Page 6 of Freefall

“Yes.”

“Perfect.” She writes it down in her notebook.

This goes on for the next twenty minutes. She asks me a question, and I attempt to answer it based on what I think Emory would want because I still haven’t checked her email. I can’t bring myself to look at anything other than the woman sitting in front of me. Halfway through, Harper starts chewing on the pen again, and when I shoot her a stern look, she has the audacity to smirk.

“Do you have any questions for me?” she finally says, removing the pen and putting it in her purse.

If that’s not the most loaded question I’ve ever heard.

Do I have questions for Harper Daniels? Is the fucking sky blue?

“No.”

“No?” She tilts her head to the side. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, well, if you want to check out my portfolio, you can get a better idea of the style of editing you want. Then we can do a walk-through of the location and scout out any spots you’d like to use. I know you said you want to go with lifestyle photos, but it might be nice to do a few poses on the beach before the ceremony.”

She hauls a giant book from her never-ending bag that would make Mary Poppins jealous and sets it on the table with a thud.

I want to tell her I don’t need to look at her portfolio, that she can send sample pictures to Emory, but something almost primal forces my hands to accept the book she offers me. I open the cover and flip through the first few pages, taking in the vibrant colors and captivating moments she’s captured. Most of the photos are of couples holding hands, gazing longingly at one another, their love and affection almost palpable. Some of the brides wear elaborate dresses with fairytale veils and trains, while others are simple and understated.

There’s one photo that catches my eye—a man whispering into a woman's ear. Her smile is wide, her eyes shimmering, and for a second, I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment. It looks like it could have been a pose, a carefully crafted moment, except that they’re not in front of a beautiful backdrop. They’re standing off to the side, almost forgotten, while the bridal party is posing, presumably waiting for their picture to be taken. To anyone else, it might look like they’re passing the time, waiting for the next photo, but Harper captured the moment perfectly. She turned something mundane, a fleeting instant, into something beautiful.

“I remember that wedding,” she says, clearly noticing that I had been lingering on that picture. “They were so in love.”

I clear my throat, and as I continue to flip through the pages, I’m struck by the way she’s able to tell a story through her photos, to convey emotion and mood without needing words. She was always talented, but it’s clear that she’s poured her heart and soul into this portfolio.

I turn the next page expecting more of the same, but instead of happy couples decked out in fancy wedding attire, there’s a photo of a shirtless man kneeling in front of a woman wearing lingerie, taking a garter off her thigh with his teeth. She’s smiling down at him, and he’s looking up at her like he’s about to swallow her whole.

Instantly, my mind wanders to the first time Harper took pictures of me. We were in bed when she suddenly jumped out and grabbed her camera. I asked her what she was doing, but she didn’t say anything for a while. Instead, she draped the blankets so that only my cock was covered.

This may be the most vulnerable I ever see you. I want to capture it. Is that okay?

“Some couples opt for boudoir photos before the wedding day,” she says, bringing me back to the present. “It’s an option if you⁠—”

“No,” I say quickly, my fists clenching at the thought that she routinely photographs half-naked men. Taking semi-nude photos of me was one thing, but anyone else—my best friend of all people? No fucking way. The mere thought makes me want to bend her over this picnic table and show her what happens when she gets herself into trouble.

But no, that’s not right. That’s not who we are anymore. We’re strangers now.

“Noted,” she replies, but she doesn’t write anything down this time. “Well then, should we check out the space?”

“No, that’s okay. I think I have the gist.”

“Are you sure because⁠—”

“I’m sure,” I say, with maybe a little more force than necessary.

She pauses, then glances over my shoulder at the beach behind us. “Look, Nate, if this is too weird, I can recommend⁠—”

“It’s fine. You can go ahead and send Emory the quote, and we’ll be in touch.”

“Okay,” she says softly, her earlier confidence dissipating a little.

“Goodbye, Harper.” I turn on my heel to walk back to my car, but I don’t make it very far.

“Nate,” she calls out, taking a few steps toward me. I turn around, raising an eyebrow. “I just…”