2. Bex
Chapter two
Bex
New Orleans at night feels like an ex-lover I still get along with: a little messy, a little unpredictable, but definitely worth the trouble.
There’s music pumping through every open door, and the smell of fried something swirling around every corner, reminding me that you can live a thousand lives in this city if you let yourself.
I’m in front of the group, guiding them away from the neon carnival of Bourbon and toward Frenchmen Street, where the locals actually hang. My sister Sofia calls from behind, “Don’t we need to see Bourbon at least once tonight?”
I just wave a dismissive hand. “Bourbon’s a presentational bar crawl. Frenchmen’s the real deal. Trust me.”
She trusts me enough to follow, which is good, because I’ve been waiting to show them this side of the city. Yes, we’ll probably end up on Bourbon at some point for the requisite gigantic drink in a neon cup. But not yet.
I spent four months crashing here with Nico during my apprenticeship years.
Daytime in the shop, nighttime wandering these streets with the kind of half-lost curiosity that leads to the best adventures.
I used to watch the local musicians busk on corners, jam in tiny clubs, spill onto sidewalks with their horns.
I learned how to be broke and happy in this city.
Behind me, the bachelorette entourage chatters: Lexi telling some loud story about stolen beads, Casey describing camera lenses to a politely interested Skye, and Kit…
I glance over my shoulder. She’s walking near Sofia, tote bag clutched at her side, shoulders squared like she’s ready for an interview.
Even in the dim glow of streetlamps, she looks…
put together. Crisp. Her thick hair is pinned back, and her posture is so straight it could anchor a clothesline.
I can’t believe she’s wearing a sleeveless wrap dress when the rest of us stuck to something more casual.
It suits her, though. There’s a single stray curl near the nape of her neck.
She left it out. Very un-Katerina of her.
I face forward and count the group instead. Six of us, all accounted for. I pick up the pace.
Anyway, she’s definitely out of her comfort zone.
Or out of a zone, at least. Kit is used to controlling everything.
She double-checks reservations and triple-checks schedules.
I remember how she used to mention these documentary passions of hers a lifetime ago.
Now she’s the wedding planner who always has a perfect plan.
I wonder if it ever gets exhausting.
“Here,” I say, stopping outside The Spotted Cat. “We’ll catch tonight’s local bands. You’ll get the real experience.”
Inside, it’s everything I remember: pressed bodies, scuffed floor, horns so loud they rattle your teeth, and a general sense that you could dance with a stranger or strike up a conversation with the bartender and it wouldn’t be weird.
It’s not quite as frenzied as Bourbon, though.
There’s a sincerity to the music here. Less showy, more just… living.
I watch the others react in their own ways.
Lexi is practically vibrating with excitement.
Sofia’s eyes are wide, enthralled, her grin unstoppable.
Meanwhile, Kit stands near the bar, shoulders tense.
She’s got that expression of half-study, half-quiet command. It’s like she’s memorizing the layout.
I catch myself noticing exactly how she’s placed her hand on her tote bag, protective. Maybe that laminated itinerary is in there. That’s not a guess. I saw the glimmer of plastic. She actually laminated a schedule for a bachelorette trip.
I can’t help needling her about it. When I slide over to her seat at the bar, the way her mouth tightens for half a second is too good. She tries to stay polite about it, but I see everything flicker across her face.
Her face is… interesting. She has these dark eyes that hold their focus too well, like she’s dissecting every detail. As if I’m the documentary subject.
Great. Now I’m overthinking it.
I clear my throat, order a beer, and watch her order a gin and tonic.
Her voice is clipped, a little stiff. She’s probably not sure how to do “let loose.” But I also notice something else: as the night goes on, she loosens.
Not drastically, but enough that she laughs at something Lexi says, and it looks real.
She says yes to a second drink. She even…
sort of smiles at me. From behind the rim of her glass, but still.
In my head, I’m telling myself it’s no big deal, and I don’t care how many drinks she has or how she reacts. But apparently, I keep glancing her way, noticing how she watches the band instead of dancing. She’s tapping her foot, maybe unconsciously.
There’s this swirl of something that I can’t name. So I do the easiest thing: ask her to dance.
