32. Katerina #2
I take a breath. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry for leaving things the way I did in that reception room. I read your note. I understood it, but I." I pause, trying to keep my composure. "I was overwhelmed. Confused. I didn't know how to let myself want something if I couldn't control every step."
Bex's shoulders tense imperceptibly. "Yeah, well," she murmurs, "I suppose neither of us handled it perfectly."
I feel a flutter of relief. At least she doesn't seem to be shutting me out.
I press on. "I've spent the last two weeks re-examining everything.
My job, my film ambitions, my relationships.
And I realized that picking the safe path hasn't made me happy.
Craving my parents' approval to the point of ignoring my own ambitions, or ignoring.
" I swallow. "Ignoring who I care about, that's not living. That's just staging."
The words tumble out more quickly than I intend, but the sense of relief is immediate. I breathe. "I don't want to do that anymore."
Bex watches me closely. "So you came here because you want real?"
I nod. "Yes," I say, voice catching. "I want real. I want to see if this, what we started in that insane weekend, might actually have a chance." I wet my lips. "I know we can't just wave a magic wand and fix everything. But I'm ready to figure it out if you still are."
My heart thumps so hard it hurts.
Bex's expression shifts in small increments: skepticism, hope, something intangible that might be vulnerability. She drops her gaze to the page again, then lifts it back to my face.
"How do I know you won't bail at the first sign of chaos?" she asks, not harshly, just carefully.
I place my hand on the folder, letting my fingertips brush the edge.
"Because I'm already putting my entire career on the line by proposing this documentary.
I'm stepping out of the safety net. My father asked me last week if there's money in film, and I said I didn't know.
That was basically an admission of defeat in my family's eyes.
" I give a small, unsteady laugh. "Yet here I am. "
A beat of charged stillness as that sinks in. Bex drums her fingers on the counter. I recognize the gesture: she does it whenever she mulls over a design or weighs whether to let a flirty remark pass her lips. A small, deliberate rhythm.
Finally, she lets her hand go still. "All right," she says. "So you're here trying to get honest about everything."
"Yes."
Bex tips her head, glancing around the shop as if debating her next words.
Then, in a quiet voice, she says, "I want that too.
The chance for real. I told you that in the reception hall, but I also left.
It was a preemptive exit. Nico called me out on it.
" She takes a breath. "I was afraid if you said no, it would be the final nail. So I took off first."
My eyes sting. "Okay," I say softly. "But we're both standing here now, right?"
Bex exhales. "Yeah." A slow smile ghosts across her face, tentative, as if still waiting to see if it's safe. "We are."
I dare a small step closer. The smell of antiseptic twines with the intangible warmth that clings to her T-shirt, or maybe that's just my imagination. I notice, again, the worn edge of her sleeve, how the cotton curls slightly from repeated washes.
My mind flashes to the rules I always give myself about personal space. I'm never to cross it unless invited. But here, I feel an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with guidelines.
"Do you have a moment?" I ask quietly. "I mean, do you have time to talk about all this. Above and beyond the documentary?"
Bex gives a short nod. "Maya's off for the day. No appointments. I made sure I wasn't going anywhere."
I swallow. "Maybe we could sit?" My voice sounds calmer than I feel.
Bex hesitates, then gestures to the pair of leather chairs in the small waiting area to the side. "Let's do it over there, yeah."
She comes out from behind the counter, and I notice how the dust motes in the air catch on her black T-shirt, the way the overhead light glints against the ring in her left ear.
Involuntary. Then I immediately tell myself I'm only noticing because I'm used to carefully curated aesthetics. This is just observational data.
But that's a lie I recognize in real time. I'm noticing because I want.
I force my breath to steady, stepping over to the chairs. Carefully, I place the folder on a small side table. Bex sits in the other chair, perched on the edge with her forearms on her knees.
I settle tentatively, crossing my legs at the ankles. For a moment we just look at each other. The quiet feels fragile in the wide-open shop.
I break the silence. "So. I guess we both know the broad strokes. There's a license in play, which is maybe the strangest sentence I've ever said out loud."
Bex lets out a low chuckle. "Trust me, it's even weirder living with it."
