37. Bex
Chapter thirty-seven
Bex
Tuesday afternoons in the shop are usually a gentle hum of activity: some walk-ins, a consultation or two, phone calls about scheduling.
The sort of day that lets me update inventory without feeling rushed, put on background music, remind myself I run a business that thrives on a mix of spontaneity and steady craft.
So when my phone buzzes right after I've wrapped up a sleeve consultation, I'm in that half-distracted mode, wiping down the counter and checking the next slot in the schedule.
I almost don't look at the text immediately. Then I catch Kit's name on the screen.
Two words: I got in.
I stare at it, trying to process. My mind goes blank for a half second, like a computer glitch. Did she mean what I think she meant?
My heart does a quick, heavy thump. Then I tap the phone icon and call her.
She picks up on the second ring, breathless. "Bex?"
"Hey." I pause, exhaling through a grin I can't fully contain. "Repeat that text, please. I need details."
Kit's laugh tumbles through the speaker. "I got in. The fellowship. The big one. They just emailed me, apparently the official letter is on its way, but I already have the acceptance."
My chest tightens with pure relief and excitement. Our entire conversation over the last few months has danced around this possibility: Would she get in? Would she let her parents know? Would she even dare to chase it? And now it's real.
"That's, Kit." I almost say a forbidden word or something too big, so I just breathe. "That's incredible. Tell me. All of it."
She speaks in a rush. The fellowship is a documentary development program based in New York, with a production fund and a distribution partnership if the final cut meets certain benchmarks.
It's a big deal in the documentary film world, the kind of prestigious entry that could catapult her from side projects to an actual career.
She'll be here in the city for eight months while she works on the film.
She also reveals, in an almost playful tone, that she's already called her parents.
Her mother had paused and said, "Well. That's a surprise.
" Her father, apparently referencing the fellowship's reputation, said something neutral but not critical, like acknowledging reality rather than demanding an explanation.
And from the Bennetts of Wellesley, that counted as a standing ovation.
Kit laughs when she tells me about it. It's that real laugh, the one I've gradually learned to recognize over the last few months as her actual unguarded reaction, not the polite laugh she uses to handle strangers. A part of me warms just hearing it.
We both let the laughter die down softly. I close my eyes for a second, leaning against the counter. "So. How soon are you getting here?" I ask.
She makes a small, joyful noise. "I can't wait. I want to come tonight, actually."
I glance around the empty shop, the clock on the wall showing it's only three. The day feels too bright to contain all that excitement. "Done. I'll close up early. Just text me when you're on your way."
"Perfect. I'll bring dinner?"
"Deal." I let the silence linger another beat. Then I say, gently, "I'm proud of you, Bennett."
She lets out a breath, quieter now. "Thank you."
We end the call. I stare at the phone in my hand, reading the text again, I got in, like it's a summons to something bigger than either of us had planned but both had started wanting.
I tell my apprentice, Maya, I'm closing early. She glances at the calendar in mild confusion, usually I keep Tuesdays open until six, but she nods. She's grown accustomed to my life-is-happening-outside-of-standard-hours approach since Kit and I became more serious.
"Oh, so you're actually taking a personal afternoon?" Maya teases, wagging her eyebrows.
"Yep," I say, only half joking. "No apocalypse-level tasks, right?"
She grins. "I'll survive. Go have your life."
I chuckle, flipping the sign to Closed. The minute she leaves, I lock the door, shut down the lights, and head upstairs.
In my small apartment, the place I'd made into a home for me, and now, quietly, for Kit too, I drop my bag on the floor and head straight for the drafting table in the corner. I flip open the sketchbook to the camera drawing.
Over the past few weeks, I've refined some lines, added shading.
It still centers on that stylized film camera design, twined with floral vines and hints of script in the negative space.
The same camera I drew on Kit's wrist that first night in New Orleans, grown bigger and more elaborate here on the page, every session with the pencil adding something the original small piece never had room for.
I trace a fingertip over the shapes. I remember drawing it late at night, stewing over heartbreak and hope, thinking if I put it on paper, I could keep it from vanishing. Now the real story has unfolded beyond what I ever imagined.
