Accidentally Married for Christmas in July (You've Got a Match #4)

31. Katerina #2

That's all. She doesn't sign off with a customary smirking comment, doesn't ask for a time, doesn't say she's looking forward to it or had missed me. Nothing. Just the instruction.

I read it twice, scouring for subtext. It feels distant, but it's an invitation, and that's more than I'd dared to assume. I type a cautious reply: What time works best?

Within a minute, Bex answers: Noon.

I hover a moment. I type a single: Okay.

I stare at the screen, unsure if I'm supposed to say something more. The blinking cursor waits, but Bex doesn't type another message.

So I lock my phone and let out the breath I'd been holding.

I imagine walking into a tattoo shop in Brooklyn to see the woman I married in a single maddening, adrenaline-fueled night.

We'll stand face to face, and I'll have to say everything I've been too afraid to say during the wedding weekend.

Even the memory of that day's confusion, the sting of the manila envelope on the table, makes my chest constrict.

But I also recall how Bex's eyes had lit up just before the officiant at that impulsive chapel asked, "Do you take this woman?" She'd squeezed my hand. For a split second, our eyes locked, and I felt the ground shift beneath me, like stepping off a ledge and discovering you could fly.

Then everything fell apart in the aftermath, but still. That one second told me more about my own wants than years of orchestrated events ever had.

I take a slow sip of my latte. It tastes surprisingly sweet, or maybe I'm just relieved. Saturday isn't that far off.

I can do this. A small spark of determination lights inside me, the same spark I feel every time I make a new plan.

Except this time, it isn't just a color-coded itinerary.

It's a choice to show up and speak the truth, about the documentary, about how I feel, about what we could maybe be if we both let ourselves want it.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting the background noise of the coffee shop fade. In a few days, I'll be on the subway or maybe take a car, heading to that small corner of Brooklyn Bex calls home.

I'll show her those eight pages, if she wants to see them. More than that, I'll finally say the words that have been stuck in my throat for weeks.

That's the plan.

I finish my latte, throw out the empty cup, and head back outside. A subtle breeze stirs my hair as I walk, and I find myself grateful for the movement, for the feeling of going forward.

That night, I spread my documentary notes across my living room floor, rearranging them in a half dozen different orders. I tell myself this is purely about making sure the concept is rock-solid. But I suspect I'm distracting myself from the bigger conversation, namely, the marriage conversation.

I pin a page with a heading about interviews to the top of the spread.

I'd written a bullet on how I envision capturing Bex's perspective: life as a tattoo artist straddling multiple cultural expectations, forging her own identity.

I can almost see the shot composition in my head, Bex at her station in the shop, the hum of the tattoo machine in the background, the camera picking up the flicker of emotion in her eyes.

Picturing that makes my breath catch. Because her eyes have always undone me a little. That's the thing: I'd spent so long carefully not noticing, or noticing but reclassifying it as professional interest. The memory of her exasperating grin flickers in my mind, and I have to close my eyes.

I whisper half out loud, "Okay. It's fine. You're approaching this with genuine intentions."

Then I consider how easy it would be for everything to blur, documentary, personal life, heartbreak, hope. But maybe that blur is exactly the definition of real. Maybe that's what it means to do something that matters.

With a tentative determination, I gather the sheets, slide them into a neat folder, and label it in pen: Russo Documentary Draft.

For a moment I stare at my own handwriting on the folder.

A rush of adrenaline moves through me, the same kind I get when stepping onto a plane to an unfamiliar destination.

I like that feeling.

I check my phone one more time before I put the folder away for the night.

Still no new message from Bex beyond the single line instructing me to show up Saturday.

I let the quiet sting less than it might have a week ago, because for once I have somewhere to put the waiting: into the folder, into the plan, into three days of getting ready to say the things out loud instead of just typing and deleting them at three in the morning.

I tap open my photo album for exactly one picture, the one of Bex mid-laugh in the jazz club that Nico must have taken, and let myself look at it for longer than I usually allow, denim jacket bunched at her shoulder, that worn patch near the collar.

Then I lock the phone, set it on the charger where I can see it, and carry the folder to my bag by the door so it's ready before I can talk myself out of anything.

Saturday can't come soon enough.

Bex

I stare at the message on my phone, read it again, then read it a third time just to confirm it's real. She's coming to Brooklyn.

