5. Katerina
Chapter five
Katerina
I’ve never sat at a rickety outdoor café table at midnight without secretly wanting to clean the powdered sugar. Tonight, I don’t care about the mess at all.
That’s the first item on my mental list of surprises.
We’re gathered at a tiny café near Jackson Square, all of us scrunched around a mismatched set of metal chairs and a table that’s wobbling dangerously.
The overhead string lights flicker, and a warm night breeze occasionally rattles the café’s menu boards.
I can hear the faint echo of distant horns, some nightlife band probably finishing their last set.
At the center of the table: a large wire basket lined with paper, brimming with beignets.
I watch Lexi tear into one, powdered sugar drifting onto her lap.
She doesn’t care. Sofia’s rummaging in her purse for something, lip balm maybe.
Casey is holding her camera above the table, snapping photos from an artsy overhead angle.
Skye’s shifting a sugar-dusted napkin around, trying to keep her blouse clean.
And Bex… she’s just leaning back, sipping café au lait from a chipped porcelain cup, comfortable in a space that’s borderline chaotic.
Her jacket’s draped on the back of her chair.
She’s wearing a black T-shirt with a screen-printed design I can’t quite make out.
I notice a swirl of color on her upper arm, near the sleeve edge.
Another tattoo, presumably. She’s almost never without them, but I can’t see the details in the low cafe lighting.
I should probably look away instead of mentally cataloging her ink.
But I don’t.
Instead, I add that to my list: the way I keep noticing her. The way I’m not making myself stop.
Sofia glances up. “Kit, are you sure you don’t want another coffee?”
I wave a hand. “I’m fine. I’m already buzzing from that last cup.”
She laughs. “Suit yourself.”
My eyes flick to the powdered sugar drifting from Lexi’s beignet to the tabletop. Perfectly content to let it flurry. That’s item number three on my list: I’m not fussing over the table.
Sofia and Lexi are mid-laugh at something nonsensical. Skye is trying to parse out the check, even though no one wants her to. Casey’s flipping through camera previews. Then Lexi, forever the fearless question-asker, turns to Bex with a bright-eyed grin.
“So,” Lexi says, pushing sugar-smeared plates aside, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your tattoos. You have, like, a million. Do you remember your first one?”
“Of course,” Bex answers, not missing a beat. “I was nineteen and stupid about the design. A friend did it in a sketchy basement. I had to get it touched up later because the line work was so rough. I mostly forget it’s there. On my ankle.”
She says it with an easy humor, like she’s used to fielding these questions.
Lexi’s eyes widen. “Wait, you have early questionable ink?”
Bex grins. “Don’t we all?”
Skye clears her throat, mock-prim. “I don’t. This is me, pristine.” She gestures at her bare arms.
Casey laughs. “Don’t jinx yourself. You’re about to get something this weekend, right?”
Skye shrugs, a slight twinkle in her eye. “We’ll see.”
Sofia sets her coffee down. “Okay, so what about the rest of your tattoos, Bex? The ones that actually turned out great. Didn’t you design half of them yourself?”
Bex tugs the sleeve of her T-shirt higher, revealing the swirl I noticed earlier.
It’s a stylized feather pattern with subtle shading and some geometric lines around it.
The shape arcs from her shoulder to mid-bicep.
“This is from a flash sheet I drew up in my first year apprenticing. It’s not perfect, but it’s got sentimental value.
My mentor let me ink it on myself at the end of a shift, which was either extremely trusting or extremely irresponsible. Possibly both.”
Lexi whistles. “That’s bold.”
Bex nods. “Apprenticeship was basically cleaning stations until two in the morning, drawing designs until my wrist cramped, and trying not to cry when my mentor said I didn’t have a future in the business.
She told me I’d never be precise enough.
So I spent two years practicing line work until I could do it in my sleep. ”
There’s a beat of silence, then Bex shrugs. “Worked out okay in the end.”
I feel a pang of admiration. She’s being casual about it, but that sounds brutal. I can’t help picturing Bex alone at those long tables, scrubbing equipment and drafting flash sheets under flickering lights. The image is oddly vivid.
Casey lifts her camera again, capturing Bex in mid-reminisce. “That’s intense,” Casey remarks. “Do you think that mentor would still say the same thing about you?”
Bex smirks. “Not these days. She actually sent me a text last year congratulating me on my shop expansion. Life’s funny like that.”
Lexi rests her chin on her hand, enthralled. “And the one on your collarbone? The star thing?”
