28. Bex
Chapter twenty-eight
Bex
Monday evening arrives with a quiet finality.
Clouds drift lazily over the Hollyvale Inn & Spa, filtering the sun into a muted glow.
Most wedding guests departed that morning, and the staff has begun the gentle process of returning the lawn to its ordinary state, rolling up table linens, storing extra chairs.
Even the once-vibrant Christmas décor, though still officially up, seems subdued compared to days prior.
A few bulbs have gone out, leaving small pockets of darkness in the garlands.
The faint hum of conversation floats from the main building, but it no longer sounds like a party.
It sounds like the exhale after the storm.
I stand on the porch of my cottage, rummaging through my duffel bag to finalize my packing for Tuesday.
I'm leaving early, because I have appointments waiting for me back in Brooklyn: clients who booked me months ago, a work schedule that doesn't pause for existential crises.
I should feel relief about returning to normalcy.
Instead, the knot in my stomach grows tighter.
I jam a pack of wet wipes into the front zipper and fiddle with the toiletry kit.
At some point, it got displaced under a pair of rolled-up shirts.
I tug it free and unzip it, double-checking I haven't forgotten anything.
Toothbrush, toothpaste, travel-sized bottles, hair ties.
And then, a small folded paper at the bottom.
Crisp around the edges, unsmoothed since the night in New Orleans.
My chest seizes. The marriage license.
I step onto the porch steps, away from the overhead lamp, heart pounding.
As if in a trance, I kneel and carefully unfold it.
The cheap printing from that late-night chapel is still stark, with a few coffee stains from the bar we'd gone to afterward.
Or maybe from days of traveling. I can't recall.
I trace the lines: Bex Russo. Katerina Bennett. Officiant signature. Date.
It's real. I've known that from the moment we left the chapel, half laughing, half frantic, stumbling into the wide streets.
But seeing it again in Hollyvale, after the wedding, makes it feel heavier.
Weighty in a way that merges two irreconcilable realities: that wild, impulsive vow in New Orleans and the structured, tidy everyday life we'd resumed here.
The difference is, that vow has only grown in significance. Not shrunk.
I slowly sit on the wooden step, the license draped over my knee.
My mind reels with memories: how I teased Kit about being spontaneous, how her eyes shone with an odd mixture of excitement and fear.
I remember the officiant's voice, the quick exchange of rings, the shaky giggles we both let out after the pronouncement.
I remember thinking, I can't possibly be doing this, only to realize I wanted to.
I wanted it more than anything I'd done before.
Now we've had an entire week in forced proximity, and the feelings haven't gone away.
They've become bigger, more complicated.
Fear, heartbreak, arguments, longing, all tangled up in an unstoppable knot.
I think about my conversation with Kit on the path last night, and my chest squeezes.
I walked away telling her to take some time, but that wasn't exactly how I felt.
I want answers. I want to know she won't keep us hidden forever.
Yet I can't force it. I tried confrontation, and it led to a cold standoff. Maybe Kit requires something gentler. Another chance to see that this wasn't a mistake. That maybe we could figure out how to claim it.
My eyes flick to the horizon. The sun slides lower, painting the edges of the lake with orange and gold. Tomorrow we'll both be gone, Kit back to her event schedule, me to my tattoo clients. Another round of real life. And if we leave without resolving this, who knows what happens?
Uneasiness roils in my gut. I fold the license with trembling fingers, pushing to a stand. A wave of clarity hits. I exhale through my nose. I'm done letting fear keep us in separate corners.
I stuff the license carefully back into the toiletry kit, zip my duffel, slide my arms into a denim jacket, and make my way across the lawn toward the event space, where I'm willing to bet Kit is doing one last private walkthrough.
She loves those rituals, one last inspection to confirm nothing was left undone.
The door is unlocked. I push it open and step inside, the space dim except for the faint glow from the windows on the leftover garland, rows of stacked chairs along the wall, the sweet scent of old roses from the once-lush arrangements.
There, near the arbor, stands Kit. She wears a fitted black top with slim trousers, hair pinned partially back. She might be reviewing the corner of the room, or just standing. Her silhouette outlined against the window. The sight makes my chest tighten.
