31. Katerina #3
Maya doesn't pry further, but her eyes glitter with curiosity. "If you want me out of your hair tomorrow, I can make myself scarce."
"Take the day off," I say, not unkindly.
Maya watches me a moment longer. "All right. I'll be in town if you need me for moral support. Or if the cleaning mania gets worse."
I try not to laugh. "I'll survive."
I spend the rest of Friday finishing client sketches in the back office. But my mind keeps drifting to the conversation waiting for me. Each time I picture Kit walking through the door, my heart lurches. My pen skids across the paper, leaving lines that feel shaky, uncertain.
Finally I decide to distract myself in a different way.
I pull the black sketchbook from my bag, the one I've been scribbling in ever since Hollyvale, and find the page marked with the strip of washi tape: the camera piece, film reel elements tangled with vines in unexpected directions.
I like how it looks. Bold but intimate, the kind of piece that could fit on a forearm or maybe part of a shoulder.
I wonder if Kit would want to see it. The thought makes my body warm in an almost embarrassing way. Because what if she hated it? Or what if she loved it so much that all my buried feelings came rushing out at once?
I take out my phone and snap a photo of the drawing from three angles. One has better lighting, the other shows the detail of the reel's edges. I just want a record of it, or maybe to show it to Nico. I'm not sure.
But the act of photographing it makes me realize: it's good. Possibly the best thing I've put on paper in months. And that means something. Some of my best art has come out of a desire to capture what matters, or who matters.
When the shop finally closes that evening, I lock up, turn off the lights, and linger in the doorway. Tomorrow at noon, I'll have to face everything I've run from. I'll have to stand in front of Kit and decide if I'm still ready to fight for that insane, wonderful possibility.
I close my eyes, inhaling the faint city scent of burned coffee grounds and car exhaust. Brooklyn nights are always full of noise, but inside my head, everything feels still.
That night, in my apartment, I spread out on the couch with Delphi perched near my feet. I consider texting Kit something else, some clarifying line about how I'm not mad, or maybe a casual greeting to set the tone. But every time I unlock my phone, I freeze.
I'd said everything I needed at Hollyvale, right? I want this if you do, I want real if you do. I'd said it to her face. I'd walked out before hearing a response. Because I'd been afraid that her response would be an apology or an excuse.
But Kit is coming here. That means something, right?
I press my forehead to the cushion, letting Delphi nuzzle my hip. I think about Nico's voice: You might have to risk letting her see that you're still in this.
I'm still in it, all right. I can pretend to be cautious, but if I'm honest, the hope inside me has never left. It lurks in my sketchbook pages and my daydreams, in the memory of New Orleans neon lights.
I've seen that side of Kit, the one that lets loose and laughs and gets that slight crinkle at the corner of her eyes when I tease her.
The Kit who showed up to a random jazz club, letting the city's pulse seep in.
The Kit who grabbed my hand for those few beats that felt like dancing, even if we never quite found the right rhythm.
I want that. Want it so fiercely it makes my chest ache sometimes.
Still, caution has set up camp in my bones. I don't know how to do this half measure. If I open the door, it'll be all the way. So what if Kit is still telling herself it can never work? What if the documentary conversation turns us into some kind of awkward business arrangement?
I shake my head, scrubbing a hand over my face. I have to trust that tomorrow will bring clarity.
Saturday morning feels like a countdown clock ticking. I arrive at the shop early to turn on the lights and do a final pass of cleaning. The space is indeed spotless, my reflection shining in the clean windows. I try to ignore how antsy I am, pacing the front area and adjusting the stools.
By eleven thirty, my nerves are wound tight.
I brew a fresh pot of coffee in the staff area, because if I have to face Kit, I might as well have caffeine.
I pour two cups, then realize maybe it's presumptuous to assume she'll want coffee.
I set one of them aside but keep it warm on the hot plate anyway.
The clock reads 11:56.
My phone buzzes with a text from Maya: Good luck, boss. Don't break anything.
I snort, type a quick thanks, and return my phone to my pocket. I lean against the counter, inhaling slow.
I picture how Kit might look walking through the door: polished and poised, probably wearing something structured in a neutral color. Maybe her hair pinned back. Her eyes scanning the shop in that precise, thoughtful manner, noticing details I never thought to look at closely.
In my memory, Kit's presence always feels like a hush before something major. Like that second of silence right before a needle touches skin. A tension that says pay attention, because something is about to change.
I swallow, feeling that tension coil in my own body.
At 11:59, I flip the sign on the door to Closed, not wanting random walk-ins. I stare out the glass front, the autumn sunlight catching on passing cars. Any minute now, Kit will appear.
And I'll have to stand there, face to face, and handle whatever comes next.
I breathe in. I breathe out.
The memory of that small chapel in New Orleans flickers vividly. I recall how my heart hammered when the officiant asked if we both took this vow. I'd said yes without hesitation. Kit said yes, too, in that moment that felt surreal. Then real life crashed in.
Now, standing behind my shop counter, I realize the vow is still there in spirit, hanging between us. We'd already said it, even if it was half a joke.
Was it half a joke?
I squeeze my eyes shut. No time to debate. I hear footsteps approach outside, a figure pausing at the door.
My pulse jumps. I push off the counter.
I'm stepping into the moment that might finally lead us both out of the labyrinth of half-truths. If I'm lucky, we'll be stepping into something real. If not, well, better to know now.
The handle turns.
I draw in one last steadying breath. "Game on," I say under my breath. Then the door opens, and everything shifts, just slightly, like the first intake of air before ink touches skin.