“It’s fine,” he says.
The photographer’s looking back and forth between us. “Do you, um…need veto power over the photos?” It’s a tentative offer, like she doesn’t normally make it, or she’s afraid of offending us.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing them, if you’re willing,” Jason says. He doesn’t sound like he’s about to demand she delete any.
She tilts the camera toward him so that he can see the thumbnail images on the tiny screen. She scrolls through them and Jason says nothing until she gets to the last set, the half dozen or so where my arms are around Jason and we look we’re the marrying couple.
“Those,” he points. “Would you send those to me and not to Kelsey? I’ll pay you separately for them.”
“Um…okay. Sure.”
“Kelsey can have the others where we’re standing next to each other. I know she’ll love them. You take beautiful shots.” He gives her his contact information, shakes her hand, and tells both of us he’ll see us at the reception. Then he strides off toward the resort’s flower gardens, away from the gazebo, from Kelsey and Adrienne, the photographer, and me.
The photographer looks at me. “It’s none of my business,” she says, “but if you’re not already tapping that, you should. That man is absolutely smitten with you.”
She can hardly know this from taking a handful of photos of us.
Except she continues, “I take a lot of photos of people who are supposedly in love with each other. I know what the real thing looks like when I see it.”
With that, she slings her camera bag over her shoulder and heads off to catch up with the girls on their way to the reception.
Thirty-Four
Jason
My heart pounds and my pulse echoes in my ears as I run away from the photographer and Victor.
Because that’s what I’m doing. Running away. From Victor, from the sight of those intimate photos of us, from my feelings.
I drop down onto a small stone bench surrounded by flowers. I have no idea what kind of flowers they are, though I recognize them from the little bouquets that sit as centerpieces on the dining tables in the restaurant. I’m out of sight of the gazebo or the restaurant but I can faintly hear the small live band the girls engaged getting ready in the bar.
There’ll be a dance for me and Kelsey, while Victor dances with Adrienne, and then we’ll swap the brides. I need to get over there.
In a few minutes.
There’ll be more photos of the girls and me, the girls and Victor, and unless I go out of my way to never stand within a camera’s frame of him, probably more photos of me and Victor.
I bend forward and put my head in my hands. Hail Mary, full of grace… I race through the rest of the prayer silently in an effort to center and calm myself.
There’s nothing wrong with those photos. We’re fully clothed, we’re not kissing or doing anything compromising. We’re just two men standing next to each other at our daughter’s wedding.
With our arms around each other.
And holy Mother of God, the way Victor was looking at me…
The way I looked at him…
The only people who will have these photos are me and the photographer. Kelsey showed me the contract with her. She selects two or three photos from each session to add to the portfolio on her website, but she tells the bride which photos she selects and Kelsey can veto her choices if she wants. She’ll surely choose photos with Kelsey in them and not any of the photos she took of just me and Victor.
And she agreed to send the last set of photos to just me.
There’s no way those photos should come to the attention of the parish or the bishop. Not if the photographer and I keep them to ourselves and I have no reason to think she would betray a paying client.
I’m on my third or fourth repetition of the prayer in the back of my mind and it’s helping. My heart rate slows and I feel like I can finally breathe normally. Everything will be fine. It is fine.
I’m fine.
And Blessed Virgin and all the saints, Victor is fine. Fine as in so handsome it hurts to look at him. It was my idea to have photos of the two of us taken, so that I can remember what it’s been like to be with him this week.
