4. Bex
Chapter four
Bex
Bourbon Street is a carnival ride I never really wanted a ticket for. But hey, it’s Sofia’s bachelorette, and if the bride wants to see Bourbon, we’re doing Bourbon.
That’s how I end up threading through a crush of loud, sweaty tourists carrying neon yardstick cups of sugary booze. The buildings lean in on us, balconies overhead full of folks tossing beads or waving over the rail. Music blasts from every bar: rock covers, hip-hop, dance tracks. It’s chaos.
And to my surprise, we’re all in.
Lexi is the loudest champion of the madness, dragging Sofia to a place called The Rodeo Room.
Because apparently there’s a mechanical bull out front, and now it’s a challenge.
Casey, camera in hand, is following them inside.
Skye tosses a “We’ll be right back” over her shoulder, then disappears after them, probably to supervise or join in.
I hang back, letting the swirl of activity pass around me. I don’t mind stepping inside, but I rarely volunteer for mechanical-bull theatrics. I’ve watched too many unfortunate friends end up bruised or embarrassed or both.
Eventually, I glance around to see where Kit ended up. She’s about a yard away, adjusting the strap on her tote bag, scanning the blocks with wide eyes. I smirk a little because she’s got that prim posture again, but there’s an unsettled energy in her arms, like she’s not sure what to do with them.
It reminds me of how she looked dancing with me. Half uncomfortable, half letting go.
I don’t want to think about that dance too hard.
I wave a half-circle in her direction. “You want to head in there? Or do you want to skip the bull show?”
She shudders. “Let’s skip,” she says, stepping toward me. Her face is a little flushed, probably from the heat. “I can’t watch them do that without feeling secondhand pain.”
I chuckle. “Agreed.”
We drift along the sidewalk. There’s a wrought-iron fence that’s presumably blocking off some private entrance, and we sort of park ourselves there, leaning against the bars.
It’s a small moment of relative calm, if you can call Bourbon Street calm.
At least we’re not in direct collision with the crowd.
Kit glances around, taking in the swirl. I can practically see her filing each detail away. She’s always been good at scanning a space, but tonight I’m picking up something deeper. She’s not just noticing hazards or scheduling issues. She’s observing the actual city.
It’s different from how I watch a place. I look for vibe, aesthetic, maybe the best vantage point. But her gaze is more focused. She’s got that open curiosity again, and it occurs to me that I’ve never actually watched her look at anything before. I’ve watched her manage things. This is not that.
A street vendor wheels a cart of glow necklaces behind us, hawking them for five bucks apiece. I nudge Kit’s arm. “See that? He’s picking the best choke point on the sidewalk so no one can pass without noticing him. That’s a pro move.”
Kit shifts her gaze. “He’s definitely strategic.”
“Yeah. Locals around here know how to read the flow.” I point across the street at a building that’s only lit on the first floor, but the second-floor balcony has a couple of shirts waving on a laundry line.
“That place? Somebody’s living up there.
Don’t see that in the brochures. Mid-tourist mayhem, actual people are just… doing laundry, hanging out.”
Kit’s eyes move to the flapping clothes. She gives a small exhale, almost a laugh. “That’s so odd. I would never guess.”
“It’s normal life side by side with the chaos.” I grin. “The city’s full of stuff like that. Over on the corner, see that brass player in front of a closed bar? He’s easily the best musician on this whole street.”
She follows my line of sight. The man is leaning against the building, blowing a trumpet with casual grace, a tip jar at his feet. He’s not with a band, not on a stage. Just out there for whoever’s willing to pay attention.
Kit’s shoulders relax as she watches him. Then she turns back to me. “I like that you notice all this.”
I tilt my head. “I guess I see it because I used to roam these streets at weird hours. You pick up on the city’s rhythms.”
She nods, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “You notice stuff too, you know,” I add. “You’re always noting details. I guess that’s the wedding-planner mind, but it feels like more than that.”
“Sometimes I do the vantage-point thing,” she admits. “I see how people line up in conversation, who’s overshadowed, who’s actually comfortable.”
I narrow my gaze. “So you read rooms the way I read streets.”
She smiles, but it’s a bit sad, like the observation costs her something I can’t see the shape of yet. I don’t chase it. Whatever’s under there, she’ll bring it out when she’s ready, or she won’t, and either way it’s not mine to dig up on a Bourbon Street sidewalk.
