I wet my lips before reducing the deepness of the groove between her reddish-brown brows. “They won’t print the story until the end of the month, so you have time.” I leave my reply short, unsure which direction to take. Time to tell her family? Oris it time to stop the publication of a highly fabricated story? I truly don’t know.
Upon spotting the disappointment I cannot conceal, Emerson says, “I wanted to tell them, Mikhail. I was just…”—her chest sinks as she whispers—“worried you wouldn’t show up again.”
Again?
What does she meanagain?
I was there the first time, at the end of the aisle, waiting for her.
She was the one who failed to show up.
I’m about to vocalize my confusion, when we’re joined under the awning by the photographer. “Finally!” She greets us with a warm smile before guiding Emerson toward a studio-like setup in the den, pulling her away from me. "We’ve been shooting for thirty-four minutes of an hour-long pre-shoot, so whatever this is will have to wait until after we’ve captured it for eternity.”
The photographer’s assistant gestures for me to join them in the den, though several bodies remain between Emerson and me the entire time they stage us for the shoot.
The number of bodies separating us places our conversation on the back burner and has my focus shifting to the present instead of the past. Nothing said will change our past. We can either dwell on it or let it go like we did at the waterfall.
Over the next half hour, the photographer’s voice is a constant stream of instructions.
“Mikhail, look this way.”
“Emerson, tilt your head. Perfect. Just like that.”
“Now, relax your shoulders.”
She styles Emerson’s hair as if its voluptuous look was intended for this photo shoot, her influence diminishing as my touch replaces hers. I return a stray lock of Emerson’s hair toits shiny counterparts before rubbing at the groove between her brows.
I hate the sadness in her eyes, the uncertainty. It hurts more than heartache ever could, and the reminder has me speaking as if she didn’t break my heart.
“Still my favorite color.”
I don’t need to elaborate on my reply. Emerson knows the origin of my favorite color. I told her a minimum of once a week for the three years we dated.
My fingers itch to trace her ghost-like grin, but further instructions from the photographer steal the chance.
“Hold still. Beautiful. That pose is perfect.”
She moves closer, intruding on our space, before the clicking of her camera drowns out the thump of my pulse in my ears.
Emerson and I are standing so close that I can feel Emerson’s pulse as easily as mine. It is a frantic, lively beat that proves ten years is barely a blip when it comes to a lifetime of memories.
I couldn’t remember a single bad thing she did or said when she was moaning beneath me, begging for me to touch her. It was just us against the world.
“Almost done. Just a few more, then we’re almost set for the real thing.” The photographer’s last sentence breaks the tangible string tethering us together.
“Real thing?” Emerson asks, her shock as high as my brows. “Is this not the actual shoot?”
With a giggle, the photographer lowers her camera. “This is the pre-shoot to check we have the lighting right. We don’t want any pesky shadows hiding your beautiful face.” She snaps another handful of photos I plan to purchase for my private collection. Emerson’s confused face is adorable. It is one of my favorite features. “This is also a bridal shoot. We can’t have you photographed in muddy jeans and a lint-pilled sweater. We have a range of gorgeous dresses ready for your approval.”
Emerson’s eyes stray to the rack the photographer points out before she returns them front and center. “I don’t want a random dress.”
“The dresses aren’t random. Well-known designers crafted all of them. They’re elegant and beautiful?—”
“But they’re notmydress. It isn’t the dress I wore when we wed.” Emerson’s eyes are on me, hot and wet. “It isn’t the dress my mother made for me to marry you in.”
My eyes bounce between hers for several long seconds. I didn’t give her much time to agree to my proposal. I didn’t want to give logic the chance to enter the equation. So there’s no way her mother would have had enough time to whip together a basic dress, much less the intricately designed gown she wore yesterday.
That can only mean one thing. She wore the dress she was meant to wear ten years ago—the one her mother made when we decided to elope.