I chew the inside of my cheek. "I do want to talk about that.
Whether we want to keep it or finalize an annulment or, whatever the next steps are.
" The words quiver in my mouth. "But before that, I need to say that I couldn't stand the idea of not trying to see if something real existed between us.
Even if we end up deciding the marriage was a well-intentioned, drunken fiasco.
I want to give us a chance, not a rushed moment in a hotel hallway. "
Bex nods. The lines of tension at her brow ease a fraction. "I said I wanted real, and that is still true," she murmurs. "But I'm not going to pretend it doesn't scare me. Dealing with my family, my father, your family, plus the fact that we do not come from the same universe."
I nod, letting out a soft, humorless laugh. "We definitely don't. My mother would probably break a sweat just stepping foot in this part of town." Immediately, I regret saying it so bluntly, but it's true.
Bex's lip curves in a small smirk. "She might. But that's on her, not on us."
"Right," I murmur. I fiddle with the hem of my blouse. "Are you open to the idea of us trying? Even though it's complicated?"
Bex studies me carefully. "I am," she says after a moment. "I won't pretend it's an easy yes. I've got a business, friends, a life that's shaped by impulses more than meticulous planning. You've got color-coded tabs, for God's sake."
Something flickers in my chest. I think of that binder tab labeled Miscellaneous that Bex teased me about. The memory makes me faintly blush. "I do. But maybe I can handle a different approach. Or we find a balance."
Bex's gaze lingers on my face, the hint of a smile playing at her mouth. "So if we do this, do we do it with or without the official label of marriage? Because we did technically tie that knot."
My stomach flips. "I don't know. We could keep the paperwork sealed for now, hold off on filing.
Or we revisit the entire question from the ground up.
I just didn't want to let that single event define everything without giving us a real chance to see if we actually fit.
Because it wasn't just that night in New Orleans, Bex.
It was the entire weekend. And it felt." I hesitate. "It felt real."
Bex nods. "It did. I'm not going to lie about that."
We fall quiet. My heart hammers so loudly I wonder if Bex can hear it. I cast a reflexive glance around the shop, noticing a stray sunbeam near the back door catching a thin haze of dust. I'm desperate for a moment's deflection, but the question in front of us is too big to dodge forever.
I force myself to meet Bex's gaze again.
"So. Maybe we say we'll date. Actually date, not as some big announcement but just as two people seeing if we fit.
Meanwhile, I try to get the documentary off the ground.
That means more contact with your family, which might be messy, but at least we'd be in it together. "
Bex breathes out. "I think I like that idea."
"Yeah?" I ask, my voice smaller than I intend.
Bex nods, leaning back in the chair. The tension in her shoulders loosens slightly, though she still seems coiled with leftover caution.
"Yeah. Let's do that. Try to see where we stand as a couple, if that's what we even want to call this.
And we'll figure out the best approach for my father and mother.
They might freak out at first, but hey." She shrugs. "They usually do."
I exhale, a quiet, shaky laugh escaping my lips. Relief wars with lingering uncertainty, and the combination leaves me breathless. "All right. Good. That's good."
Bex's mouth twitches in an almost smile. "I guess so."
We stare at each other again, the quiet thick. I realize abruptly that I'm half wishing for some kind of contact, a handshake, a hug, or something more. But I don't want to push.
I rub at a tense spot at the back of my neck, then notice something shift behind Bex's eyes. "What's on your mind?" I ask softly.
Bex shifts. "Well, I'm not sure if this is the moment to bring it up, but there's something I want to show you."
My eyebrows lift. "Yes?"
Bex rises from the chair in a swift motion. She walks behind the counter, rummages under a pile of folders, and returns holding a black-bound sketchbook. The edges are worn, and I recognize it as the kind of personal notebook an artist might guard with protective vigilance.
"I was working on this after we got back from Hollyvale," Bex says, voice quieter now. "It's not a design for a client. Just something I sketched out. The first night I came home, I couldn't stop thinking about." She halts, swallowing.
I feel my pulse flutter. Bex takes a seat again, flipping through a few pages. Curved lines and half-finished tattoos come into view. Then she reaches a specific page and rotates the sketchbook to show me.