She starts to shrug, then stops when a group of rowdy guys in matching neon shirts lurch past, hollering. One of them tries to toss her a set of beads. She ducks. The beads fly over her head and clatter on the pavement behind us.
I bite back a laugh, and we both watch them stumble off.
Then I realize Kit’s stepped slightly in front of me, as if bracing for another wave of drunken chaos.
She’s not pressing into me, but I can feel her presence.
The warmth of her shoulder, an inch from my collarbone.
The iron bar of the fence at my back and Kit Bennett at my front, and one of those two things is making it hard to stand still.
She did it without thinking. That’s the part I keep snagging on. Kit doesn’t do anything without thinking. She plans her footwear. She laminates. And she just put herself between me and a wall of drunk tourists like it was a reflex she’s had all along.
I blink. She’s close enough that if I move an inch, we’ll bump. My pulse jumps in a traitorous way I don’t appreciate. Because that’s not how this is supposed to go.
Kit is the type of person who always had her life together: nice clothes, smooth manners, no time for nonsense.
I used to be convinced she barely saw me as anything but a mismatch for her friend circle.
She never said it out loud, but the vibes were there, or so I believed.
Now I’m not sure that was accurate, because she’s not acting that way.
She turns her head, noticing me noticing her, and I quickly glance away, focusing on a street performer across the way. My breath is shallow.
What’s happening?
I blame the city, honestly. Bourbon can do weird things to your sense of normal.
Kit shifts back, leaving maybe half a foot of space between us now. She tugs her tote bag higher on her shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—there was that group, and I—”
“Yeah, no,” I say hastily. “All good.”
I remember the shape of her waist against my hand on the dance floor. I forcibly reel back, crossing my arms to keep from fidgeting.
Farther down the block, the rest of our group emerges.
Lexi is whooping, brandishing phone footage of Sofia apparently staying on the mechanical bull for a record seven seconds.
Casey is snapping pictures of everything, laughing.
Skye waves at us, then mutters something in Sofia’s ear.
Probably about heading to the next place.
Lexi stumbles over, breathless from excitement. “We need more fuel,” she proclaims. “Pizza or something.”
“Oh, cheese fries,” Sofia moans. “I need cheese fries.”
Kit steps up, instantly hostess-y again. “There’s a place a block down that does decent fries. At least, that’s what Google said this afternoon.”
I grin. Of course she Googled.
We all move as a group, heading toward the promise of fast food. On the way, I mention my friend Nico in passing, half to Lexi and half to Sofia. “We could get some actual bachelorette tattoos if you want. Nico’s shop is in the Marigny, only about fifteen minutes from here. Tomorrow night, maybe.”
Lexi lights up like she’s just discovered a hidden treasure chest. “Yes! That’s brilliant. We all get matching hearts or something?”
Sofia looks uncertain, but there’s a playful glint in her eye. “I’m not opposed, but maybe something smaller than a giant heart on my bicep.”
Casey laughs, flipping her camera around to vlog the reaction. Skye half-smiles, but I see a twinge of, “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” on her face.
“Don’t worry,” I say, half-laughing. “We won’t force you to get a full sleeve or anything.”
Lexi whoops again, and the rest of them start brainstorming designs: rings, flowers, Ms. Pac-Man, weird comedic references to the mechanical bull fiasco. It’s an avalanche of ideas. I mostly just let them talk.
Kit lingers at the back again, eyeing me warily. Or maybe not warily, but with that watchful expression I’m starting to know. She lifts an eyebrow. “You’re comfortable just strolling into a shop for a group tattoo?”
I shrug. “I know the place. I trust Nico. They’re good. And it’s not exactly my first time getting ink on a whim.”
She nods with a small laugh. “Right, of course not.” She runs a hand over her hair, which is beginning to show hints of frizz in the humid air.
“Plus,” I say, turning away before I stare too long, “it’s not a big commitment. People do little bachelorette tattoos all the time. Like a tiny date or an inside joke.”
Kit crosses her arms. “Mm. I’m not typically the body-art type.”
“Never say never,” I tease.
She rolls her eyes. I expect her to say some sharp retort, but she doesn’t. She just looks thoughtful, as if she’s mulling over the idea in a small corner of her mind.
