33. Bex
Chapter thirty-three
Bex
The folder with Kit's documentary treatment sits on the counter between us, all eight neatly typed pages ready to be dissected.
But the question hanging in the air isn't about camera angles or interview schedules.
It's something else entirely, a low hum that started vibrating the instant Kit asked me, "What else did you want to say? "
I let the quiet stretch for a second, gathering my nerve. I'd told myself I was prepared for this, but the reality of speaking out loud in front of her is a different beast entirely.
Kit stands opposite me, posture composed but eyes reflecting unspoken tension.
She still wears that same structured blazer she'd arrived in, the one that makes her look like she'd just walked out of a strategy meeting.
I wonder if she planned her outfit or just grabbed the first thing in her closet. With Kit, it could be both.
I swallow, exhaling hard enough to feel my lungs tighten.
"I've been thinking about that reception room at Hollyvale," I begin, voice lower than I expected.
I wrap my fingers around the edge of the counter.
"The night you brought the license out and I just, I pushed.
I told you to stop treating it like a mistake, and then I walked out before you could even answer me. Remember?"
The corner of Kit's mouth quirks in a way that isn't a smile. Her eyes flick sideways. "I remember."
I nod. "Right. And I wanted to take that back.
Not the pushing, I still think I was right that you needed to hear it.
But because it was cruel to leave right after saying it.
I gave you nothing to say back to." I wave a hand vaguely, indicating the events that led us here.
"It was me getting the last word and then running before you could have yours. "
Kit's jaw twitches. "It's okay," she says gently. "I know we were both upset."
"It's not okay," I correct, forcing myself to meet her gaze.
"I said my piece and then I walked out. Maybe I was telling the truth about what I saw, but it wasn't kind, and it sure wasn't helpful.
And leaving like that." I pause, the memory still raw.
"Was my own version of a safety move. If I left first, I'd never have to hear you say something that would cut deeper. "
Kit presses her lips together, the lines around her eyes tightening. "Yeah," she murmurs. "I know something about that tactic."
I huff a breath, half laugh, half sigh. "Nico called me out on it explicitly. Told me I'd basically done everything I accused you of doing, running away from a conversation that could get real. I hate to admit they were right, but here we are, and I'll own it."
For a moment, we just look at each other across the counter. My pulse thuds in my ears. I realize one of the overhead lights is flickering slightly, a detail I'd never noticed before. I'll have to change that bulb later. Amazing how I can think about that in the middle of an emotional confessional.
Kit scoots the folder aside, stepping closer so that only a foot of polished countertop remains between us.
"I've been thinking about my own version of that," she says, her voice quiet.
"The way I keep reaching for I just need time whenever things get too real.
I did it in the venue that night. I did it on the phone with my mother.
I did it three separate times before I finally sent you a text that actually said something. "
She pauses, inhaling through her nose. "I told myself each time that I was being responsible.
But it wasn't responsible. It was preemptive.
If I never fully committed to wanting something, then whatever happened next couldn't blindside me.
I'd have already chosen the distance myself.
" She gives a wry, pained smile. "I've been doing that since I was seventeen, apparently.
Telling myself that wanting something I couldn't justify was irresponsible. "
Her voice hitches on the last word. I feel a tangible pull in my chest. But I hold still, letting her continue.
"I got so good at that logic," she says, speaking more steadily now, "that I started applying it to people.
If I couldn't rationalize a relationship, or if it felt too big, too uncertain, I'd label it as a risk I couldn't take.
Easier to remove myself than to face the possibility of failing at something, or being rejected by someone. "
She trails off. A hush falls between us. I watch her swallow, the tension in her throat visible.
Finally, Kit nods once, firmly, as though concluding a mental bullet list. "I don't want to do that with you."
A wave of heat pushes behind my rib cage. Because I recognize the weight of that sentence, how much it cost her to say it out loud. Our gazes lock, and in that moment, the distance of the last two weeks feels immense and also irrelevant.
The breath leaves my lungs. I answer quietly, "Good."
She exhales, shoulders dropping an inch. We're still separated by the marble countertop, though, each on our own side. The harsh black line of the edge feels like a boundary we need to cross.
My body makes the decision. I move around, walking to her side, not wanting to speak until I'm close enough to touch her if I decide it's safe.
She stays still, watching me approach. Up close, I see the faint shadows under her eyes, maybe from hours of drafting that documentary pitch, maybe from more nights of restless guilt than I want to guess.
I pause, half a step away. My breath quivers, but I steady it as I reach for the shelf behind me. I grab the same black sketchbook I'd shown her a small piece of earlier, flipping to the page that matters most.
The camera drawing.
I set the open book down on the counter in front of us.
The lines are deeper, more refined than the first version I'd scribbled.
I've added film reel details, vines, small notches that signal movement.
There are tiny fragments of text woven at the edges too, bare phrases about capturing what's real.
Kit's eyes travel across the drawing. I hear her suck in a slow breath. Her voice comes out low. "This is the same design you have on your wrist now, isn't it?"
I nod. "I improved it later. Worked it up in more detail. I draw the things I can't stop thinking about."
Her gaze flicks from the page to me, and I catch the faint tremor in her exhale. "Bex."
I hear the undercurrent there, the unspoken question: Why are you showing me this now?
So I answer gently, "I drew it after Hollyvale.
After the wedding, after everything. Because I couldn't get it out of my head, what we did, why we did it, the insane rush of it all and the reason it left such a mark.
