32. Katerina #3
A small gasp escapes my throat before I can hide it. The drawing is of a camera, done in stylized lines, entwined with vines and small blooms. The lens shape overlaps with what looks like a partial film reel. It's intricate but not fussy. Bold. Charged with motion.
My eyes flick up to Bex's face, then back down. I see detail work: the swirl of leaves, how the reel's edges form a subtle heart shape if you squint. An accident or intentional?
I can feel my chest tighten in wonder. "This is, you said it's not for a client."
"Right," Bex says, fiddling with the corner of the paper. "It's for me. Or for you, or for whoever. Mostly it's about the idea of capturing something on film. The vulnerability of letting yourself be seen. That's how I was feeling after everything."
My throat feels tight again. I trace my finger over the lines, hovering just above the page so I won't smudge the pencil. "It's powerful," I murmur. "I can see the story in it."
Bex shrugs, but her cheeks are warmer. "It might be a piece I refine further, or it might just stay in the book.
But I wanted you to know it exists. Because it's basically me grappling with what happened, the wedding, the impulse.
It's me looking at the concept that maybe we don't have to keep everything behind locked doors. "
My heart aches in that sharp, sweet way that precedes tears. I blink rapidly, forcing composure. I picture that camera reel superimposed on my old film textbooks. "I love that," I whisper, meaning it.
I realize I've used the word love, and it lingers in the air. I cough, pushing a hand through my curls. "So. That's, thank you for showing me."
Bex nods, flipping the cover shut with gentle care. "Okay," she says, clearing her throat. "So that's the first time I've shown someone a personal piece in, I don't even know how long."
I swallow. I remember my vow not to hide behind politeness. I see Bex's uncertain posture, the tension in her eyes. So, tentatively, I reach out, placing my hand lightly on hers.
She stiffens for half a second, then lets out a breath. She doesn't pull away.
The contact feels electric, the slightest friction of skin on skin. The memory of Bex's hand filling mine during that tipsy vow in New Orleans hits me again, making my entire body hum.
I force myself to speak. "I meant what I said earlier. I'm done letting fear keep me from living. I might not become a fearless rebel overnight, but I can try. I want to try."
Under my fingers, Bex's hand relaxes. "Me too," she says, voice quieter, eyes bright. "I promise I won't run unless you tell me to."
I let out a short, almost dazed laugh, and for half a second consider hugging her right there. But perhaps that's too forward. I settle for letting my hand linger another moment, then gently pull back.
I glance around, recalling the presence of the folder. "We'll figure out the documentary piece by piece. It'll mean a lot of filming, some travel, conversations your dad might not be thrilled about."
Bex nods. "And it means we'll see each other more."
My lips curve, a real smile blossoming at that. "Yes, it does."
We fall into a silence that feels more comfortable than fraught now. A few moments of quiet. Bex sighs, leaning back in the chair, gazing at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights cast pale squares of reflection in her dark eyes.
"So, do you want coffee?" Bex asks suddenly, voice normal again. "I mean, I made a pot in the back. Or I can run out to the roaster next door if you'd rather something fancy."
I chuckle softly. "In any other situation, I'd politely decline shop coffee. But for this, yes, I'd love a cup."
"All right," Bex says, standing. "Don't get too comfortable. I'll only be a second. Milk, sugar?"
"Just a little milk, if you have it."
Bex nods and disappears behind the dividing wall. I hear the rustling of cups, a faint rattle of ceramic. Meanwhile, I sit alone, letting the adrenaline settle.
My eyes drift to the folder on the side table. I realize how it symbolizes the pivot in my life, eight typed pages that might be the start of everything new. Then there's a certainty in my chest telling me this is right. A sense of alignment I rarely feel.
In less than five minutes, Bex returns with two mugs cradled in her hands. She offers one to me, and I rise to take it. Our fingers brush.
"Thank you," I say softly. I breathe in the aroma, rich and strong, definitely a step up from the watery breakroom stuff I sometimes endure.
We both move closer to the front counter, sipping gingerly. The coffee is hot, a little bitter in a way I actually like.
"I guess we have a plan, in a weird unplanned sort of way," Bex says, leaning her hip against the counter.
I nod, my mouth drawn in a shy smile. "Yes. A plan with roughly outlined bullet points, but flexible for revision." I pause. "I can do flexible."
Bex raises an eyebrow. "I'll believe that when I see it."
I choke on a laugh. "Touché."
A comfortable silence falls. I take another sip, letting the caffeine ground me. I notice the curve of Bex's jaw in profile as she drinks. A small, entirely unprofessional part of my mind wants to lean in and press my mouth there, to test if that sense of belonging from New Orleans still exists.
I decide not to. Not yet. But the impulse is bright as day, a flutter in my stomach.
"It's a start," I say, voice quieter.
Bex sets her mug down, crossing her arms. "It is." She meets my eyes steadily, that mild reflection of tension still present, but overshadowed by something softer. "And honestly, I'm glad you came."
My heart twists. I press my lips together. "Me too."
We stand like that for a moment, the quiet of the shop enveloping us, the city's noise muffled by the front door. My breath feels measured, but every exhale carries relief.
When Bex speaks again, her tone is matter-of-fact, but tinted with warmth. "All right. I'm not great at big romantic endings, but I think we should consider step one accomplished. You're here. We're talking. We're not." Her voice falters. "We're not giving up."
My chest feels warm. I reach for the documentary folder, tucking it under my arm, and turn to Bex. "So. Where do we go from here?"
Bex shrugs, but her eyes are shining in that way that makes my pulse hiccup. "Maybe we go get lunch. Then come back and talk about the documentary details. Or we keep the shop closed for the day and just figure each other out for a while. I'm flexible." Her grin turns playful.
I find myself smiling back, wide and unguarded. "Lunch sounds nice. Then whatever else we decide."
We let that agreement hang for a second, awareness humming between us.
Then Bex tilts her head toward the door. "Grab your bag. Let's do it."
I nod, snatching up the few things I've brought. I follow her to the door, bracing for the bustle outside. As Bex flips the lock, I realize my heart doesn't race with dread. It pounds with anticipation, but not panic.
The door opens, letting in a shaft of light. Bex steps onto the sidewalk, holding it open. I step through. I feel the crisp air on my face, the hum of passing voices, the pull of coffee and city.
I glance back, meeting Bex's eyes, and see the faint, genuine smile playing on her lips. I answer with the same.
We walk side by side toward the coffee shop next door or maybe some other lunch spot, leaving the sign reading Closed behind us, leaving the tinted windows of Russo & Co. for now.
I feel a sense of wholeness within the uncertainty. I have no illusions that it will be simple, but if I've learned anything from that binder tab labeled Miscellaneous, it's that some things don't belong in neat categories.
"You okay?" Bex asks as we turn the corner.
I nod, letting my shoulder bump lightly against hers. "Yeah," I say, exhaling. "I'm good. I'm really, truly good."
And for once, I believe it.