28. Bex #2
Kit's breath catches, but she nods. "And I'm traveling by midday, back to Boston for a new event. Then I have phone calls with potential documentary fellowships. It's everything is happening so fast." A nervous laugh bubbles up, cut off quickly.
I flick my gaze down to the license on the chair. "Then let's give it space. Let's give ourselves some time. But you hold on to that document. Because it's as real as this." I squeeze her hand. "I'll check in with you. We'll talk. Not hide."
Kit's eyes open again, shining with a tremulous kind of hope. "That works," she says hoarsely.
Gently, I withdraw my hand, turning to pick up the license from the chair. I place it on the small table that once held the guest book. Then I look at Kit. "Again, I'm not forcing you to wave it in anyone's face. But do me one favor: don't bury it like it's contraband."
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Deal."
I inhale, stepping back. My entire body is wound tight, adrenaline spiking. I want to kiss her, to reaffirm everything. But something about the atmosphere, this incomplete resolution, makes it clear that might push too hard. That might be next time. Time and space. Don't corner her.
I find my voice, gentler now. "I'll let you finish your final walkthrough. I assume you're double-checking those leftover flowers, right?"
Kit lets out a breathy laugh. "Yes. One more pass. A last look at everything. It's ridiculous, but I always do it."
I offer a half smile. "I know." I start for the door, then pause. Torn. I turn back, retrieving the folded license from the table. Kit's eyes widen, unsure. Without speaking, I hold it out again.
This time, she accepts it into her palm. Slowly, carefully, she tucks it into the cover of her notebook resting on another chair. My chest floods with relief at that small sign of acceptance.
Stepping away, I reach the threshold. I glance over my shoulder: Kit stands alone in the dimly lit space, the garland drooping on the arbor behind her, the lake beyond the window picking up the last of the twilight.
The overhead bulbs are still off, so the scene is tinted with shadows and softness.
She looks at me with an expression so full of emotion that I have to swallow hard.
"Take the time you need," I say quietly. "I mean it."
Kit nods, lips parted as if about to speak. She doesn't. I slip out into the corridor, letting the door click behind me.
The quiet follows me down the hallway. Outside, the sky has deepened to a rich navy.
I notice staff members stepping out to hook the extension cables, likely to turn the Christmas lights on.
I pause near the end of the path, hearing the soft click of bulbs coming to life across the property.
One by one, the red and green points glimmer in the darkness, mirrored by the lake's surface.
I let out a shaky breath. I've done what I came to do: shown Kit the license, reminded her this is real, let her know I have no intention of ignoring it. I've also given her space, trusting that maybe she can come to a braver conclusion on her own.
Was it enough? I don't know. I only know I couldn't force a story that would, by nature, require us both to choose it openly.
Shoving my hands in my jacket pockets, I walk back toward my cottage. If I had the emotional energy, I might join the staff at the back porch bar for a final round of whatever they have leftover from the wedding. But the pit in my stomach tells me I can't handle more socializing tonight.
Halfway to the cottage, I glance behind me.
The entire inn is strung with Christmas lights, still bright even though the big day is past and the crowds are gone.
The reflection on the lake is oddly beautiful, reminding me of that first night of possibility on Bourbon Street.
I let out a half laugh at my own sentimentality.
I've never been one for sappy metaphors.
But the sight tugs at me for all the reasons I can't quite name.
Time. That's what I offered Kit. Patience.
But how long will I wait? I think of my father, who turned his coffee cup and said "Huh," and then actually let me live my truth.
I think of my mother's soft question: Is the person good to you?
I think of how I'd answered yes, meaning it fully.
Because even in the worst moments, Kit is good.
Attentive, thoughtful, sometimes terrified, but never cruel.
And that's enough to keep me in this, for now. I trust that we aren't done. Not by a long shot.
When I reach my cottage, I climb the steps and let myself in, flipping on the lamp instead of stopping at the door.
My duffel sits on the bed, half zipped. I set tomorrow's clothes aside, double-checking I have all the cords for my phone and tablet.
The routine of packing steadies me, giving my restless hands something tangible to do.
An hour passes. I realize I haven't eaten dinner, but I can't muster the appetite.
I kick off my shoes and drop onto the small sofa by the window instead of the bed, pulling my sketchbook from the side pocket of my duffel out of habit more than intention.
My mind keeps circling: Kit's face last night, tight with alarm.
Kit's face this evening, holding the license and saying, I'm not trying to diminish it.
The hush of that New Orleans officiant pronouncing us married.
Sofia's text from earlier, I love you, sis. Let me know if you need anything.
I flip the sketchbook open to a blank page and start drawing without deciding to, the way I always do when my hands need something to hold instead of my phone.
A vintage camera takes shape under the pencil, lines instinctively finding the same proportions I gave Kit's wrist piece, except bigger this time, more detail in the shutter mechanism, a longer strap curling off the edge of the page like it belongs to something wearable, permanent, whole.
I study the result. A camera reminiscent of the one on Kit's skin, only enhanced, layered with a sense of depth.
I imagine how it would look as a full piece, something that spans an entire forearm.
A story in line and shade. For a second, I picture Kit with that bigger version, the line of her wrist extended up to her elbow, covered in swirling, expressive detail.
The thought sends a hum through my chest.
I don't close the notebook. I sit with the page open instead, studying the lines, a reminder of what I want to still be building toward. Not proof of anything. Just a possibility, drawn out where I can look at it, safe inside the sketchbook I never let anyone see.