As soon as I walk in, Kit looks my way. Something flickers in her eyes: surprise, nerves, maybe longing. The air between us feels charged. I swallow hard, stepping forward. My palms are damp. Maybe I should have planned better. Too late now.
Kit says softly, "Are you all right?"
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. I come closer, stopping half a dozen paces away. Then I hold out the folded license in my right hand. Her gaze drops to it, and I can practically see the tension coil in her frame.
Kit doesn't take it. Instead, she closes her eyes, letting out a shaky exhale. "Bex."
My heart hammers. "I know, you're going to say you're not ready. That you don't know what to do next, how to frame it for friends or family." I swallow. "But we have a lot of words for it, actually. We got married. It happened. It's legally recognized, even if we keep it hidden forever."
Kit's face goes through a rapid series of expressions: fear, guilt, longing, that controlled calm she uses as a mask. Finally, she says hoarsely, "I'm not. I don't think it was a mistake. I just."
"Then stop acting like one." The words come out quietly, not cruel.
Just the plain truth. My voice trembles, though, because I'm terrified this might push her further away.
"I told my parents about us this morning.
" I quickly clarify, "Not the marriage. Just that I've met someone. I can't keep stuffing it in a corner."
Kit's jaw tightens. "That wasn't what you and I agreed on. You said we'd figure this out together before telling anyone."
I take a breath, remembering my father's quiet acceptance, my mother's gentle question: Is the person good to you?
I hadn't regretted telling them. In fact, it felt like stepping onto solid ground for once.
"I know. Maybe I should have waited. But it felt too big to keep to myself.
" I pause. "It's like we're pretending we can shrink what we did just by not saying it out loud.
But that's not working. You know it's not. "
Kit's eyes shimmer, though the room is dim.
"I'm not trying to diminish it. I'm terrified," she finishes in a hush.
"I don't have a language for explaining that I ran off with you in New Orleans and ended up with a ring.
My parents aren't exactly open-minded about me changing careers, let alone me.
" She trails off, pressing her lips together.
"Let alone you being with a self-employed artist who rarely thinks about the future?" I supply, a wry twist to my mouth.
Kit shakes her head. "No. That's not. God, Bex, that's not my worry.
I'd face that if I knew for sure we're in this together, that we have something tangible.
But I can't piece together a plan. I've never done something so drastically out of order.
You see how I plan everything. I can't just stamp this into place.
I need time to figure out how to be brave. "
My chest aches, hearing that. I step forward, bridging the gap.
I set the folded license on one of the stacked chairs.
That symbolic gesture is half purposeful, placing the damn thing physically between us like the unavoidably real item it is.
Then I turn back to Kit, forcing a gentler tone.
"Time. Right. I told you last night to take it.
I meant it. But I also need you to know, this is real for me.
I didn't just get caught in some drunken tailspin.
I'm not sorry it happened. I'd do it again. "
Kit's breath quivers. "You would?"
I nod. "Yeah." I manage a small grimace. "I'd prefer a less chaotic approach next time, but yes, I would. And I need to know if you would, too, or if you'd run in the other direction."
Kit stares at me, eyes searching. "I'm not running," she says softly. "I'm just stuck. Trying to figure out how to handle everything without breaking myself, or you, in the process."
Silence. The only sound is the faint hum of the air vent overhead.
I reach out, ghosting my fingertips over her wrist. My heart pounds at the contact, at the closeness.
"I'm here," I whisper. "We can figure it out.
We don't have to announce anything tomorrow.
But we can't keep calling it a mistake or a secret like it's shameful. That'll destroy us."
Kit's eyes close, shoulders visibly trembling. At last she lets a hand cover mine, pressing gently. "I don't think it's shameful," she murmurs, voice raw. "I've never thought that. I promise."
We stand like that, the weight of the stacked chairs and dismantled florals around us, relics of a wedding that ironically has nothing on our own bigger secret.
Tears burn at the back of my eyes. I swallow them, choosing composure.
I say quietly, "I'm leaving tomorrow. Early.
I have to get back to Brooklyn for client appointments. "