I hold out the keys to him. “Bring it back in one piece.”
“Will do,” he says, snatching them from my hand and sprinting to the Jeep.
“Hudson, please. I need to settle in and shower before dinner. I smell like plane,” my mother says, already heading away from the car and towards her room.
Hauling her designer luggage up the hill, I watch enviously as Adrian pulls away from the ranch.
6 Mira
“This will not be another Phoebe situation,” I assure myself, ignoring the in-flight movie I selected to quell my pre-wedding jitters.
Thanks to the last-minute ticket Meredith purchased, I was up at the crack of dawn, and now I’m on a budget airline, squeezed into a middle seat, as the women either side of me argue over whether the book or the TV adaptation ofOutlanderis the superior representation of the story. Swiping Biscoff cookie crumbs off my jeans, I open my phone and familiarize myself with the itinerary Meredith sent me. Unlike other weddings, where I am only expected to show up for my contractually agreed-upon services, Meredith insisted that I be a part of the entire four-day celebration that includes a chartered excursion down the river with a private chef and access to a range of amenities, before the wedding on Friday.
Consider it a vacation, Meredith texted along with an info packet.Participate in whatever activities you’d like, no camera involved.
I tried to tell myself this was a good thing. That I should take time to disconnect, relax, and use this time to figure out if I really wanted to keep being a photographer.
Growing up, I was always the girl with the camera. Snapping shots of my friends at school, of my family members on holidays, and even the occasional self-portrait, determined to immortalizelittle moments that might have been lost to time or memory. But my love for the craft didn’t start until I found a stack ofLifemagazines at my grandparents’ house. I began to study the importance of horizon lines. Of how composition and light could make an image could feel muted, yet alive. Glamorous, yet subtle. And how even an otherwise mundane moment of life could be turned into something beautiful.
I won my first photography award during my senior year of high school, after capturing a man feeding the ducks at a local park. I waited hours for that photo, watching the day go by, hoping that I’d catch a perfect moment before it vanished. I’d almost decided to pack up for the day when a man pulled out a bag of breadcrumbs from his pocket and leaned over the bridge that framed the lake. I waited until the sun dipped along the water, a few of the birds mid-flight, and the flutter of breadcrumbs hung in the wind before I clicked my shutter.
And it was at that moment I knew that this was what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
I had my first gallery showing during my freshman year of college, curating a semester’s worth of shots into a cohesive showcase for a local coffee shop. It wasn’t fancy. There were no champagne toasts or artists’ banquets, but I was allowed to hang my photos on the wall and earn eighty percent of the profits from the sales. I thought the experience would be a stepping stone into fine-art photography, but as I finished straightening the last frame Phoebe came up to me, wild excitement in her eyes. Her presence there that night had been happenstance, coming in to meet with a client. But when the client pointed to my photo of a mother helping her daughter cross the street and said she wanted a similar vision for her wedding photography, Phoebe wasn’t one to disappoint.
I explained that weddings weren’t really my thing, that I’d never been one of those girls who dreamed of that special day, but afterPhoebe explained how much money I could make in a weekend, I thought why not give it a shot?
Within a few months my calendar was full, my bank account bursting, and I was dropping out of college to work as a full-time photographer. Even though it didn’t look exactly as I imagined it, the wedding world was exhilarating. Every couple was different. Every venue was a chance to try something new. I was pushing creative boundaries I didn’t know existed. Each booking felt like a high-stakes challenge and I fell in love with the thrill of it. But as the years passed, weddings became predictable, following the same tired patterns, and I could feel myself burning out.
I missed the slow, steady pace of creating art. So when I told Phoebe I wanted to take a step back she said she understood, that she’d help me make the transition out, but I never expected her to expedite my exit by blasting me online.
I sneak a peek out of the window as the flight attendants ensure our seats are ready for landing and the pilot announces our descent into Central Wyoming Regional Airport. The snow-capped Rockies are on full display across the sprawling landscape. The massive mountains are grander than the East Coast ridges I’m accustomed to and although I should be eager to have a new scene to capture, the idea of picking up my camera feels exhausting.
The plane’s tires screech against the asphalt, launching my body forward and knocking my head into the hard, plastic monitor. Rubbing the tender spot on my forehead, I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn on my phone. It immediately springs to life, vibrating and beeping aggressively as I check my messages.
Most of them are from Meredith, checking to see if I’ve landed, if I think sunrise photos would be better than sunset, and if I think the first look could take place in a meadow she’s found on AllTrails. The photo she’s attached looks magical—a wildflower-coveredhillside that, according to the reviews, is only a half-mile walk to the ceremony site. Totally doable in a wedding dress.
Closing the link another message comes in—this one from Hudson.
Last text I swear. Could you let me know you made it home safe? Please. I’m worried.
I know I should block his number. Cut him from my life completely. But a small part of me can’t help but wonder if I’m overreacting. It’s totally possible that Hudson’s in the middle of a lengthy breakup, or he’s non-monogamous. Who knows, maybe the woman in the photograph died and he isn’t emotionally ready to part with her things. But the other part of me, the one that’s all too aware of how far men will go to take what they want, forces me to put my phone back in my pocket, knowing that it could never just be a one-night thing with him.
I wait for the passengers in front of me to exit before I bend down to dislodge my camera bag from beneath the seat. It takes three tries and an accidental elbow to my seatmate until I’m able to hoist it up onto my shoulders. With multiple cameras, lenses, flashes, batteries, and my emergency kit, the pack weighs nearly fifty pounds. A weight accentuated by the hot, heavy heat coming in through the landing door.
“Ugh,” I groan, as the sweltering, stagnant air hits me like a wall.
“Damn heatwave. It came out of nowhere,” the lady behind me says, removing her jacket and fanning herself with a magazine. “They say climate change isn’t real, but I’ve been living in Wyoming all my life and I’ve never dealt with this before.”
“How long is it supposed to last?” I ask, hoping they’re like a Southeast snowstorm, melted and done with by the end of the day.
“Honey, this one is supposed to last two weeks.”
After enduring summer days with ninety percent humidity, I’m sure I can handle some dry heat. Stepping off the plane, I’m quickly humbled. Between the black asphalt, the jet engines, and the blistering sun, I’m legitimately concerned that I might spontaneously combust like an ant under a magnifying glass.
Walking through the smallest airport I’ve ever seen in my life, I attempt to locate the rental car office, which I discover is across the street, two buildings away. By the time I make it over, there’s a pedestrian traffic jam outside the small office. The air inside is as stifling as outside, the only airflow coming from an overworked oscillating fan, its blades caked in a thick layer of dust and grime. I stand there for what feels like an eternity. And by the time I finally get called to the front, my clothes are completely soaked through.
“I have a reservation for Maxwell,” I say, pulling up my confirmation email and displaying the modest Hyundai hatchback I chose on the app.
