29. Katerina #2
Proud. My chest tightens at the word. I want so badly to let it be enough, to feel the warmth of it, but something in me stiffens. I just nod.
My mother glances to the hallway. "Dinner should be ready soon. Let's head to the table."
We proceed with calm efficiency. My mother leads, I follow, my father trails. A well-orchestrated line, each piece in place.
The formal dining room is immaculate: cream walls, tasteful artwork, the big chandelier overhead. On the table, an arrangement of fresh hydrangeas forms a centerpiece. I remind myself to notice the details so I can mention them later. My mother likes to know that her efforts are recognized.
We sit. My mother serves. I feel the same old pang of memory: my entire childhood, Sunday dinners followed this careful choreography. "Katerina," my mother says, once everyone is settled. "We haven't gotten to see you the past few weeks. You must have been so busy."
"Yes," I answer. "Wrapping the wedding, handling a few smaller events, traveling back and forth." I leave out the upheaval, the nights staring at my phone, the ache in my chest whenever I think about that marriage license in my nightstand.
My father slices into his chicken. "We heard from the Caspers last week, they're hosting two engagements in the spring. Might that be in your sights?"
My mother gives a quick nod. "We mentioned you, of course. They're already planning to contact you when they finalize a date."
I take a polite bite of roasted potatoes. "I appreciate that," I say, my voice steady. "I'd be happy to talk with them about it."
My father nods, satisfied. "We know you'll do an excellent job. You always do."
The air pulses with the typical Sunday quiet, as though the table itself insists we keep it neat. For a moment I almost relax, remembering how easy it is to slip back into wedding-planner autopilot. Until my mother places her fork down and says, "What was the couple like for the Hollyvale event?"
I set my napkin in my lap. "They were wonderful. Jordan Kerne is the sibling of the resort manager. Very calm. And Sofia Russo." I pause. "They're both in hospitality, so we had plenty in common on planning. The day itself was lovely."
My father leans forward. "Sofia Russo. Italian?"
I offer a measured nod. "Yes, her family came from Italy originally, but she grew up in Brooklyn. First-generation, as far as I know."
My mother lifts her eyebrows. "How wonderful for them," she says, a subtle finality to the statement. The tone has a faint echo of that distance I've been hearing my entire life, an acknowledgment iced with neutrality, like praising a nice person who lives on an entirely different planet.
Something twists in my stomach. I wonder how I've never fully named that tone until now. I recognize it now for what it is: a practiced politeness that draws a line between "us" and "them," the kind of line that's invisible if you never stood on the other side of it.
I swallow. "Yes," I say, keeping my voice even. "They're a close-knit family."
My mother nods, as though making a mental note: close-knit, from Brooklyn, how interesting, darling, let's move on.
My father clears his throat. "So what's next on your calendar, Katerina?"
This is the question I'd been rehearsing an answer to for days. I take a breath, set down my fork, and look at my water glass. "I have two fall weddings booked in Boston. But after that," I say, hearing the tension in my own voice, "I'm considering a new project."
My mother glances up from her plate. "What kind of project?"
I try not to shift in my seat, but I do anyway. "I'm looking into documentary film fellowships." I pause one half second for composure. "It's something I've been considering for a while."
Silence.
The pause stretches with a new kind of weight, as if my words have rearranged the table's atmosphere. My father has put down his fork entirely. My mother looks at me as though I'd just said I was planning to join a traveling circus.
"A career change?" my mother asks lightly, but the tension in that single question is unmistakable.
I force myself not to abandon it. "I'm not certain. I'd still keep the wedding planning business going, at least to start. But there's a film program in New York that's been on my mind for some time. I wondered if that might dovetail with some of the storytelling aspects I enjoy about planning."
I glance between them. My father's eyes narrow slightly, the corners creasing in a way that signals doubt. "Is there money in that?" he asks.
Everything in my chest feels compressed. "I'm not sure," I say honestly.
