I spin again, laughing because it's absurd and because I can hear the grin in his voice.
"Perfect. Now run."
"Run where?"
"Down the beach. I don't care. Just go."
I take off along the shoreline, bare feet slapping wet sand. The dress billows behind me. The wind pulls my hair loose from where I tucked it behind my ears. I can hear Tom's footsteps somewhere behind me.
"Now stop and look back at me like you just remembered I exist!"
I stop, turn, and give him my best annoyed architect expression.
He lowers the camera just long enough to laugh. "That's the one. Hold it."
The shutter clicks three times.
"Okay," Tom says, walking closer and checking the screen on the back of his camera. "Now look like you just discovered coffee."
I stare at him. "You're kidding."
"Dead serious. Give me your best 'first sip of the day' face."
I close my eyes, tilt my head back slightly, and let my mouth curve into something that feels like contentment.
Tom's quiet for two seconds. Then the shutter goes off four times in a row.
"Got it." His voice is lighter than it was ten minutes ago. "You're a natural."
"I'm humoring you."
"I know. It's working."
***
We work through the styled shots. Tom adjusts the light reflector, repositions me closer to the rocks, asks me to hold the hem of the dress like I'm about to step into the water. He gives direction. I follow it. The wind keeps pulling at the fabric, and I stop trying to control it.
Then Tom lowers the camera and checks the exposure on his light meter.
"I think we're good," he says.
I nod, but I don't move yet. My feet are half-buried in the sand. The tide is coming in slowly, each wave reaching a little farther up the beach than the last. The sun has dropped lower, turning the water metallic at the edges.
I turn away from him and walk toward the shoreline.
The wet sand is firm under my feet. Cold. I stop a few feet from where the water is reaching, close enough that the foam almost touches my toes but doesn't.
The horizon is a clean line. No boats. No landmarks. Just the point where the ocean stops and the sky starts.
I exhale, and my shoulders drop.
The wind is constant here. It pulls my hair across my face, presses the dress flat against my legs. I don't fix either.
Behind me, I hear Tom set something down. Maybe the reflector. Maybe the camera bag. I don't turn to check.
The water rolls in again, closer this time. The foam spreads thin across the sand, then pulls back. The sound is rhythmic and low, like breathing.
I close my eyes for three seconds. Then open them.