I see the flicker of panic in her expression, the precise second her control rattles. She tries to deflect. Then she tries to protest. But I know how to read events too, in my own way. And that small spark behind her eyes says she’s maybe a tiny bit curious.
Seeing her out on that floor for half a song, trying not to bump into sweaty strangers, arms stiff at first… I don’t know why I like it so much. Maybe because she’s letting go of her guard for exactly seven seconds.
She leaves the dance as soon as it’s over, or more accurately, she stands there blinking at me, then flees. I watch her retreat to the table, rummaging through her bag for that sheet of paper. Probably trying to recite some bullet-point plan in her head.
I do my next best move: let the tension slip away. Because the moment you push someone who’s frantic about control, they clamp down even harder.
So we let ourselves enjoy the music, swirl around with the rest of the group.
Everyone’s sweaty and happy. We bounce from the bar to the dance floor, take pictures with Casey, and giggle over some half-lost jokes.
Lexi ends up dancing with a random group of new acquaintances.
Sofia and Skye spin in a circle. Skye interviews the bartender about something, presumably the resort scene.
And Kit… occasionally I see her looking my way, though she thinks she’s being subtle.
Near midnight, the band ends its set, and the bar transitions to a DJ, which usually means more modern music. The crowd morphs, and our group starts to drift toward the exit. I volunteer to lead them outside. Because it’s too hot, because we could all use a breather, because I want fresh air.
We spill out onto the street in a ragged line: Lexi leaning on Sofia, Casey with her camera bag slung across her chest, Skye, and Kit rounding out the rear. The air outside is marginally cooler, though still heavy. Music from inside floods out with us, then dims the second the door shuts.
I spot a street vendor frying beignets a block up. My stomach growls. “Beignet run?” I suggest. “Or are we heading somewhere else?”
Lexi whoops. “Definitely beignets!”
The group meanders that way, half-laughing, half-shuffling. I linger at the back, just to check on Kit. She walks like she’s tracking a mental map.
When she notices me, she squares her shoulders. “What?”
I shrug. “You look a little overheated. Want to lose the shoes and walk barefoot like Lexi?”
Her gaze flicks to where Lexi is indeed carrying her heels, stepping carefully on the sidewalk. “That’s unsanitary,” Kit says crisply.
I grin. “Kidding. I know you’d never.”
She huffs, half-exasperated, half something else. “I appreciate your comedic efforts.”
We reach the beignet stand, and the braver among us order fresh, hot pastries in grease-stained paper bags. Casey tries to get a few photos of the powdered sugar swirling in the overhead lights. Kit, for her part, politely declines a beignet, crossing her arms.
I poke her arm. “You sure? They’re fresh.”
She hesitates, then sighs. “Fine. One.” She takes a bite, and for a half-second something in her face goes quiet. She’s not calculating anything. She’s just standing on a sidewalk at midnight, eating fried dough, letting it be good.
I watch the tension in her shoulders gradually ease.
She’s not exactly relaxed, but something about the sweet, fried dough might be lowering her guard.
She’s always been a caretaker, the one who ensures everything goes smoothly for other people.
Maybe it’s nice that we all just exist in the chaos for once.
“So,” she says, swallowing half her beignet. “Where to next?” A quiet hint of self-awareness colors her tone, like she knows she’s not the one calling the shots tonight.
I feel a small stab of sympathy. She’s so used to being on top of everything. Maybe letting me lead feels precarious. “It’s your sister’s bachelorette, so we’ll see what she says.”
Kit glances at Sofia, who’s busy hugging Skye around the shoulders and laughing about something. She exhales. “Yeah, good idea.”
Her gaze sweeps the street. A group of passing tourists stumbles by, parade beads clacking around their necks. A horn trio blasts notes from a corner, a mini parade of watchers forming. This city never asks permission; it just does what it wants.
Someone calls my name from across the street. I whip around and see a flash of shaved hair and colorful tattoos: Nico. They wave, grin wide. That’s my old friend with a shop in Marigny, the same one I apprenticed with. They’re leaning against a lamp post with a to-go cup in hand.
I wave back, briefly. They hold up a phone like they’ll text me. I nod. We’ll catch up tomorrow or something.
