31. Katerina
Chapter thirty-one
Katerina
Iscan the first line of my new documentary treatment for the fifth, or maybe the fifteenth, time that morning, perched at my kitchen table with a cup of tea turning cold at my elbow.
I can hear the ticking of my wall clock, a maddening reminder that every second spent re-reading is a second not spent actually moving forward. But I can't help it.
I've been working on these notes for eleven days straight, ever since returning from the wedding weekend at Hollyvale.
At first they existed as bare-bones scribbles in a battered notebook, scribbles I told myself were just personal observations.
A bullet point here, Russo family dynamic.
A line there, pressure of tradition vs. love.
I'd scrawled a question or two about how legacy shapes first-generation families, especially families in conflict.
Gradually, though, I've taken those scribbles and transferred them into a document with actual structure.
Headings, subsections, bullet points. A working title, half a logline, a segment on possible interview approaches.
Eight full pages now. Some of it is still rough, but it's coherent enough to feel real. Almost alarmingly so.
I catch myself biting the tip of my pen and lower it to the page. "Stop that," I mutter under my breath, like scolding a child. If I'm truly serious about being a filmmaker, I'll need to develop fewer anxious habits along the way.
Still, it's good. I can let myself think that.
It has shape and a clear concept: a documentary exploring the duality of family expectation and unconditional love in a first-generation immigrant household.
The Russo family has lived in my head for days, from Marcello's stoic determination to Lucia's gentleness that sometimes gets lost under tradition, and of course Sofia and Bex, the two sisters determined to chart their own paths.
I lean back in the chair, flipping through the pages where I'd typed out possible angles.
Subtitles like Development of Family Legacy: The Immigrant Story.
I read my own paragraphs describing how families build new identities over time, how that effort can breed pride and also fear.
Emotional terrain was the phrase I'd used.
I let out a small huff, half laugh, half sigh.
"Emotional terrain," I repeat. If that isn't personal.
My phone sits on the table beside the mug, taunting me with a blank screen.
For once, I'm not waiting on a client call.
I'm summoning the nerve to call Sofia. If I pursue this documentary, I need the family's permission and full cooperation.
And that cooperation will likely hinge on Bex, who is both living proof of the family tension, tattoo artist in a family of more conventional expectations, and also the person I haven't spoken to in ten days.
No, it's eleven now. I'd done the math that morning, of course I had, and realized my last text to Bex had been an unsent draft, the one I typed at three a.m. and deleted before pressing send.
That's the real reason I haven't called Sofia yet. Because once I do, there will be no ignoring the fact that Bex is at the heart of the story. Not just the documentary, but the story in my own life.
Still, I've typed up eight pages. I've basically pitched myself the idea. Why not pitch it to the people who matter?
I inhale, exhale, realize I've reached precisely zero resolution just by staring at the phone. You're an adult, I remind myself. Then I unlock the screen, click to Sofia's contact info, and press call.
It rings twice before Sofia picks up, sounding mildly out of breath. "Kit? Hi!"
I find my voice steadier than expected. "Hi, Sofia. Is this a bad time?"
"Not at all. Just doing some cleaning around the apartment. How are you?"
I fold a corner of my document. "I'm well, thanks. I know the wedding's wrapped, so this call might seem unexpected. But I, uh, I have something I wanted to ask you."
The other end goes quiet except for a distant rustle, maybe of Sofia setting some cleaning supplies aside. "I'm listening," she says, warm but curious.
I press the pages flat on the table, as if I could communicate confidence through muscle memory.
"I've been putting together an idea for a documentary film.
About immigrant family legacy and how tradition and personal ambition can collide or converge.
And I think your family's story could be a perfect lens for that. "
Silence, but not an empty one. I sense Sofia is digesting the words.
Finally, she speaks. "You're serious."
"Yes," I say softly. "It started as me just noting some interesting dynamics during the wedding weekend.
The ways that families work behind the scenes, you know?
But it's grown into an actual proposal. I just wanted to ask permission first, get a sense of whether the Russo family would be open to something like this. If you say no, I'll respect that."
Sofia lets out a low hum. "And this is you actually doing the thing, right? The thing you talked about, documentary filmmaking?"
