35. Bex
Chapter thirty-five
Bex
Sofia and Jordan's apartment occupies the third floor of a brownstone in Boerum Hill, a place with shiny wood floors, bright windows, and too many plants for the size of the sill.
The building's stairwell smells like lemon polish and something faintly floral, and my heartbeat ramps up with every step I climb.
Not because the stairs are steep, though they are, but because of the conversation we're about to have.
Kit walks beside me, her hand brushing lightly against my elbow as we approach the door.
I glance down at her wrist. She isn't wearing a watch, but she still looks at the time on her phone every few minutes.
The second I notice, she tucks the phone away, like she's embarrassed to be caught checking.
My stomach does a little flip of affection.
We don't knock, Sofia had texted that it's open.
I twist the knob and walk in to find the two of them already in the kitchen, which is basically the first room you step into in their cozy layout.
Sofia has her hair pulled into a tight ponytail and wears a fitted sweater over leggings, looking halfway between weekend-lounge and try-to-impress.
Jordan, leaning against the countertop, holds a mug of tea.
From the small table in the corner, the smell of fresh pastries wafts up. I have a flicker of memory: Sofia always used to keep a fresh box from the bakery down the street because that was her version of being a good host, stuffing guests with more sugar than they bargained for.
"Hey," Sofia says, turning as we enter. Her gaze slides to Kit. "You both made it."
"Hey," I reply, wishing I felt breezier than I do. My pulse is knocking around like marbles in a jar.
Kit lifts a polite hand in greeting, then tucks it awkwardly into the pocket of her structured blazer.
She's changed out of her standard black pencil skirt since last I saw her, this time she wears dark jeans with that neat blazer, which gives her a half-relaxed, half-finished dressing vibe.
Her hair is pinned back at the top, but a few curls have escaped, coiling near her temple.
Those curls make my chest feel warm. Because I know how they feel between my fingers.
But I file that detail away immediately: purely a memory of one random morning in my apartment, nothing more. Definitely not relevant right now.
"Sit," Sofia commands, flicking her eyes to the kitchen table. "I got brioche, and Jordan has been making tea. We can do coffee if you want. Or something stronger."
"Tea's fine," I say, trying not to sound too stiff.
We settle around the small table, the four of us in a tight square. Jordan perches on a stool near the counter, arms folded across their chest, giving me and Kit an appreciative glance. It's that look that says they know something is up.
Sofia clears her throat, folding her hands. "So."
I glance at Kit, who offers me a tiny nod. Right, time to get it over with. "We have something to tell you," I say, feeling sweat prickle at the back of my neck.
Sofia lifts one eyebrow. "I'm going to guess this something explains the way you two have been acting. Also why you insisted we find a weekend time to sit. Are we about to hear you're moving to Antarctica?"
Jordan snorts into their tea. Kit gives a tight smile. "Not Antarctica." She pauses. "But it's kind of a big thing."
I take a breath. "We, uh, we got married."
Sofia blinks, and I watch the muscles in her face cycle through surprise, confusion, and that borderline-laughter expression I've known since we were kids. She presses her lips together, as though physically restraining the giggles that threaten to burst.
I see the moment the shock wears off. Her lips part. Then real emotion softens her features. "You're actually married," she says in a hushed tone.
I stare at the table's wood grain. "Technically, yeah."
Her eyes dart between us. "To each other."
Kit inhales, looking faintly exasperated. "Yes, Sofia. To each other."
Sofia shifts her gaze to Jordan, who's watching this entire exchange with an amused glint in their eyes. Then back to me, then to Kit again. Finally, my sister sets her elbows on the table and buries her face in her hands. "Of course you are," she mumbles, voice muffled.
I recognize that signal, Sofia is about five seconds away from comedic meltdown. Sure enough, she lets out a muffled laugh, takes a second to get it together, then looks up with damp eyes. "But how did? And when? Holy."
Jordan interrupts, pushing off from the counter. "I would like to say, for the record, that I feel extremely vindicated."
Sofia swivels her head. "You hush," she says, though affection softens her voice. "They got married spontaneously in New Orleans or something equally wild, didn't they?"
Kit clears her throat. "Uh, yes, actually. Late-night chapel, in the middle of the French Quarter. It wasn't exactly planned."
Sofia's eyes go wide. "Rings and license and all that?"
I nod, fishing my phone from my pocket. "We have the license, and we originally had rings, kinda random ones, but yeah."