We push open the door of a neon-lit takeout joint. The smell of grease and hot cheese envelops us. Sofia and Lexi immediately lean over the counter, scanning the menu board. Skye hunts for a table, while Casey tries to snap a photo of the entire scene.
Kit stands next to me in the short line, arms folded. The overhead fluorescent flickers, catching the angles of her cheekbones. She’s definitely sweaty, her dress slightly damp along the collar from the nighttime heat, but she’s not complaining.
I’m about to say something random, maybe about fries, when she shifts a bit closer. “So… do you think Nico would open the shop after hours?”
“Yeah,” I confirm. “Totally. If we plan it. Nico’s cool like that.”
“Interesting,” she says softly.
I tilt my head. “You actually considering it?”
Her gaze slides away. “I’m… not sure. But it might be a nice memory for Sofia. A spontaneous group thing.”
I nod. The conversation drifts as we place our orders. Cheese fries, battered onion rings, bottled water for half the group, random cocktails in giant to-go cups for the rest. Bourbon Street’s rules for open-container are a lawless realm.
Once we have our food, we jam together at a too-small table near the window, sampling each other’s greasy selections.
Lexi regales us with blow-by-blow commentary of Sofia’s ride on the bull, while Sofia mocks her for bailing after three seconds.
Skye tries to keep track of who paid already.
Casey snaps a photo of the fries, probably for comedic effect.
Kit sits next to me, sipping from a bottled water. Every so often, she frowns at her phone, likely checking the time or the next location. But she’s not handing out updated schedules.
From time to time, I notice her opening her mouth like she might say something to me, then swallowing the words. Maybe it’s about the tattoos. Maybe she’s thinking about that conversation we had in the club. I don’t push.
Eventually, our group stumbles back outside, half-laughing, carrying leftover fries. The neon glare of Bourbon Street feels even louder this time. Sofia’s face is flushed with happiness, and she yells, “All right, next stop, karaoke, or do we find an actual dance club?!”
The group cheers in confusion, not sure which they prefer.
“Both,” Lexi says, throwing an arm around Sofia. “We do both.”
They begin strolling that direction, apparently deciding the bar with the karaoke sign is next. I match my pace with Kit, just behind them. She’s quiet.
“You OK?” I ask.
She exhales. “Yes. I’m just… not used to so little structure.”
I grin. “Some nights, you just gotta let the city do its thing.”
Her lips quirk like she’s humoring me. But I detect a small spark in her eyes, too. “Well… so far it’s not terrible.”
That’s the faintest compliment I think I’ve ever heard from her about chaos. Still, it warms me more than I’d like to admit.
We reach the next bar, which has an open doorway blasting pop music. People inside are already belting out an off-key version of some early-2000s hit. The bachelorette group whoops, dragging Sofia in.
I hang back a moment, nudging Kit forward. She steps inside, then glances over her shoulder at me. “So, tomorrow night, that shop idea… You’re serious about it?”
Her tone is measured, but there’s a flicker of curiosity that she can’t quite hide.
I nod. “Yep. I’ll text Nico in the morning. We can make it official if everyone’s on board.”
“All right,” she says. “Let’s do it.”
I see the tiniest grin flicker at the corner of her mouth, then she disappears into the noise.
I’m weirdly excited to watch Kit navigate the possibility of a tattoo. She’s never seen that side of me in action. She’s never let me see that side of her curiosity.
And if it makes her let go of the roles we’ve both assigned each other, maybe that’s not a bad thing.
It might be dangerous, though.
Because every time I look at her now, I notice more detail than I’m comfortable with. And I keep remembering how it felt to have her in my arms on that dance floor.
I exhale, stuffing my hands in my jacket pockets. Inside the bar, the karaoke host is calling out names. Someone shouts for me to join them. I guess that’s my signal.
I step in, letting the swirl of laughter and alcohol wash over me. The city’s not done with us yet, and tomorrow we’re apparently rummaging around a tattoo shop after hours.
I’ve been in Nico’s shop a hundred times. I know where the good stool is, which floorboard creaks, exactly how the light hits the chairs after dark. There is nothing in that building I haven’t seen.
Except Kit Bennett standing in the middle of it, deciding whether to want something.
I catch a glimpse of her near the stage, arms folded, half-smiling at whatever fiasco is happening up there. For a second our gazes meet.
She looks away.
I have no idea what that room is going to feel like tomorrow. That’s the part I can’t stop turning over.