6. Bex
Chapter six
Bex
Iwake up Saturday morning with a restless mind, which is annoying. Normally, after a night out, I go straight to bed, pass out, and greet the next day without last night’s conversations cluttering my head.
This time, I’m cluttered.
I rub my eyes, trying to remember the last time I woke up with someone else’s words echoing in my ears.
Doesn’t happen. But right now, I keep hearing Kit’s voice.
Specifically, that quiet admission about her family’s expectations, something about them wanting a version of her that might never exist.
I blink at the ceiling fan overhead. The hotel room is standard: softly patterned walls, heavy drapes, slightly lumpy pillows. There’s a faint rumble from outside as early traffic navigates the French Quarter’s narrow streets.
I pull myself up and pad over to the small balcony, sliding the door open. The morning air is warm and thick, not quite scorching yet. It’s still only around eight o’clock, the city not fully awake. Perfect time to grab coffee.
I gather my phone, slip on a T-shirt and cutoff shorts, and head downstairs.
The hotel lobby is fairly empty, aside from a lone staff member behind the desk and one guest sipping coffee by a window.
I nod politely, exit onto the sidewalk, and walk half a block to a café that’s just propping its doors open.
I love New Orleans in the early hours. The streets are calmer. You can actually hear the hush that hides beneath the city’s usual noise. With a large iced coffee in hand, I return to the hotel, snag a corner table on the small courtyard balcony, and settle in.
Now I let my thoughts run.
Kit Bennett… She’s never been a complete stranger, but I always assumed I knew exactly how to place her.
Sofia’s friend from the wedding-planner world, the polite one who always had impeccable posture and a hint of dryness in her humor.
Over the years, I’d see her at holiday gatherings or dinners, offering to tidy up or arrange the buffet or something else that was helpful but not personal.
I thought that was the whole story.
Last night proved me wrong.
She holds tension in her shoulders, I noticed that ages ago.
But last night, I caught glimpses of something else: the way she let herself dance like she didn’t know the steps, the way she quietly admitted she’d made documentary videos in college.
The flash of vulnerability on her face when she said her father’s side wants her to be some outwardly perfect person.
I swirl my coffee, letting the ice rattle. Without meaning to, I’m recounting random details: how she looked with a smudge of powdered sugar on her dress, how she talked about wedding planning as a means to see real moments between people. That’s what got me. She’s after truth behind the stage.
I exhale. Maybe that’s why I keep thinking about it.
Because we share that weird desire for authenticity.
I put it into my tattoos, she once put it into her short films. We each found ourselves in more outwardly respectable positions, her as a wedding planner, me as a shop owner.
But at our cores, we want the messy, genuine stuff.
I rub my temple. This is an unusual amount of introspection for me.
A phone chime startles me. I check the screen. It’s Nico replying to my text from last night:
NICO: “All set, friend. Doors open whenever you want. We can do after 8 PM, give me heads up. :)”
I grin and type a quick response:
BEX: “Awesome, might bring 5 or 6 ppl. Thank you, you rock!”
Once that’s done, I stare at the weathered courtyard bricks, absentmindedly sipping coffee. My mind wanders back to Kit. She said no to a tattoo. She’s repeated that stance multiple times. And yet, I sense a slight crack in her boundary.
Am I imagining it?
Her first refusal sounded final last night. But near the end, it shifted to: “I’m not getting a tattoo,” in a more cautious tone. That’s subtle, but it’s there.
I don’t want to talk her into anything. That’s the thing I keep landing on.
I just keep picturing her standing at the edge of that shop tonight, watching everyone else choose something, and it bothers me.
Not because I need her in the chair. Because Kit standing outside a room she wants to be in feels like a waste, and I’ve never been good at watching waste.
If she says no again tonight, that’s the answer. But she should get to say it to a real question.
By the time I head upstairs, shower, and change, it’s close to nine.
I stroll down to meet the group for breakfast in the hotel dining area.
Morning wedding-party energy is subdued after a late night, but vibes are still positive.
Sofia’s sipping an enormous cup of coffee, Lexi’s complaining about a mild hangover, Casey’s editing photos on her phone, Skye’s flipping through some itinerary for the spa.
And Kit… She’s there too, at the far corner of the table, quietly presiding over a small stack of brochures for local tourist spots.
She’s wearing a crisp sleeveless blouse and fitted capris, hair pinned back clean.
