“Wait! You’re the new photographer,” she says excitedly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I’m so pumped. I was worried, you know, because sometimes photographers only care about making the bride look good, but you’re going to make everyone look fantastic.”
“I’ll definitely try,” I say before glancing down at the rideshare app on my phone that is still searching for a driver.
She stares at my bags beside me. “Are you waiting on a ride?”
“Oh well, I don’t know, really ... my rental didn’t pan out, and according to Uber, I’d be better off calling a horse for hire. I texted Meredith, but—”
“The service is shit at the ranch,” Vanessa says, cutting me off, “or at least that’s what my boyfriend Adrian said. He’s over there.” She points towards a gangly guy standing next to a bright yellow Jeep, who gives a little wave. “He got in last night.”
“You didn’t fly in together?”
“Last-minute work thing,” she says, with a shrug. “But some of the posse was on my flight. And we may have started the party a little early.”
She hands me a mini bottle of tequila from her bag. It’s the same brand Hudson and I drank on Monday and the taste of it lingers in my mouth.
“You don’t have to shoot it back now, but you never know when you might need a pick-me-up.”
“Thanks,” I say, slipping the bottle into my bag.
“Look, I know there’s not a ton of room,” she says, looking towards the Jeep, whose backseat is already crammed with three people, “but if you don’t mind riding in the back, we can totally give you a ride.”
Taking another glance at my phone, the estimated wait time’s gone up an hour.
“I’ll take it.”
“Yay!” Vanessa squeals, waving over her boyfriend. “Adrian, a little help please?”
He meets us in the middle, picking up my bag effortlessly and placing it in the back. He’s taller up close, a little under six feet, his dark hair matching his even darker eyes.
“Thanks, babe,” Vanessa says, standing on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. They work together, dark and light blending harmoniously, and I wonder if this is how Hudson and I looked all those nights at the bar—opposing elements.
“Who’s our new friend?” a mousy brunette asks from the backseat.
“Oh shoot, I didn’t realize you didn’t know each other,” Vanessa says apologetically. “Mira, this is Angie. And that’s her girlfriend Jocelyn.”
Jocelyn gives me a friendly wave, her jet-black hair short, cutting right at her chin.
“And I’m Derrick,” the beefy bodybuilder next to them says, extending his hand for a firm shake.
“Nice to meet y’all,” I say, climbing over the tailgate and settling into a bench in the back. The protective covering around the sides of the Jeep has been removed, and I pull a hair tie from my wrist, ready to get wind-whipped. I twist my thick hair into a messy bun on the top of my head and dig into my bag to find my sunscreen. Since I spend most of my time in dark rooms in front of a computer screen, I am hyper-aware of how my sensitive skin reacts to sunlight. From dressing in layers, covering my shoulders, and never going anywhere without at least three different travel-sized sunscreens in a variety of SPFs, I’m well prepared for the next two hours of full sun exposure.
“Oooh, can I have some of that?” Derrick asks, turning towards me, his muscles practically bursting from his shirt.
“I appreciate a man who knows the importance of SPF,” I say, handing over the bottle. He squeezes a dollop onto his arm before evenly distributing it over his toned and tanned biceps.
“One of my friends showed me this video of truck drivers who spent like thirty years on the road, and the entire left side of their body was all fucked from sun damage. It haunted me. I want to make sure I stay hot forever.”
I’m uncertain if the comments are being made in jest or sincere, but as long as it keeps him from getting melanoma, I consider it a win in his favor.
“Everyone buckled in?” Adrian asks in a thick Irish accent, and slowly inches the Jeep out of the parking spot.
“As best as we can be,” Angie says, giving me a sympathetic smile as she holds up her broken seatbelt, as if our situations are similar. At least she has Derrick and Jocelyn keeping her in place. I, on the other hand, only have the strength of my weak forearmsand a couple of bungee cords over my shins to protect me from certain death.
The ride is brutal. Between the bumps, the heat, and the whining pop blasting on the radio, I start to believe that I died on that airplane and landed in hell. The only thing grounding me to reality is the view.
Wyoming is so different from the tobacco roads of the Carolinas. It’s all true American farmland: bold and beautiful, with wooden fences and hearty cattle. Actual buffalo roam on green and yellow pastures, and picturesque valleys with roaring waters cut through the topography. Fields of wildflowers sprawl down the cliff sides, framing the towering Teton Mountains that are on display. It makes sense why West Coast photographers are always winning so many awards; they never have to make shabby barns look chic.
We drive a few more miles until the dusty roads dissipate, and we’re transported into a dense forest. I know we’re getting closer to the park when we pass multistory lodges and vacation rental properties around every bend. I stare out into the distance, admiring the way the light streams through the branches, illuminating the forest floor. There’s no cell service here, and for the first time in weeks, my phone falls silent. I consider the possibility that taking this job might be just what I need.