Something flutters in my chest. "I'm trying to," I say, measured. "I'm not giving up wedding planning entirely, but this is important to me. It might not be easy, and I don't expect your parents to jump for joy immediately, but."
"You might be surprised," Sofia cuts in. There's tension in her voice, but also a faint optimism. "Things change. People change. My father might find the concept less threatening than I'd have guessed a month ago."
I conjure an image of Marcello, arms folded, posture cautious. The memory still makes my shoulders tense, but I nod to myself. "Well, that's good news," I murmur.
Sofia takes a beat, then adds, "Anyway, let me talk to Bex first. She's usually the one who reacts the fastest to new ideas, especially ones that involve the whole family. Her blessing goes a long way."
I chew the inside of my cheek. "About Bex, I was hoping to speak with her directly. If that's okay."
Silence again. A different kind this time, one that rings with understanding. "Then call her," Sofia says, a hint of wryness in her tone.
My fingers tense on the edge of the document. "I," I begin, mind spinning with all the ways I'd imagined that conversation could go. "Yes. I will."
"Today?"
I let the question hang for a second. I stare at the last line of my documentary draft, the placeholder text that reads Insert closing thoughts here. "Yes," I say. "Today."
Sofia exhales, sounding relieved. "Good. I'll wait to hear from you. And, Kit?"
"Yes?"
"I think it's a beautiful idea," she says, voice gentle in that big-sister way. "I'm proud of you for following through. I know how much you put yourself aside for your work. So, just saying I'm glad to see you stepping forward in something that's yours."
Emotion swells in my chest, something thick and unnameable.
I want to disclaim it or file it under professional lead, this is just following the story.
But the truth is, it matters to hear that from someone who'd seen me behind the scenes at Hollyvale, who understands that my events and color-coded binders aren't the sum total of who I am.
"Thank you," I manage.
We say our goodbyes, and the call ends. I lower the phone to the table. The house feels suddenly quieter.
I stare at the black screen, vaguely aware that my hand is trembling. Tucking it under the table, I take a breath. I can do this. I need to do this.
I spend the next hour pacing my living room, phone pressed to my palm like an external heartbeat. I open and close Bex's contact screen four times, each time almost calling, each time changing my mind.
It isn't that I don't want to hear her voice. I want that more than I want to admit. But what would I say after so many days of silence? Start with an apology? Or a direct statement of I still want this, do you? Possibly both.
Finally, I realize my mind is cycling in the same unproductive loop. I need a direct approach. Something that matches the clarity I'd felt drafting the documentary.
I set the phone on the couch cushion, open messages, and type a single line: Can we talk?
It stares back at me, stark and short. I try to picture Bex's reaction to that. Possibly an eyeroll. Possibly a heartbreak. Possibly a yes.
I don't like the feeling. It's too vague. I delete it.
I try again: I've been working on something, and I'd like to show you. Can I come to Brooklyn?
I read it back, three times, braced for the wave of self-doubt.
But it doesn't come. Instead, a flicker of hope goes through my chest, because yes, that's what I want: to see Bex face to face, to show her the film treatment, to ask if any of this could be real.
I press send before I have time to second-guess.
I half expect the phone to ring immediately or light up with a response. It doesn't. So I take the coward's route: I lock the phone, place it face down on the table, and retreat to my laptop.
An hour passes with no reply. I try to focus on a vendor list, but it's mechanical, and I keep re-checking the phone, biting my lip each time I find nothing.
Eventually I can't stand it. I snatch my coat and walk three blocks to a small coffee shop I frequent, phone in hand the whole way, checking it at the crosswalk out of unstoppable muscle memory.
Bex is a busy person, I tell myself. She runs a shop, she meets with clients.
Also, she could be ignoring me. That thought comes unbidden and makes my stomach twist.
I order a small latte and settle at a corner table, half lost in how strange it feels to be immersed in normal life while my own personal drama looms.
My phone buzzes. I almost spill my latte. Sucking in a breath, I snatch it off the table.
One unread message: from Bex.
I can practically feel my pulse in my ears. I click it open.
Saturday. Come to the shop.