1. Katerina #2
I don’t particularly enjoy the way my stomach does something fluttery at that statement.
Forty-five minutes later, we’re assembled outside the hotel, and Bex is leading us down the street.
The city around us is flamboyant, it’s loud, and from every open door or window I catch a swirl of sound: jazz, blues, more brass than I’m prepared for.
Groups of people wearing Mardi Gras beads wander by, even though it’s not Mardi Gras season.
This city never seems to need an excuse.
I walk in the middle of the cluster, checking over my shoulder to ensure no one’s lagging behind.
Skye is deep in conversation with Casey about the best angle for nighttime photography.
I hear Sofia and Lexi up ahead, flirting with the idea of open-container cocktails.
Bex is near them, striding like she doesn’t care about the sidewalk’s lumps or the questionable lighting.
I notice her jacket is fraying in one spot near the left pocket.
She tucks her hands into that pocket sometimes, hooking a thumb through the tear, and it pulls the jacket at a diagonal across her torso.
I catch myself looking for no reason. It’s only because I plan events. Wardrobe details matter. That’s all.
We weave onto Decatur and then deeper toward Frenchmen Street, where the neon is less garish, and the vibe shifts from a tourist carnival to something that feels more lived-in.
The roads are narrower. A guy on the corner wails on a trumpet, while a woman next to him belts out what sounds like an old soul tune.
The entire block throbs with unpredictability.
We finally stop in front of a place called The Spotted Cat Music Club.
I’ve heard the name before, probably in some travel article about authentic local jazz.
Bex gestures with a grand sweep, like she’s presenting us with a hidden gem.
“Trust me,” she says. “This is the spot. Way better than Bourbon.”
I follow the group inside. The room is narrow, with a worn wood floor, low lighting, and a corner where a jazz quartet is mid-song, horns snapping over a sharp rhythm.
People are dancing in a haphazard swirl of arms and legs, no one quite in sync with each other, but they all seem to be having the time of their lives.
My chest tightens, but I’m not sure if it’s anxiety or anticipation.
It’s loud, music layering over a hundred different conversations, barware clinking.
I register the smells: sweat, stale beer, perfume, the tang of brass instruments.
My heart is beating a little too fast. Not in a bad way, necessarily. Just…fast.
Sofia leans close. “You good?”
I glance at her. “Of course. It’s just a tad crowded.”
“It’s always like this,” Bex says, materializing on my other side. She nods at the stage. “They’ll probably switch sets in about twenty minutes, then a new band comes on. We should grab a table if we can.”
“Table,” I echo. “Yes, that’s a good plan. Let’s do that.”
She lifts an eyebrow, smothering a smirk. In her left earlobe, a small stud shaped like a crescent moon gleams in the spotlights.
I push forward, weaving through the throng, trying to locate an open table.
Casey and Skye have already claimed one near the bar, which seats maybe five if we squeeze.
I stifle a sigh because we’re a group of six, but I can make it work.
Lexi and Sofia immediately vanish onto the dance floor, ignoring the space constraints.
I sit. The wooden stool wobbles beneath me.
Bex stands behind me, half leaning against the bar.
Her hand rests lightly on the bartop, tapping to the music.
I can’t see her face unless I twist around, but I sense her scanning the room, taking it all in with that open, unguarded energy she always seems to have.
I order a gin and tonic from the bartender, who is moving at the speed of light trying to keep up with the crowd.
Bex orders something from the draft list, a local beer.
She steps closer while we wait, but I keep my gaze forward, focusing on the shapes of the liquor bottles lined in front of the mirror, and the swirling reflection of neon.
When our drinks come, Bex taps her beer bottle against my glass, a gentle clink. “So,” she says, voice raised to cut over the horns. “You still rather be buried in your reference document?”
I bristle at the teasing note in her tone. But I also feel an inexplicable urge to laugh. “I’m sure I’ll need it later when someone inevitably forgets the next location.”
She chuffs a low laugh. “Keep telling yourself that.”
I take a sip. The gin is sharper than usual, or maybe that’s just me.
I glance at her sideways. For a moment, the flash of overhead lights catches on the silver ring she’s wearing on her right index finger.
It’s etched with a minimal design, maybe stars.
Or tiny shapes I can’t see well in this light.
My eyes linger on it longer than necessary.
Then I remind myself the entire reason we’re here is Sofia.
Her wedding, her bachelorette weekend, her happiness.
I am not here to wonder about Bex’s jewelry.
I forcibly return my attention to the small talk swirling around the table. Casey is describing the new camera lens she brought. Skye is half listening, half scanning the crowd. Lexi and Sofia are dancing up front, lost in a swirl of horns and bright lights.
Bex shifts behind me, and the sleeve of her denim jacket brushes my shoulder. I realize I’ve scooted to make room for her without meaning to. My body took the initiative.
Ridiculous.
She leans in, voice close to my ear. “I’m heading to the floor. You coming?”
“Me?” I let out a half-laugh. “I don’t dance.”
She smirks. “It’s a bachelorette weekend. We’re all dancing eventually.”
My shoulders tighten. “Not me.”
She taps the back of my chair with a single finger, like she’s knocking on a door. “Okay, have it your way. But if you change your mind…” She trails off and heads toward the floor.
The moment she’s gone, the air around me feels lighter. I exhale and try to gather my composure, which shouldn’t feel this scattered after one half-finished gin and tonic. It’s just that Bex’s presence is… it’s always a challenge.
I watch her slip through the crowd, hooking Lexi’s hand to spin her. Bex has that same fluid confidence in her dancing that she has in everything else.
Fine. Good for her.
I check my watch: 9:18. We have plenty of time before the next item on the itinerary, which is.
I stop. I realize I have absolutely nowhere else we need to be tonight.
This is the next item. Enjoying the city, letting go, celebrating Sofia, bonding with the wedding party.
I surreptitiously sip my drink and close my eyes for a second, letting the horns wash over me.
It’s loud and hot, and the front door never seems to stay closed long enough for the air conditioning to catch up.
My hair is going to frizz, but I can’t find the energy to fix it.
The band finishes their set, applause erupts, and I watch as the next group of musicians edges onto the corner stage.
Their vibe is a bit slower, more soulful.
People shift around, some heading out the door, others crowding in to fill the gaps.
Bex swings back into my orbit just as I’m draining the last of my gin.
She looks thoroughly un-sweaty despite the room’s temperature.
Her jacket is unzipped, the black tank top beneath it clinging in a way that reveals the faint outline of a small star tattoo on her collarbone.
If I glance at it again, it’s only because I might need to ask about her artist recommendations.
I plan weddings, after all. Some couples want matching tattoos.
That’s a legitimate professional interest.
I carefully set my glass down, ignoring the twinge in my chest that says I’m a truly terrible liar, even to myself.
“Ready for round two?” Bex nods at my empty glass.
My mouth feels dry. “Um, maybe just water this time.”
Her lips twitch. “Sure.”
She raises a hand, hails the bartender for me. She doesn’t even look at the menu or the bar. It’s like she’s done this a thousand times. She orders me water with a slight grin, but not in a mocking way. More… entertained. “It’s hot. You should stay hydrated.”
I want to protest that I’m fine and I don’t need babysitting. But the place is scorching and I am grateful, so I just nod. The bartender slides me a cup of ice water, slipping a lemon wedge on the rim.