10. Bex
Chapter ten
Bex
I’m supposed to be heading out like everyone else, but I can’t quite push my feet to do it. My ears are still ringing with the rush of shared laughter and that moment, God, that moment, when Kit’s mouth met mine.
I walk Sofia to the car, mostly to confirm she’s stable enough to handle the ride with Lexi, who’s definitely more intoxicated.
Sofia is uncharacteristically giddy, winking at me as she climbs into the back seat.
She shuts the door, giving me a parting wave through the window that basically says, “We’re going to talk about this tomorrow, right? ”
Sure. That’s going to be a fun conversation.
The driver pulls away, taillights vanishing into the narrow street. I stand there, night humidity pressing into my skin, a faint headache forming from too many loud hours. But it’s not the headache that keeps me rooted. It’s the thought that Kit is still inside.
I spin on my heel, head back through the open doorway. Nico is up front now, flipping switches, pulling down the metal grate that covers the large window. They wave me off. “I’m closing up, no worries.”
At the back of the shop, standing near the workbench, is her. Kit.
She’s upright, posture a little stiff, eyes fixed on the small tray of seltzer cans left over. Her phone rests facedown on the counter. One of the lights from above casts a mild glow on her hair.
The inside of my mouth tastes like stale cider, but I’m more aware of the memory of her kiss. I break the silence first. “Hey,” I say, voice echoing in the nearly empty shop. “You waiting for a ride?”
She glances up, then picks up her phone. “I might. But I’d prefer to let everyone else get back first. I want to confirm they’re safe.”
That is the most Kit thing to do. I smile, stepping closer. “Human spreadsheet to the rescue.”
She almost smiles, eyes flicking down to her bandaged wrist, then up again. “Exactly.”
The hush between us is thick. The city’s noise drifts in faintly: car engines, a slurred shout from some late-night reveler. Nico picks that moment to vanish into a hallway, presumably to lock the back door. They’re giving us space.
I set my jacket on the counter, folding my arms across my chest. My gaze catches Kit’s again. She seems… unsettled, but not in a bad way. Maybe in that way you get after you’ve just done something you never thought you’d do.
I think about that kiss. My cheeks warm. I wonder if we should talk about it, or if we should let it lie for now.
Then Kit speaks, glancing toward the half-open door. “You know, I’ve never actually walked around this city at night. Not in any real sense. I came here once for a conference, but I was stuck in the convention center the whole time.”
I stare at her, half-appalled. “You came to New Orleans and spent all your time indoors?”
She shrugs, looking slightly guilty. “I was younger, uncertain about venturing out. Plus, I had early meetings every day.” She keeps her voice neutral, but there’s a tug at the edge that feels like regret. Then she adds quietly, “I don’t want to go back yet.”
She’s not flirting. She’s not trying to be coy. She literally means she’s not ready to return to the hotel or slip back into a routine. The city outside is humming, and inside her, there’s a hum too, I can see it.
My heart thumps. “You want a tour?” I ask, trying to keep it casual. “I know the actual city. Not just Bourbon. There’s more. A lot more.”
She lifts her eyes, that same intensity from earlier flaring again. “Yeah. I do.”
We don’t tell Nico or anyone else. Through the open door, I glimpse two rideshares pulling away. No one left to question us. The impulse is so powerful and so immediate, I don’t overthink it. I just angle my body, letting Kit see that I’m heading out, fully expecting her to follow.
She does. She grabs her purse, tucks her phone away, and stands straighter. “Let’s go.”
I wave to Nico, who’s busy with the back door still. They call a goodnight, oblivious to the side quest we’ve embarked on. Or maybe they do know, but they’re too polite to interrupt.
Kit steps outside first, and I catch a glimpse of the city lighting on her face. The lamppost overhead bleaches one side of her hair in golden edges. My chest squeezes uncomfortably. Her face is set, purposeful, but I sense an undercurrent of excitement.
I grin. “Get ready,” I whisper, leading her away from Nico’s door. “I’m showing you the real Marigny.”
She exhales, a small laugh slipping. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“Too late,” I say, hooking a thumb in my back pocket. “Let’s do it anyway.”
We walk.
The night air is thick but not suffocating. We’re a few blocks off the main drag, where old houses lean close to the sidewalks, balconies draped with ivy or laundry or leftover Mardi Gras beads. Streetlamps flicker. Music from a corner bar seeps through the cracks in one battered door.
Kit strides beside me, glancing around, her eyes taking in every detail. I can practically see her mind filing away the shape of the wrought-iron fences, the chipped paint on a blue shotgun house, the graffiti scrawled on a corner.
