His gaze settles back on me, thoughtful. “Well,” he says slowly, “if you’re ready to go…”
He positions me to one side, Harrison to the other, then gestures to the photographer. “Witness,” he says, assigning a double role without missing a beat.
Most actors would protest that it’s not their job. This guy doesn’t. He’s got future director energy written all over him.
I haven’t worked with this photographer before, so I extend a hand. “Ava.”
His face lights up as he takes it, shaking a little too enthusiastically. “Oh, I know who you are, Miss Alvarez. I’m a huge fan. Your biggest. You have no idea what this means to me.”
I give him my practiced smile. The one I use when someone is trying to jiggle my arm out of its socket.
Harrison steps a little closer, clearly unsettled by the sudden intensity of this man’s fandom.
I shoot him a look. The kind that says do not embarrass me.
He gets it and offers a hand. “Harrison.”
“Chad.”
They shake, and Chad’s attention snaps right back to me like Harrison never existed. “I’ll make you look incredible,” he promises, already stepping backward, camera lifting.
I exhale slowly.
Let’s just get through this.
Everyone takes their places. The priest opens a stately Bible to a suitably official page and begins, “Dearly beloved?—”
“Should we hold hands?” I ask, glancing between the priest and the photographer. “Would it make a better shot?”
The photographer nods eagerly. “That would be perfect.”
Harrison and I take each other’s hands. I wish he weren’t frowning so hard. It doesn’t matter for the shot. The photographer is shooting him from behind, angling me just right.
But I hate disappointing people. It’s stupid, but I do. And disappointing Harrison makes something twist low in my gut.
“Do you, Harrison,” the priest says, glancing between us, “take Ava?—”
He continues, settling into the familiar cadence of movie vows. With each line, Harrison grows more distant, more closed off.
“—in sickness and in health?—”
“I need a minute,” Harrison says, breaking our hold.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, already knowing it isn’t.
The priest pauses. Chad lowers his camera.
Harrison doesn’t look at me. “I’m sorry,” he says, already stepping back. “I just—” He shakes his head once. “I need a minute.”
Then he’s ripping off his tie and disappearing through a side door.
The priest and the photographer both look at me. I shrink where I stand.
This isn’t about professionalism. Or optics. Or what anyone here thinks.
I don’t care about any of that.
I care about Harrison.
