the idea of being documented.
Or the way Bex's family story seemed to create a spark in my mind that I couldn't extinguish.
I navigate to the next program. Another fellowship.
I skim the requirements. I write down a few deadlines on a scrap of paper.
The pen scratches across the surface, the act feeling both surreal and exhilarating.
I find a third one. An even more exclusive workshop in upstate New York.
I add that to my list. The beep of the clock reminds me I have a phone call soon, but I can't pull myself away from reading the fellowship guidelines.
Finally, I force myself to slip the pen back into its holder and take a slow breath. The Post-it note on my desk reads: Documentary Lab, Boston, November 1 deadline. Fieldwork Fellowship, New York City, October 15. Firelight Workshop, upstate New York, rolling acceptance.
Three possibilities. I press the square note to the top corner of my laptop screen, letting it hang there like a silent challenge.
I recognize that half the reason I'm doing this is what I felt after meeting Bex.
Because she believes in the messy, immediate truths I rarely let myself embrace.
Because falling for her had awakened some part of me that wanted more than safe success.
And the other half of the reason is simply that I can't keep ignoring what I've yearned to do for years.
I minimize the browser tab, open a fresh document.
I title it: Russo Family, Preliminary Notes.
My stomach clenches with a mix of excitement and dread.
I rest my fingers on the keyboard, not typing yet, just staring at the blinking cursor.
I picture Marcello's guarded frown at the wedding, Lucia's hesitant acceptance, the distance between them and Sofia.
I picture Bex and Sofia standing side by side, forging a new path.
This is the story, isn't it? The generational shift.
The friction. The yearning. The vow. So many arcs in motion.
My phone buzzes, reminding me of the ten o'clock call.
I glance at the time, sighing because I need to switch gears to the day's responsibilities.
But the blinking cursor seems to beckon.
If I start typing, it will be a promise to myself that I'll keep going.
That I won't let fear or practicality wedge me away from the thing I want.
I take a breath and type a single line: One July, in a small lakeside town hosting a Christmas in July festival, two sisters challenged their parents' definition of success.
I hesitate. Then I type some bullet points about immigration, generational dreams, passing traditions down.
I type the words bride, sister, conflict.
I type a note about bridging old-country pride with new generational independence.
I type Bex's name, pause, then type it again, letting everything in my chest press through onto the screen.
Finally, too aware of the time, I save the document and close it. I run a hand through my hair and steel myself for the phone call. As I pick up my phone, the dullness in my chest eases just a fraction. I have something new pinned to my board, a Post-it note that might change my life.
Stepping away from the hardened roles I've built for myself terrifies me more than I want to admit.
But if Bex taught me anything, it's that sometimes you have to leap without labeling every step first. I exhale and answer the call in my usual professional voice.
Yet a part of me remains with that blinking cursor, bridging the gap between the life I've practiced and a life that might actually belong to me.
The fellowship deadlines sit pinned to my laptop for exactly four days before I have to face my parents in person. Nine days since Hollyvale, and I still haven't called Bex.
I stand on my parents' front step in Wellesley and sort through the mental script I'd prepared for tonight.
I smooth my coat, adjust the collar once, twice, before finally pressing the doorbell.
The sound rings out like an announcement.
This is the Bennetts' domain. Enter quietly and contain yourself.
My mother opens the door with a bright smile that hovers on the edge of polite and affectionate. The Bennetts do affection well enough. Just never sloppily.
"Hello, Katerina," she says. She has a habit of using my full given name like it's a sign of respect. A resourceful part of me appreciates the formality: it draws lines around us, indicates who is who and which roles belong to each. "We were so pleased you could make it."
I step forward, the smell of lemon polish and old books wafting from the foyer. "Thanks for having me," I reply, polite but not quite breezy. I don't do breezy in this household. I'd tried, once, and as a child had quickly learned that breezy was for other families.
My father appears down the hallway in an impeccable sweater over pressed slacks. "Katerina," he says warmly. "Come on in."
I take a deep breath, stepping fully inside.
The foyer walls are soft gray with crisp white trim, framed black-and-white photos from various philanthropic events spaced with perfect precision.
No overlap at the edges, no crooked frames.
If a design textbook needed a sample layout, it would come here.
"Would you like some water before dinner?" my mother asks.
I nod. "Yes, please, that'd be great."
It's the first step of an established script: water or iced tea upon arrival, small talk, then dinner in the formal dining room. Finally, coffee in the sitting room with the fireplace on. I know the sequence as well as I know how to orchestrate a wedding timeline.
I follow my mother to the kitchen, noticing everything is exactly as it's always been: marble countertops shining under the overhead lights, stainless-steel appliances lined up like obedient soldiers, cut flowers in a slim vase on the island.
The arrangement is some kind of exotic lily.
I recognize the florist's signature style.
My mother has used the same person for years.
"Smells wonderful in here," I say, scanning the counters. I find the roast chicken and vegetables in the oven, the timer blinking quietly. "Rosemary?"
My mother beams. "Yes, and a little thyme. Your father loves it." Then, with a practiced pivot to the refrigerator, she retrieves a chilled glass bottle. "Filtered still water, dear?"
I watch her pour. "That's perfect," I say.
I wish, fleetingly, for something stronger, but in this house, the difference between water and wine is a statement. Wine asks for big conversations. Water says everything is normal and tidy, so I accept the glass and follow my mother into the living room.
My father is already stationed by the fireplace. "Let's just have a little chat before dinner's ready," he says.
I perch on the edge of the pale gray sofa. The cushions are as firm as I remember. I can't imagine anyone ever truly sinking into them. "I've got a bit of time," I say, letting out a small laugh that sounds almost natural.
My father gives me the once-over that says he's about to note my posture, my composure, how well I'm doing in my career. "So how's the big project in, where is it again? That resort up north?"
I nod, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. "The Hollyvale Inn & Spa. They're fairly well-known in certain circles, up near the Vermont border. It's a multi-day wedding, but we wrapped everything a few weeks back. I just finished delivering the final post-event notes."
He smiles in the approving way of a boss evaluating an employee. "Well, that's wonderful. Your mother and I are so proud you landed that contract."