Through Your Lens

Breaking down in the middle of the highway is typically frowned upon. Unfortunately, my car didn’t get the memo. It screeched to a halt without warning, and I barely made it to the side of the road. Now I’m running late to the gig I’m counting on to pay this month’s rent, breathing in the reek of burnt rubber as a never-ending stream of honking vehicles stampedes at my side.

I’d love to disappear into the ditch to my right, but that wouldn’t get me to work any faster. And you can’t put off a wedding. Late arrivals lead to bad reviews and fewer gigs. Then I’m one step closer to losing my apartment and moving into this junker. Or worse, back to Seattle, and Mom.

Hey, God? Universe? Anyone? I could really use a favor.The thought of car repairs depleting my already pathetic bank account makes me want to sob.

Someone taps the passenger side window, making me swivel so quickly my neck cramps. A man—late twenties like me, if I had to guess—tilts his head to the side, sending shoulder-length brown hair tumbling over his face. Dark eyes meet my own and he mouths something. Something I can’t hear because I’m too focused on the way his gaze bores into me and a long-dormant flutter in my stomach.

Not exactly what I had in mind when I asked for a favor, but beggars can’t be choosers. I crack the window. “Sorry, can I help you?”

The man laughs. “Actually, that’s what I was going to ask you. Everything okay?” His voice is light with a hint of vocal fry that reminds me of pebbles skipping over water.

Everything’s fantastic,my brain mocks.I broke down in the middle of morning traffic just for the hell of it.“My car died,” I say.

“Figured as much, yeah. Need a jump?” He points to a dust-coated red sedan ten feet behind us.

Two choices: I can either let a complete stranger mess with my car or continue twisting the key into the ignition to no avail. I glance back at the packed highway. Unless this guy is completely deranged, I doubt he’d try anything stupid in broad daylight. “Do you have cables?”

“I do.” He pushes off from the window’s edge. “Let me get those for you.”

I keep my eyes locked on him as he walks back, pulls up to my car, and digs around in his trunk. If Mom knew I was letting a stranger—let alone a man—help me, she’d throw a fit.

The man holds up the cables in triumph, and, with narrowed eyes and his tongue caught between his teeth, disappears behind my popped hood. Through the gap I catch glimpses of his forearms flexing under rolled-up sleeves.

He pokes his head out. “I’m gonna start my engine,” he says, ducking into his car. It rumbles to life, and he exits, crouching to my window again. “You’ll want to give it a few minutes first.” His gaze drifts to the camera bags at my side. “Wait, are you a photographer?”

My grip on the steering wheel loosens. “Oh. Yeah. Running late to a wedding at the moment, so you’re kind of saving my ass here.”

He grins, highlighting a dimple on his left cheek. “What are the odds? I do wedding photography, too. You belong to a studio, or do the freelance thing?”

“Freelance,” I say. “Usually work on my own.”

“Ahh, there are definitely perks to freelancing. I work for a studio, but we only shoot in partners. Does help to have someone to cover any shots you might miss, though.”

He’s not wrong. Shooting weddings alone is doable, but tough. I usually only pull smaller gigs with lower budgets as a result.

The man glances at his watch. “Hey, try giving it a start now.”

I turn the key again. After seconds, the engine finds the will to live. I slump forward in relief and check the time. 8:46 a.m. I’m expected in less than fifteen minutes. If I straddle the line between driving like a complete maniac and crashing, I just might make it. “Thank you so much,” I say, trying and failing not to notice how the sun hits his warm brown eyes. “I, uh, really do have to get going, though.”

Holding up his hands, he nods. “No worries. Don’t want to make you late. Good luck.” He disconnects the cables, disappears into his sedan, and tosses me a wave as he pulls off the shoulder. It isn’t until after he leaves that I realize I didn’t get his name.

Well, it’s not like I’ll ever see him again.

I adjust the rearview mirror, looking for a gap in traffic, then rejoin the flow. My foot doesn’t leave the gas pedal until I peel into the venue’s parking lot. And, to my credit, the tires only screech a little this time. I’ve shot a few weddings here—it’s a typical country club coupled with a sprawling golf course in the back. Hopefully no one’s playing today. I really don’t need another bride nailed with a stray golf ball. That photo did not make it into the final album.

9:03 a.m. I take 30 seconds to breathe, to don the disguise of someone whose life isn’t coming apart at the seams. I think the disguise itself is coming apart at the seams, but it’s the best I’ve got.