When I turn back to Kit, she’s watching me, faint question in her eyes. I shrug. “Old friend. Saved my butt many times in the tattoo business.”
“Right,” she says, dabbing more sugar from her dress. “The infamous Bex empire.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not an empire. Just a decent shop in Brooklyn.”
“Have you expanded?”
I blink. Surprised she’d ask. “Sort of. I’ve gotten a bigger space. Hired a second artist. My parents remain thoroughly unimpressed, though.”
She frowns slightly. “I’m sorry.”
I wave it off. “It’s fine, I swear. Their approval’s not mandatory.” That’s my default line. But inside, there’s a flicker of old hurt I don’t quite tamp down fast enough.
Kit looks at me like she might say something, then thinks better of it. Instead, she clears her throat, scanning the group again.
After a moment, Sofia reappears, half out of breath. “Guys, we’re heading to that rooftop bar we saw earlier. Lexi’s got a lead from some local who said the view is insane.”
I smirk. “Rooftop bar. Perfect. Let’s do it.”
Kit adjusts her tote. “Sure. Lead the way.”
I don’t miss the dryness in her tone. But I don’t call it out.
We head off en masse, leaving the scattered powdered sugar behind us. The group is lively, teasing, half-stumbling. Kit is the sole bastion of composure. Except for that small smudge of sugar near her collar, which she hasn’t quite noticed.
For one strange moment, I have the urge to reach out and brush it away for her. But that would be weirdly intimate, right? So I keep my hands to myself.
Still, that fleeting thought lingers as we walk to the corner, waiting for a break in the swirl of traffic. She stands next to me, close enough that my elbow almost grazes hers. I remember the half-second press of her body against mine when we danced earlier. Too close for comfort. In a good way.
Not that I want comfort from Kit. I mean, we have known each other forever, but we’re basically experts at pushing each other’s buttons. She organizes; I mock it. She’s the neat row of binder tabs; I’m the pile of half-finished sketches. That’s how it’s always been.
We cross the street. She steps off the curb carefully, scanning for a potential hazard.
I notice one corner of her dress drags close to a puddle.
Something pulls tight under my ribs, and I lift her elbow lightly, guiding her away from the slip risk.
She glances at me, eyes wide like she’s surprised I gave a damn.
“Thank you,” she murmurs.
“No problem,” I say, letting go the moment we’re on dry pavement.
We keep walking. But in the back of my mind, the image of that single escaped curl at her neck plays on a loop, like I’ve accidentally gotten something stuck in my mental Spotify queue. She didn’t tuck it behind her ear. She didn’t fix it.
I catch myself imagining what it would be like to slide it off her skin.
That’s the moment I know I should probably back off. Because this weekend is about Sofia. Because Kit and I have never actually been… that. Because the idea of letting ourselves slip feels like a line neither of us has admitted exists.
The city around us doesn’t care about lines. New Orleans is all swirl and possibility. But I can’t let it trick me into wanting something that might be a really bad idea.
So I deflect, like I always do.
“Hey,” I call to Lexi up front, “You sure you remember where that rooftop is? Because I’ve got a sense that you might be lost.”
Lexi whirls around, arms in the air. “How dare you question me, Bex Russo?”
We all laugh, and the tension diffuses.
Still, as the group forms up again and we wind through the dimly lit side streets, the memory of Kit’s waist under my hand returns. Soft. Steady. Warmer than I expected.
Five minutes later, as we jostle inside an elevator up to a rooftop bar, I catch a reflection of her face in the mirrored wall. There’s a faint blush on her cheeks, or maybe it’s the overhead fluorescent lights. I find my gaze drawn to it before I realize what I’m doing.
I look away fast.
The elevator dings, and everyone piles out, rushing toward the open-air deck to see the night skyline. I take in every sensation at once: loud laughter, humid breeze, distant neon, and Kit stepping out behind me, tote bag clutched at her side.
I grin at her, ignoring the lurch in my stomach that arrives with that single glance.
“Ready for the next round?” I say, voice pitched to tease.
She lifts her chin. “I can handle it.”
We both know we’re not talking about drinks anymore.