I finally exhale. The breath had been trapped under my ribs for days. I let the phone fall onto the kitchen counter, resisting the urge to throw it across the room or clasp it to my chest.

"What the hell," I mutter under my breath.

I don't know whether to feel relief or dread.

The last time I saw Kit was two weeks ago, in that pristine reception hall at Hollyvale, where I'd all but flung the marriage license on the table, said my final piece, and walked out.

I told myself at the time that I was done.

I'd done my part, laid my heart bare. That was it.

Except it wasn't. Because now, with a simple text, Kit is pushing the door open again. Something about showing me a new project, something important enough to cross state lines for.

I snatch my phone back up. I debate calling or texting, and somehow end up calling Nico first instead.

The call rings once before Nico's voice fills the line. "Hey, B. Did she finally message you?"

I roll my eyes, even though Nico can't see it. "Okay, so you telepathically track my phone now?"

Nico snorts. "You told me you'd keep me updated. I've been waiting."

I sigh. "Kit texted. She wants to come here on Saturday."

A pause on the other end. Then Nico says, smugly, "I told you."

I close my eyes, wincing. "Don't start."

"I told you she'd reach out," Nico presses, ignoring my frustration. "I told you radio silence can't last forever if you two have something real."

"Stop being right," I hiss, bracing one elbow on the countertop.

Nico laughs. "Never. Are you excited?"

I chew on a lip ring that isn't there anymore, an old habit from my teen days.

"I don't know if I'd call it excited. More like I have no idea what to do with this.

I'm not letting myself get ambushed or thrown off balance.

I said yes to her coming, but that doesn't mean I'm rolling out the welcome mat and hugging her in the doorway. "

I hear Nico hum an agreement. "You've had two weeks to process. That's plenty of time. If you aren't ready, that sounds like a you problem, buddy."

I groan. "Yeah, well, maybe it is. Look, I gotta handle this my way. Have the conversation in person. Actually listen. See what she's offering."

"Sure," Nico says, tone oddly gentle. "But you might have to risk letting her see that you're still in this. Or not. Your call."

I end the conversation with a muttered goodbye, ignoring Nico's parting jibe of "I told you so!"

I type out a text to Kit, short and efficient: Saturday. Come to the shop.

That's it. No exclamation points, no disclaimers about how I feel.

When she asks for a time, I answer: Noon.

That's all.

I feel faintly nauseous, like the tension in my chest has grown claws. But I refuse to let it show. I set the phone aside and busy myself with random tasks, washing a sinkful of dishes, reorganizing the magnets on my fridge, turning on music, turning it off again.

Over the next hour, I find my thoughts drifting in circles. I'd declared what I wanted at Hollyvale: if Kit wanted to make this marriage real, I was all in. If she didn't, I'd walk away.

But somewhere in the chaos of that night, I'd also run first. I'd left the license behind as if planting a flag and then sprinting away. I'd convinced myself that was the only option.

Maybe I'm still half convinced.

The next day is Friday, and I head to the shop early, letting myself in before Maya arrives.

I'm not due to clean until Sunday, but the scuff marks near the waiting-area couches bug me for some reason, and if I'm going to have an intense showdown with my sort-of-wife in this space, it might as well be spotless.

I'm still pushing a damp cloth across the front counter, floors scrubbed, windows gleaming, when Maya strolls in.

Tall, dyed silver hair shaved on one side, a calm gaze that usually sees right through me.

"Wow," Maya says, voice echoing in the freshly disinfected air. "Am I fired, or are you just anxious?"

I force a laugh. "Ha-ha, I'm just being thorough."

Maya leans against the wall, arms folded, a knowing smirk creeping onto her face. "Sure. Who's the special guest?"

I freeze for a few seconds. "What makes you think that?"

Maya rolls her eyes. "You're never this thorough unless you're showing the shop off to someone you care about. You cleaned the baseboards. You hate baseboards."

I purse my lips. "A client might come in."

Maya snorts. "Uh-huh. And I might win a Grammy for my humming."

I toss the cloth onto the counter. "Look, it's a complicated situation. I'd rather do it here than invite them to my apartment."

"Ah. So it's personal, not just a consultation."

I shrug, trying to act casual. "Maybe both. They might be interested in a piece. Or something." I realize how vague that sounds.