She looks more awake than the rest of us, though there’s a softness in her posture that wasn’t there yesterday. Her shoulders aren’t as stiff.
When I plop down beside her, she lifts a brow. “Morning.”
I grin. “You look alarmingly awake.”
She smirks. “I actually slept. Miraculous.”
Sofia waves us over to the coffee carafe. “Get some if you want. The place ran out of those fancy syrups, though, so you’ll have to survive on plain cream and sugar.”
Lexi groans. “Tragedy.”
Kit stands, fixes herself a fresh cup, then slides back into her seat. I notice how she exudes a quieter energy now. She’s still checking on plans, but she’s less urgent about it.
As everyone picks at pastries and fruit, the conversation bounces around mundane morning topics: who nearly overslept, who’s got random soreness from dancing, which restaurant we might hit for lunch.
Then Lexi, stirring her orange juice with a straw, pipes up. “So, about tonight. Tattoo time, right? We going after the spa?”
The table hushes momentarily. Sofia nods. “We said after dinner, I think. Unless that’s too late for Nico?”
I jump in, eager. “No, they’re good. They said anytime after eight.”
Lexi whoops softly. “I’m pumped.”
Skye looks slightly queasy but nods. “I’m in for something small.”
Casey waves her phone. “I’ll document it.”
All eyes land on Kit. She sets her coffee down. “I’ll come keep an eye on you all. But I’m not—”
She stops, as if double-checking her wording.
I glance at her, letting a beat pass.
Lexi latches onto the pause. “You’re not… what? Gonna watch? Gonna judge us for inking our bodies forever?”
Kit’s eyes widen. “I’m not planning on judging. This is your choice, obviously. It’s all good.” She fiddles with the edge of a brochure. “I’m just not personally interested. That’s all.”
Her phrasing is gentler than the night before, a shift that I notice instantly. She’s said the same bottom line, no, but the tone is cautious, not final.
I take a bite of a croissant, hide a smile.
Sofia shrugs. “You do you, Kit. I’m honestly excited to see what the rest of us come up with. Bex said Nico has a big selection of flash designs.”
I nod, swallowing. “They do. Some really intricate stuff, plus simpler line art. You can check it out before committing.”
I say that last line to the table, but for one second Kit’s gaze meets mine, and I see something flicker. She looks away quickly.
There it is. She’s thinking about it. She’s not sure she’s allowed to.
The others move on, chatting about the spa reservations. I watch Kit from the corner of my eye. She’s sipping coffee, pretending the words flash designs didn’t land anywhere in particular.
When breakfast winds down, we decide to do a lazy morning. Some people want to shop, others want to nap. I’ve volunteered to wander the Quarter with a camera that Casey loaned me, even though I’m not a photographer, I can manage a few decent phone-level shots.
Kit heads off with Skye to confirm some wedding details for the ceremony, now three weeks out. The wedding date is creeping up on us, and we’re only half paying attention to that fact.
Around noon, I run into Kit again in the hotel hallway as we converge for a quick snack before the spa. I’m carrying a bag from a local vintage store, a half impulse purchase: a silly hat with feathers that Lexi dared me to buy. She’s been filming me wearing it, calling it My Fair Lady Redux.
Kit eyes the bag. “You’re wearing that to the wedding?” She tries to keep a straight face.
“Don’t tempt me,” I joke, pulling out the feathery brim. “It’s very tasteful, can’t you see?”
She snorts, then covers her mouth like she can’t believe she made that sound. A real laugh.
Another small ping in my chest. I like seeing her amuse herself spontaneously.
We chat for a few moments: how the day’s going, how Skye’s meltdown about the seating chart was averted. Kit’s phone pings with an email notification about a vendor. She glances at it, then shakes her head and stashes the phone away. “I’ll deal with that Monday,” she says, almost to herself.
“Look at you, ignoring wedding emails.”
Her cheeks color faintly. “It’s Sofia’s weekend. I can’t let work overshadow that.”
I step closer, lowering my voice. “You should apply that logic to your entire life, not just weekends.”
She pauses, eyes flicking to mine. For a second, I think she might push back or roll her eyes. Instead, she gives a quiet sigh. “I know,” she says, so soft I can barely hear.
A longing feeling ties itself into a knot just under my ribs. I want to tease her more, but it doesn’t feel appropriate. She’s in a place of honesty, and I don’t want to overshadow that.