Just then, my phone buzzes. I assume it's Kit with some detail about dinner, but the screen reads: Nico.
I smirk, tapping open the text: YOU TELLING ME WE GOT A FELLOWSHIP QUEEN NOW??
I snort. It doesn't matter that I hadn't told them yet; Nico seems to have a sixth sense for big developments. I answer by snapping a picture of the camera drawing and sending it with the caption told you.
Within seconds, an onslaught of emojis comes back: fireworks, hearts, little dancing figures, confetti, more hearts, some random shrimp, which was probably just Nico's fingers slipping but might have been a celebratory inside joke.
I set the phone aside, rolling my eyes with fond amusement. Then I take a breath, scan my messy drafting table. Stacks of images, some for clients, some just for me.
For a moment, I let my gaze settle on the camera piece. Then I close the sketchbook. New era, I tell myself.
Kit shows up just after six, balancing a takeout bag in one hand and what looks like the fellowship paperwork pressed under her other arm.
She wears jeans and a blouse that manages to look both casual and tastefully put together.
A light sweat clings to her hairline like she'd hurried from the subway.
"Hi," she says, stepping into the living room. The energy of the city follows her through the door.
"Hey," I say, trying to swallow how glad I am to see her. I take the takeout from her hand, my gaze flicking to the folder under her arm. "Fellowship documents?"
She nods, eyes shining. "I printed everything because I'm me, and because it's real and I keep needing to see it in ink."
I smile, stepping back to let her in. We move into the kitchen, where the overhead light casts a warm glow on the small table. She sets down her folder. I unpack the takeout, some kind of noodle dish and dumplings from the place around the corner we both love.
We eat side by side at the table, knees bumping occasionally.
Kit explains more about the program: after an initial workshop, she'll get matched with mentors who'll help refine her film concept.
She's already decided to expand the original pitch, a story about families and legacy in America, the distance between what parents build and what children actually want.
She says it with a calm seriousness that makes me grin.
"And you want to keep the focus broad?" I venture, swallowing a dumpling.
She nods. "Yeah. I don't want it to just be about your family or just about you. That's still part of it, if you're comfortable. But I'm planning to talk to other families too, to show how that tension manifests across different cultures."
"I like that," I say, genuinely. The idea feels bigger, deeper.
She toys with her fork, glancing at me in that careful way she has.
"But I still want you as a kind of collaborator, if you're okay with that.
Not just someone I stick in front of a camera occasionally.
I want your input on the visuals, the angles, the overall shape. It's your story as much as anyone's."
A flush of appreciation warms my neck. "You're basically inviting me to be your co-artist?"
Kit's mouth twitches in a small, fond smile. "If you want to be. I trust your eye. Might even need your help designing some key sequences, tattoo aesthetics, that kind of layering of imagery."
I feel a flutter in my chest. "I'd love that," I say. "Count me in."
She reaches across the table and brushes my wrist lightly, a fleeting gesture but one that hums. We finish dinner in a comfortable silence, occasionally trading bites of each other's food.
Later, we drift into the living room, where the coffee table has become our makeshift office. Kit spreads out the fellowship documents: checklists, deadlines, a timeline for the eight-month residency. I rummage through a notepad, half listening as she reads some key points aloud.
She sounds excited, a little stunned. The entire energy around her is already so different from the day we first realized we'd accidentally gotten married in New Orleans. Now she possesses a certain calm that came with deciding, once and for all, that she wasn't going to run.
I perch next to her on the sofa, pen tapping the edge of the notepad.
Across the room, the window is open to let in the mild air, street noise drifting in.
I recognize the faint honking of a distant car horn, the whir of a passing bus, the muffled beep from the crosswalk signal. This is our city soundtrack.
Kit pauses in the middle of reading a line. "You have that expression," she says quietly.
I glance at her. "What expression?"
A faint smile curves her lips. "Like you're noticing how everything has become familiar. In a good way."
I nod, setting the pen down. "I guess I am," I admit. I look around: the couch we'd basically claimed as ours, the coffee table holding her documents, some sketches, and a half-finished glass of water. My apartment feels layered with us, two people's habits merging.