She’s silent for the first block. Finally, she says, “It’s so… alive. Even when it’s quiet.”
I nod, stuffing my hands in my jacket pockets. “That’s what I like about it. There’s always some undercurrent, day or night. If you know where to look.”
She gives me a sideways glance. I catch a flicker of that careful look she had in the shop after the kiss. It makes my heart do a small flip. I distract myself by pointing out a place across the street, an old bar that used to be a pharmacy.
“You see that green building?” I say. “Used to serve as a halfway point for traveling musicians. They’d crash upstairs. Still has some original architecture from the 1890s.”
She squints. “It looks abandoned.”
“Yeah, they only open every other Tuesday for a jam session. It’s practically a secret handshake. You’d never guess, right?”
“That’s so…” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I love that.”
I grin. “Come on. There’s a corner store up ahead that sells the best improvised po’boys at midnight if the cook’s in a good mood.”
She actually brightens. “I am starving.”
We cover a few more blocks, the sidewalk cracked beneath our feet. Occasionally, she lifts her left wrist like she’s checking it’s still wrapped. I notice the way her step slows each time she does it. My mind flickers to the memory of that needle pressed against her skin, her gaze locked on me.
The memory of the kiss hits next. The snug warmth of her lips, the slow tumble from silly dare to genuine closeness.
I clear my throat, sliding my attention to the battered street sign overhead. “You okay?” I ask softly.
“Yes,” she says, meeting my eyes. “Just… a lot to process.”
I get that. I deflect with a half-smile. “I guess you do ‘improvisation’ now, huh?”
She huffs a small laugh, looking down at her feet. “I guess so.” A beat passes. Then she lifts her head, voice quieter. “And the city doesn’t care if I planned for it or not. It just… is.”
I nod. “Exactly. That’s part of why I love it. Nobody here needs you to be anything, you know?”
Kit’s gaze lingers on me, her expression unreadable. I can guess what she’s thinking, though: She wants that freedom, or at least a taste of it.
I lead her down Desire Street, yeah, that’s the real name, and point out the old streetcar tracks embedded in the pavement. We pass a random brass quartet practicing on a porch. They wave, we wave back. It’s all normal for the Marigny, and I see Kit taking it in with that unconcealed awe.
Another block, we find the corner store.
The lights are still on, the sign half-flickering.
An older woman stands behind the counter, nodding at us.
I chat with her briefly, ask if the cook’s in.
She snorts, says he left an hour ago, so we buy a bag of Zapp’s chips and two cold sodas.
Not exactly the midnight meal I promised, but it’s sustenance.
Kit pops her soda open, leaning against the store’s outside wall. We’re the only ones around, aside from the occasional car passing. She smirks at me over the rim of the can. “You promised po’boys.”
I shrug. “Sorry. My local knowledge only goes so far. I guess we’ll keep wandering until we find something else. Or, you know, a bar that still does late-night eats.”
She nods, taking a sip, eyes traveling my face. “Let’s keep going.”
I gesture up the street, and we fall into step again. Something about the quiet intimacy of this walk sits differently in my body than anything else tonight. We’re not ignoring the earlier kiss exactly, but we’re also not naming it.
At the next intersection, I half step onto the road to check for traffic. That’s when I feel her hand slide lightly around my elbow, like she’s pulling me back from stepping into a potential hazard.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, releasing me as soon as the coast is clear.
“No, you’re good,” I reply, heart thumping.
Her hand. On my arm. Hardly an event. But my blood roars anyway.
We cross, guided by a flickering streetlamp. The city feels like it’s partially asleep, half-lulled by the humidity. Occasionally, we see a silhouette on a porch or hear someone’s radio drifting out a window. It’s the side of New Orleans that tourists rarely see.
Kit breaks the silence again. “Could we… maybe sit for a while? I’m a little footsore.”
She punctuates that by lifting her left foot, rotating her ankle. She’s wearing sandals that probably weren’t designed for extended nighttime strolling.
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s find a stoop or a bench.”
We stumble upon a small pocket park, just a corner with a bench under a magnolia tree. The branches loom overhead, the leaves glimmering in the faint glow from a single lamppost. Cut grass is damp beneath our feet.
Kit sits first. It’s a battered old wooden bench, creaking under her weight. I follow, leaving six inches of space between us. She sets the soda on the ground, drags a hand through her hair.
She exhales. The night air is warm, but not stifling. “This is nice,” she says softly.