But tonight, we’ve chosen where to begin.
twenty-seven
CHLOE
Guilt presses on my shoulders.
I know I shouldn’t feel bad, because Aiden told me to come in here. We all hung lights from every building imaginable, garland on the fencing, and giant wreaths on the front gates. With massive bows that made Aiden smile.
While he’s out there still facing whatever ghosts he needs to, I’m waiting for my laptop to boot up.
I have an after-wedding ritual, a compulsion if you squint just right. No matter what time I finish the job and get home, I sit and go through the photos. Sometimes I flag photos for a social media sneak peek, and if I’m particularly excited about how they turned out, I might even edit a couple.
But it’s mostly to remind myself that I’m good at it. After a long day on my feet and the inevitable snafu thatalwayshappens—and we’re lucky if it’s only one thing—I can breathe and soak up the art I created.
Today, I want to seemywedding photos.
I wasn’t the only one involved in taking them, so there’s curiosity about how someone else captured these moments. There’s no way to know what’s even on here.
I flop right in the center of Aiden’s king-sized bed and settle in to scroll my memory card. It’s like sitting on a cloud, and I’ve honestly never slept better in my entire life.
Once I finally go to sleep, anyway.
It might actually be less of a comfort thing and more of a “I’m so exhausted by the time my body finally calms down, I sleep like a rock” thing.
For whatever reason, everything is taking longer to boot and load tonight. Like something is stringing me along and making the anticipation even worse.
I fidget, my left thumb twirling the new rings on my finger. I followed this passion because I had too many memories I couldn’t see with my own eyes. And I wanted to change that.
I just also happened to learn I had a talent for it in the process.
When the first images of this morning pop up on the screen, I quietly gasp. Then scroll.
And scroll.
When I get to the ceremony, I’m shocked. I was so caught up in the moment, I didn’t realize Harper had commandeered my camera.
There are photos of us in front of the hexagon, with the minister centered directly behind us. Our faces as we shared our vows. Close-ups as Aiden put his mother’s rings on my finger, and ones where I put his ring on his.
And then one of his face right after we were pronounced man and wife. When Aiden tipped my chin up with his thumb and said, “There’s my wife.”
I’ve never given much thought to those words, and suddenly they’re at the top of the “most Earth-shattering moments of mylife” list. Every moment on that list isn’t necessarily aliteralmoment of my life, like when I first saw the two pink lines that meant Phoebe was on the way.
Some are random snippets that made a lasting impression, like Aragorn pushing open the doors of Helm’s Deep.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that cinematic masterpiece would forever shape how I viewed men with beards. And that’s a tidbit I’llnevershare with Aiden, because he doesn’t need anything else to lean in his favor.
He’s already got too many as it is.
Now that Aiden has called me “his wife”, nothing else is going to come close. My heart isn’t grasping that this isn’t arealmarriage.
It’s clear as day in these photos—in the ache I feel when I revisit that moment.
And the ones after.
I press the arrow key to go to the next photo, noting the way I’m staring at him. Then to the next image, where we’re completely lost in each other.
I’ve photographed hundreds of weddings at this point, and there’s no way I’d know that this was a sham. In fact, I’m struggling to remind myself.
