I can tell from her red-stained lips that she’s had a Sloshie or two, as I turn to face her.
“How are you enjoying Wyoming so far?”
“It’s a beautiful state,” I reply genuinely. “And it’s been so nice catching up with Vanessa. I haven’t seen her since college.”
“I know! It’s great, right? The Bishop Hall girls are reunited again,” Meredith says, her arm wrapping through mine as she guides me to sit down next to her. “We should all meet in my cabin tonight and have a sleepover like the old days.”
“For that we’d need a janky laptop, a DVD collection ofNew Girl, and really cheap vodka.”
“I can definitely provide the vodka,” she jokes, taking another sip of her drink.
“These are good, but I can only have a couple. I swear my tolerance isn’t what it used to be.”
“That’s because we’re getting old,” she whines dramatically. “I swear it was just yesterday we were playing seven minutes in heaven at the freshman orientation party, and now I’m getting married.”
I shake my head, the memory so far away. “Oh God. Please don’t remind me of that.”
“Why? I remember you having a great time with ... What was his name ...? Callum?”
“Cameron,” I correct.
“Man, he was pretty,” Meredith says, reminiscing.
“But very dumb,” I remind her.
“You always did like the nerdy ones,” she jokes, and I’m instantly reminded of Hudson. How he’s always armed with a fun fact about plants or animals. How he’d always pull out his well-worn copy ofThe Hobbiton breaks. How he can quote fromThe Princess Bride. Although I shouldn’t look for him, I locate him across the lawn. He’s sitting with Vivianne, listening intently as she talks, and I know that he’s processing every word. I love the wayHudson would never interrupt a train of thought to interject with his own, giving space for people to be truly heard. I considered it one of his most endearing qualities. And now I wonder if it’s a tactic to make people trust him.
“I swear you made all those guys look fuckable after you took their photos for the ‘Get to know me’ wall.”
“I did not,” I argue, taking a sip of my drink.
“Catfishcould have done an entire special on that wall, because you made everyone look like supermodels.”
“Shut up,” I say, swatting her away, my professional plaster chipping off as I revel in the comfortable camaraderie. With Phoebe, I always held back little parts of myself, the messy bits that didn’t fit in her perfectly curated world, but Meredith saw the real me—the girl who likes watching scary movies before bed and who screams Midwest emo songs in her car, and who doesn’t care about matching her socks or wearing makeup anytime she leaves the house—and she became my friend because of it.
“I would have asked you first,” Meredith says, breaking me from my thoughts. “To be my photographer. But I didn’t want that to be the first time I’d seen you in years because I needed something.”
I swallow hard, not ready to end our friendship just as it’s begun again.
“I’ve always loved your photos, though,” she continues, giving my hand a squeeze. “And more than anyone you know how important they are to me.”
Unlike other college freshmen who arrived with their entire wardrobe and posters of their favorite bands to tack on the wall, I brought boxes of photographs: years of memories with my friends and family to look back through anytime I wanted to feel close to them. But at least my parents and siblings could share the stories within the pictures, recounting the hidden meaning within eachframe. But Meredith would never get that context. She’d never be able to ask them what flavor her birthday cake was, or how long it took to get the crayon off the wall, or what made her parents so happy on that particular day.
“I think it was those nights sitting on the floor, going through those photo albums, that convinced me that I could be a wedding photographer,” I admit.
“Really?”
I nod. “I think I wanted people to have a chance to keep as many memories as they could. Those hugs, those secret smiles. They are all a part of someone’s story, their life. They’re important.”
I catch Meredith wiping at the corner of her eye.
“I’m thankful you’re here, Mira. That you get to experience this with me.”
“Me too,” I say, genuinely.
She gives my hand another squeeze, sunshine and adoration glowing behind her eyes. “Let’s not go so long without seeing each other again, promise?”
After that heart-wrenching conversation I can’t give up now, not when I’ve got another day to figure something out. Statistically there has to be at least one hobbyist photographer on the property. All I have to do is meet every guest until I suss out which one is secretly harboring a DSLR in their bag. It shouldn’t be too hard, since the second those types know I’m the photographer they immediately bombard me with technical questions.