Bex’s hand drifts to the edge of her collar. “That one’s from Nico. The night before I moved back to Brooklyn. We were up late, drinking cheap beer, and I said I wanted something simple. So they whipped out a machine and we did it right then.”
“Close friend, right?” Sofia chimes in, inhaling another beignet.
“Yeah. Met Nico in Brooklyn during my first apprenticeship. They moved back to New Orleans and opened a shop. We stayed in touch.”
The conversation circles around, but my attention stays locked on this window into Bex’s life. She doesn’t talk about it like it’s some harrowing story. She’s just matter-of-fact, like this is what she had to do to reach her goal.
I catch myself leaning in, so I fold my hands in my lap. My curiosity about her, this entire side of her I’ve never truly considered, flutters in my chest.
And then I hear my own voice: “Did your parents know how serious you were about it before you told them you wanted to apprentice?”
The question slips out, surprising me. I don’t normally ask personal questions.
Bex’s reaction is subtle. She pauses, not offended but maybe a hair cautious. The others quiet down, sensing the shift.
“My mom and dad knew from day one,” Bex says eventually, choosing her words.
“I was always scribbling designs. I told them I wanted to do it professionally, and I think they assumed it was a phase. Sort of kept waiting for me to snap out of it and pick a ‘real’ career, with a diploma and a job title they could brag about.”
She shrugs, eyes lowered. “When it became obvious I was all-in, they didn’t argue as loudly anymore, but it’s not like they embraced the idea. They still don’t, really. It’s more that they’ve accepted a ceasefire. I do my thing, they do theirs, we don’t talk about it much.”
Sofia sets a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder. “They’ll come around. Someday.”
Bex’s expression says she’s not exactly convinced. “It’s okay. I’m mostly at peace with it. Sometimes I wish it was different, but I also know who they are. They have a certain idea of what success looks like. Tattoos and odd hours in a Brooklyn studio isn’t it.”
I feel a tug in my throat that I can’t quite name. “I… get that,” I say softly, leaning forward.
She lifts her gaze, curiosity stirring.
I hesitate. I’m not used to volunteering details about my own upbringing, especially not in front of a group.
But the others are watching me now, so I can’t duck and run.
“My parents have a script for what life should be, too,” I continue.
“It’s not about tattoos. More about appearances and how respectable we look to their circles.
My father’s side has old New England money, which means a lot of… unspoken rules.”
Skye nods sympathy. Lexi is mid-bite but listening closely.
Bex looks at me, her eyes critical but not unkind. Like she’s recalculating something. “So your folks want you to keep everything neatly contained?”
“That’s a polite way of putting it,” I say with a thin laugh. “They’re not hateful or anything. They just want a version of me that maybe never really existed.”
I leave it there. I’ve already said the longer version of this once tonight, on a dance floor, to the same person now watching me across a basket of beignets. She knows what’s underneath it. I can tell by the way she doesn’t ask.
She exhales. “We really do have some overlapping stuff.”
Her tone is gentle, no teasing. I nod. “I guess we do.”
The conversation settles into a quieter space. Sofia and Lexi glance between us, but neither interrupts. Casey sets her camera down, maybe sensing this isn’t the moment for photos. Skye discreetly sips her drink.
It amazes me that the swirl of Bourbon Street and the earlier rowdiness aren’t part of this moment. Right now, it feels like we’re in a small pocket of honesty, surrounded by the sleepy hush of midnight in a city that’s never fully asleep.
It’s not flirting. Well, maybe it is, but it’s also something else. Something more like recognition.
Finally, Lexi, bless her unstoppable energy, snaps us out of the hush with a dramatic sigh. “Ugh, I love beignets so much,” she proclaims, then peers over the basket. “We need a round two, right? Or should we show some mercy on our waistlines?”
Sofia cackles. “No mercy. I’m going to regret nothing.”
She waves over an employee, who’s only half paying attention, to order more. Meanwhile, Skye tries to wave him off, but it’s too late. Another batch is in the works.
I sneak a look at Bex again. She meets my eyes for half a second, and there’s a faint tug at the corners of her mouth. Neither of us says anything else.
We walk back to the hotel in a meandering line, the air thicker now, the night older.
Jackson Square is mostly empty except for a few couples strolling and a street musician plucking at a guitar.
The lights at St. Louis Cathedral cast long shadows across the pavement.
I can still smell powdered sugar lingering on everyone’s clothes.