Sofia sinks back into her chair, pressing her hand to her chest like she might faint. Then she exhales dramatically. "Jordan," she says, not even turning to look, "I give you full permission to never let me live down that I didn't see this coming."
Jordan grins, crossing to lean by the table. "Oh, I won't. Absolutely not."
We recount the story: how it started with a silly dare, then escalated into that swirl of New Orleans jazz and adrenaline, culminating in an impromptu chapel ceremony that neither of us entirely remembered but both of us had definitely said yes to.
Sofia listens, occasionally pressing her lips together with that same it's-not-funny giggle. Jordan keeps muttering "Amazing," at intervals. They do so in the exact same tone, making me suspect they'd done it to each other all week for other reasons.
Finally, when the dust settles, Sofia inhales slowly. "So what's the plan now? Are you two like married-married, or are you brainstorming an annulment, or?"
Kit and I exchange a glance that feels significant. She gives me a small nod. I turn back to Sofia. "We decided to keep it. Not literally run off and have a second ceremony, but keep the license valid, see if it's actually what we want. Because, you know, maybe we do want to be married."
Jordan's eyebrows arch. "That's all kinds of romantic, in an unorthodox, possibly questionable way. But who am I to judge?"
Kit clears her throat again, in that careful, polite manner. "We're going slow in terms of telling people. Because it might not look slow from the outside." She pauses, looking faintly embarrassed. "But to us, it's a big emotional shift."
Sofia nods, her expression turning thoughtful. "I get that. So you haven't told your families yet?"
She directs that last question more at me, I notice, because my parents, our parents, tend to be the bigger meltdown risk.
I sigh, fiddling with a crumb on the pastry plate.
"Hardly. But we want to. That's actually part of why I wanted to talk to you.
Because after everything that happened at your wedding in Hollyvale, I told them a little, right?
That I was seeing someone." I flick my gaze to Kit.
"They didn't die on the spot. But it's a leap from that to oh, hey, I actually got married. "
Sofia frowns, but not unkindly. "I get it. I do. But Ma and Papa have been weirdly softer since the wedding. You know how Geraldine got on their case?"
I remember hearing something about Jordan's aunt Geraldine, who'd apparently cornered my parents during the reception for a no-holds-barred confrontation. I never caught the exact details, but apparently it made a difference.
"They've been calling me more," Sofia adds. "Mom's last call wasn't all day gloom and doom. She was warm. Even asked how Jordan was doing, and she actually sounded like she cared."
Jordan salutes the air with their tea mug. "Progress."
Sofia nods at them, then turns back to me. "Point is, maybe the timing's okay. Especially if you frame it as something you both truly want, not an accident you're trying to cover up."
I let out a small, humorless laugh. "If I call it an accident, Mom will have a heart attack. So yes, I won't phrase it that way."
Kit, who's been quiet for a minute, lifts her hand slightly. "You said your father's reaction to you dating me was calmer than expected. Maybe he'll understand the official aspect if we show him we're serious. If we give him the chance to see us together, not in a rush or on the defensive."
I rub at my sternum, right over where my heart is pounding. "We can try."
Sofia gazes at me intently. "I think we should get the introductions on the calendar. You know how Papa is: it's easier if we plan an actual meal, a Sunday dinner, something anchored. He might be shocked, but at least in the context of a meal, the meltdown will come with spaghetti."
Jordan presses their lips into a crooked smile. "Hate to say it, but that's a wise approach."
Kit's posture loosens slightly, like she's relieved to have even a possible plan. I know that feeling, it's the same one I get when I can see a faint outline of the future.
"All right," I say, exhaling. "One step at a time."
Sofia nods. "We'll figure out the details. Maybe we can all go together, so it's not like you're walking into a trap alone."
I crack a wry grin. "You mean we have backup?"
"Always," Jordan says from the counter.
The room feels momentarily warm and safe. My shoulders drop a fraction. This is going surprisingly well, Sofia is supportive, Jordan is supportive, and no one has lost their mind.
And then Sofia's phone rings.
I recognize the ringtone immediately: the special chime she set for our mother. She clicks the screen to answer, lifting the phone to her ear, and we all watch.
"Hi, Mama," Sofia says, voice echoing.
Kit scoots in her seat. I feel tension sharpen in my muscles. That name, Mama, still has the power to set my teeth on edge.