It's the wrong answer. I can sense him recalculate. The Bennetts never liked "not sure." They like data-driven decisions. Guaranteed returns.
My mother resumes cutting her chicken, but slowly. "Well," she says, "I suppose there's no harm in exploring. Still, you've built a wonderful reputation in wedding planning. Might it be risky to scatter your focus?"
She keeps her tone mild, but I hear the subtext. A leftover line from childhood. Are you being impulsive? Are you following the plan you set out for yourself?
I chew a piece of chicken I barely taste. "I'm exploring it carefully," I manage. "No final decisions yet."
My father clears his throat. "Hmm. Keep us posted, I guess."
And just like that, the conversation about film is finished.
We move on to talk of other things: which families in their social sphere have gotten engaged, which charity events are coming up, the neighbor's extension remodel.
I contribute my script: "That sounds lovely," "Oh, that's interesting," "Yes, the Foresters do frequent that gallery.
" But I keep one part of my mind circling documentary film: the quiet that entered the room the moment I announced it, the swift pivot away.
I question if maybe I should have saved that piece of news for a less formal setting. But then, when would that have been? My parents thrive in formalities. Quick lunches or phone calls always default to wedding talk with a side of "Are you staying busy?"
It only confirms what I already know. If I want to do this, truly do it, I have to let go of needing their absolute approval. I have to want it enough on my own.
An echo of Bex's voice flickers in my head. My family has opinions about me every day. I'm still a tattoo artist.
How different. The statement had been so cavalier and free, and at the same time it had a resilience I realize I envy. Bex just keeps going. She doesn't wait for perfect acceptance or permission.
Now, in my parents' dining room, my envy sharpens. I stare down at my plate, pushing the last few carrots around. The room feels cooler than it had twenty minutes ago.
Dinner ends with a polite suggestion that "we'll have coffee in the sitting room," but I find myself claiming a time constraint. I say I need to get home to finalize some notes, like a well-trained adult child excusing herself from the table.
My parents' expressions soften into something like disappointed acceptance, the same expression they'd used when I was in high school and wanted to skip dessert to finish homework.
My mother gives me a light hug at the door. "Well, it was lovely to see you. Don't let it be three weeks again, Katerina."
"I won't," I promise in that practiced voice.
My father pats my shoulder. "Drive safe."
Then the door closes, and I exhale so forcefully I feel the chill of the evening air against my teeth. I get in my car, turn on the ignition, and let the dull roar of the engine fill the quiet.
The drive back to my apartment is subdued.
My mind replays the moment of quiet after I mentioned documentary film, how quickly they'd glided onto another topic.
I also think about Bex. It's been nine days since I last saw her in that reception room, the frustration, the heartbreak, the final moment of her eyes locking on my face before she walked out.
I'd gotten so used to her presence, her quick remarks, her invitation to live a bit less carefully.
She'd teased me once in New Orleans about letting go, that if I could just stop color-coding for a second I might actually have fun.
It had irritated me at the time. Now I recognize it as an odd compliment.
She saw more in me than the practiced professional.
Back home, I go straight to the nightstand drawer where the marriage license waits, and don't open it. Instead I pick up my phone. Five flicks of the thumb to Bex's contact. She'd texted me once, five days ago: Let me know when you want to talk. I never answered, because I didn't have the answer.
I hover over the screen for a good minute, feeling the impulse to call. If I dialed, what would I even say? That I missed her? That I'm stuck in a life that prioritizes composure, and maybe, maybe, I want out?
I set the phone down on the charger instead.
Don't dial, don't text. My mind keeps spiraling through labeled sections, guilt, fear, regret, some faint buried hope, and I decide I don't have to pick one tonight.
Whatever this is, it doesn't get solved by staring at a phone until my eyes ache.
I open my laptop instead, pull the fellowship applications back up, and start filling in the sections I'd left blank.
If I can't say the true thing to Bex yet, I can at least say it to a form.
This is what I want. This is the story I want to tell.