" My heart hammers, but I press on. "It's the sort of piece I only do when someone or something gets under my skin so deep I have to put it into ink. "
Kit's face stills. A flicker of emotion passes behind her eyes so strong that I almost reach out on instinct.
She breathes out carefully. "I." Then she pauses, almost losing the sentence. Finally: "I brought the license."
I freeze.
My entire body goes rigid, as though someone pulled a lever that locked all my joints into place.
In my peripheral vision, I see her slip one hand into her bag and retrieve a folded piece of official paper.
The marriage license from the chapel in New Orleans.
A single sheet, but it might as well be a thousand pages thick with everything unsaid.
She places it beside the sketchbook, the corners faintly creased from being folded and refolded.
"I couldn't decide what to do with it," she says, voice trembling.
"I wanted to bring it in case, well, in case we talked ourselves out of this.
Or in case we realized we could salvage it.
I guess I just needed it physically present. "
I stare at the document, heart thudding. This is the piece of paper we'd joked about while drunk on jazz and whiskey and each other, the piece that says we're attached legally if we want to be. It had loomed in my mind for days, and now it's right here, in front of me.
My mouth feels dry. "So what do we do with it?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
Kit looks at me for a long moment. Then she sets her palm on the license, fingers splayed. "Keep it," she says simply.
I blink. "Okay."
Her expression shifts, something in her shoulders letting go, something behind her eyes releasing. Like she'd been braced for a refusal or a crisis that never came.
She closes the distance between us, stepping in until we're toe to toe. The overhead light flickers again. I can smell the faint hint of the perfume she wears, clean, understated, the kind that sneaks up on you.
For a second, we both just stand there, hearts pounding in stereo. She tilts her head, lips parting like she wants to say something else.
I have no interest in speaking anymore.
I step forward, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. There's a hush as our bodies align, my hand crossing the last few inches to press against her waist through the structured fabric of her blazer. I feel her exhale, and an answering tremor ripples through me.
Her gaze flicks to my mouth, so I don't hesitate. I lean in, pressing a light, brief touch of a kiss to the corner of her lips, barely more than a brush, but it draws every nerve in my body awake.
Kit lets out a small, uneven sound, like she hadn't meant to make any noise at all. Then her hand finds the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. Her hesitation vanishes, and she kisses me back, warmer, deepening the contact.
My nerves go liquid. Every memory of that night in New Orleans where we stumbled through something we couldn't name comes rushing back, but this time there's no confusion. No disclaimers coded as insults. Just the feeling of her leaning in.
Her lips part, and I take the invitation, letting the kiss linger. The overhead light hum turns into white noise. I find myself pressing closer, so the length of her torso meets mine, heat sparking between us.
Finally, we separate, breathing raggedly. We don't step back. Our foreheads almost touch.
"You sure?" I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
She gives a shaky laugh. "About which part?"
"Everything," I say, smirking a little despite the rush in my chest.
Kit's eyes flick to the marriage license on the counter. Then she looks at me again. "Yes," she says softly. "Not that I know how everything will happen, but yes. In principle, absolutely yes. I'm in."
My fingers tighten on the lapel of her blazer, drawing a shaky breath of relief. "I'm in too," I say. "We can take it slow. But I don't want us ignoring the license either. Or pretending we didn't sign it."
Kit presses a kiss to the corner of my jaw. My brain short-circuits for a second. Her voice is low against my ear. "We'll manage it. Step by step."
A flush spreads across my neck. I nod, swallowing air. "Yeah. Step by step."
Neither of us moves away. The row of overhead bulbs hums, glaring off the glossy counter, and her scent lingers in the space between us. I realize how close her face is to mine, how I can see the faint flush on her cheeks, how her pupils have dilated.
Short sentences, Bex. My mind tries to keep me from losing track of everything. Her eyes. Definitely more open than before.
I force myself to breathe, pulling back only enough to look at her fully. "Thank you," I say, and it comes out shaky.
She strokes her thumb along my wrist, right where the fresh lines of that camera tattoo peek out from my sleeve. "For what?"
"For not running away again," I answer, voice rough.
Kit just meets my gaze. "Same," she says quietly.
We let the hush settle again, tangling in each other's presence. Outside, a car horn blares. My phone buzzes in my pocket, probably Maya with a random question, or maybe just an ad. I ignore it.
Finally, Kit's lips curve in a small, genuine smile, the kind that lights her entire expression. "So. We keep it, we talk to whoever we need to talk to, we figure out how to do real life with or without a big fiasco."
I let out a breath of amusement. "That's the plan."
She nods. "Then I guess we're on the same page."
I place my hand over hers on the counter. The memory of the marriage license hovers in the edge of my vision, but I'm more aware of the press of Kit's fingers. They feel steady now, more sure than they'd been even minutes earlier.
It's time to move past the raw confessions and figure out next steps in the real world. But for the moment, I don't want to let go.
Kit's phone chimes softly. She glances to the side and winces. "That might be a train schedule reminder."
I narrow my eyes. "You already planned your exit route?"
She gives a sheepish shrug. "I plan everything. But I don't have to leave if, if we're not done. Are we done?"
I shake my head. "Not even close." Then I smile, pulling her just a bit closer. "Besides, I should show you the rest of the place. There's, uh, an apartment upstairs."
Her eyebrows lift. "Above the shop?"
"Yup," I say, stepping back just enough to let the significance sink in. "I moved in recently. I used to have a place across the neighborhood, but it worked out. It's small, but it's mine."
She takes in a slow breath. "You want me to see it?"
I nod. "I'd like that."