It takes about two seconds for me to realize that this is not my apartment. And I am not wearing any pants.
Hesitantly I glance over and see a mop of red hair and freckle-covered torso wrapped in heather-gray sheets lying beside me. Hudson’s face is adorably smushed into the pillow, his lips are curved in a giddy smile, and the night comes back to me in pieces.
Lilah calling the smoke shop guys to order as many two-dollar beers as they could stomach. Helping Hudson consume the line of tequila shots she poured even after he officially clocked out. The rush of adrenaline when I pulled him in for a kiss. The heat of his breath against my neck when we reached his apartment. The way my body completely relaxed as his hand worked itsway into my jeans, like an artist who had mastered his craft. And then ... nothing.
There is a hole in my memory, a hazy blackness that makes me regret those last couple of shots. Of course my first opportunity for a non-self-assisted orgasm in almost a year is lost to the ether of my brain. Fan-fucking-tastic.
It’s fine, I reason to myself. We can do it again. After I borrow a swig of his mouthwash, fix my face, and pretend that the morning glow and peppermint breath are one hundred percent natural. But if I’m going to be able to do any of that, I need to silence my damn phone.
Pushing myself off his surprisingly comfortable bed, I locate my jeans in the middle of the floor and wrestle my phone out of my pocket. I have every intention of ignoring the call, letting it go to voicemail, and dealing with whatever drama is waiting for me on the other end after an orgasm and breakfast, but in my haste, my finger slips, and I’m greeted with loud, incoherent sobbing.
“Mira? Mira, my ... wedding ... is ... ruined!” a panicked, female voice exclaims, and my heart drops. The lingering PTSD from Phoebe’s wedding evokes instant anxiety inside my chest, as I take refuge in the bathroom.
“I’m sure it’s not,” I say, closing the door and turning on the light. I take stock of my reflection in the mirror and surprisingly it’s not terrible. My makeup from last night is primarily intact, a few black smudges beneath my eyes, my lipstick is gone, and my hair is a tangled mess, but overall the damage isn’t that bad. Taking a step back, I see the words “Protect the Shire” printed on the oversized t-shirt I’m wearing, the hem falling just above my knees. Of course Hudson outfitted me inLord of the Ringspajamas.
“Mira. Please, you have to help me; I don’t know what to do,” the voice says, reminding me that they’re on the phone. I check my caller ID, expecting to find a frustrated client name, but see that it’smy college roommate, Meredith Graham—who, according to the countdown she’s been posting on social media all year, is getting married in a few days.
This isn’t my problem. It shouldn’t be my problem. And yet I default into crisis management mode.
“Tell me what happened.”
After a decade in the wedding industry, I’ve learned that photography is more than taking pretty photos. It’s putting out fires, metaphorically and literally. Seriously, brides should stick to LED candles.
It takes ten minutes of crying and two deep breathing exercises before I’m able to discern the details of what’s caused this epic meltdown. The wedding photographer Meredith hired is currently in labor, and the backup is bedridden with the flu. With only three days until they walk down the aisle, and all the other decent photographers in the area booked for the season, I am her last resort.
“Can I have a minute to think about it? I just woke up,” I say, reaching into the medicine cabinet in search of aspirin. Instead of the usual hydrogen peroxide and nondescript Band-Aids that I find in single guys’ bathrooms, I’m greeted with a plethora of high-end skincare products. The pricey kind people steal from Equinox. I’m never one to judge a good skincare routine, but given that Hudson is typically sporting a rugged five-o’clock shadow, I find this a bit odd.
“Oh shit. I’m sorry. I remember you used to be a night-owl and I spaced on the time difference,” she explains. “Honestly, I thought I would be leaving all this on your voicemail.”
“Nothing like getting a jump-start on the day,” I assure her, unscrewing the Tylenol bottle and popping two pills into my mouth. I swallow them down with a handful of water, then splash my face. Reaching for the hand towel, I find that it’s embroidered with tiny foxes playing in a field of flowers. I imagine Hudsonwalking through a big-box store and spotting it on the shelf, coming up with names for each of the fictional foxes.
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency,” Meredith says, pulling at the soft spot in my heart.
When I first started my career, I was so excited for my friends to get engaged, to be able to be a part of their day as more than just a guest, and give them a lifetime of memories to cherish through my work. But watching Phoebe burn bridge after bridge, having to restructure her social circles anytime a so-called friend was unhappy with her event planning services, made me implement a rule to never cross professional and personal relationships. Of course, Phoebe convinced me that she was an exception to the rule, that nothing would ever come between us, that no other photographer would ever be able to capture her day the way she envisioned, so I caved. I fell for her flattery and put my faith in our friendship. But I know better than to repeat my mistake.
“I know it’s last minute, but I’ll pay double.”
“Meredith?”
“Really. My fiancé is rich. Like super rich. Please.”
With clients canceling left and right and bills piling up, I need the money.
“Where is it again?” I ask, already regretting considering this.
“Wyoming,” she replies, her voice a bit more upbeat. “At Grand Teton National Park. Have you heard of it?”
“Yeah. I’ve heard of it,” I say, knowing that it’s a dream destination for any wedding photographer.
“So, will you do it?” she asks, her voice pleading.
I take a moment to consider my options.
Meredith and I haven’t been close in a while, and if this wedding goes well, I could rebrand. Change my business name to something cutesy like Picture Perfect or Always in Focus, and start over far away from the blights of my past.
I’m about ready to pull the trigger when my shirt catches on the cabinet, pulling it open and causing a bunch of items to tumble onto the floor.
“Shit,” I say, bending down to clean up my mess.