A minute later, I rush inside, where the wedding coordinator is pacing. She snaps to attention, fingers tangled in her hair. “Miss Fisher? Finally!”

“I’m so, so sorry. Did you get my—”

“Yes, yes. The brides are in their dressing rooms. Get there, please.”

After hundreds of weddings the details tend to blur. My camera clicks nonstop as we move through the day and everything crescendos when the brides recite their vows. They’re achingly sweet, filled with words of nostalgia, devotion, and promise.

Moments like this are what I live for. The world’s overflowing with beauty if you know where to look—it’s my chosen purpose to keep it alive with photos. Weddings embody these gorgeous flickers in time, and I took to them naturally. Of course, they pay more than other gigs, but that’s just a perk. Mostly.

The newlyweds kiss and a pang seizes my heart. They’re so in love. It’s devastatingly obvious, how they cradle each other’s cheeks, how their eyes shine. My camera goes quiet, gripped tight in my hands. Here in this crowd of happy people, I might as well be alone. The last time I loved someone, he ghosted me after three years. I came home from a gig to an abandoned apartment with half the furniture missing. No note, no explanation. A blocked phone number. A month later, I sold most of my stuff and moved here.

At least today’s going well for the brides.

In the limbo between ceremony and reception, I duck into a corner of the country club’s bustling banquet hall and check my email. I’ve been applying to studios and part-time jobs for weeks, trying to keep myself afloat. As usual, my inbox is empty, but I do have a text from Mom.Emeline. Have you thought about my offer?

“This is really not the fucking time,” I mutter. Like clockwork, she pressures me to return to Seattle every few weeks. I shove the phone into my pocket. Right now, I have bigger things to focus on.

The oak doors burst open, announcing the brides’ arrival, and loud cheers mix with my camera’s continuous shutter as I frame their first dance. Moments like these make for great albums.

Rogue golf balls, not so much.

After hundreds of photos spanning speeches, dancing, a bouquet toss, and more, I wipe my forehead. Wedding photography is my dream job. How can I not love capturing people on one of the happiest days of their lives or resist getting caught up in their joy?

That’s why I have my rules: to keep my inner hopeless romantic under careful lock and key. Rule One: Trust Sparingly. Rule Two: Keep Secrets Close. And, most importantly, Rule Three: Don’t Fall in Love Again.

They’ve kept me safe for a year. I can shoot weddings, hovering on the edge of their collective energy like a hummingbird, poised to dart off when things get too real. But I am not allowed to get tangled in matters of the heart again. Not if I want my own to stay intact.

After a few more candids, I glance at the clock, check in with the wedding coordinator, and make my exit. The cool breeze is a welcome change from the warm, crowded country club. My car’s worn polyester seats feel heavenly after being on my feet all day. Yet my inbox—still empty—taunts me. Another text from Mom:Hello??? Emeline, you can’t keep running from this. Answer me.

I’d rather walk barefoot on broken glass, actually, but thanks. I fit my key into the ignition and give it a cautious turn. Miraculously, it works. Mystery Roadside Man really saved the day. My drive home is uneventful unless you count an old lady flipping me the bird for the crime of stopping at a stop sign. Even after a year in Canterra Bay, I still haven’t mastered the infamous California rolling stops.

Staggering into my apartment, I drop everything on the table and push aside a pile of unopened bills, ignoring the bright red FINAL NOTICE stamps. Ansel, my cat, paws at his food dish, sending it clattering across the chipped tile floor.

Though this tiny studio was all I could afford, having the ocean within walking distance makes the cramped quarters and ancient kitchen more than worth it. But as a freelancer in a saturated market, my wallet’s been feeling the pinch more and more.

Returning to Seattle like Mom wants, though? Giving up my independence? Not an option. My hands drift to my phone, and I check my inbox again. Which—and it takes a second to process—is not empty for once. At the top, there’s a message sent fifteen minutes ago from a Gloria at Forever After Studios. The subject reads: “Opportunity.” I blink at the screen. I applied to Forever After weeks ago, not expecting a reply. A fancy studio hiring a random freelancer? Not likely.

My therapist, Karl, would frown if he could hear my thoughts. My best friend Sara nudged me into seeing him a few months ago, mentioning his sliding-scale payments. He’d give me one of his patented pep talks, insisting defeatism will get me nowhere, and, as much as I don’t want to admit it, Karl usually has a point. I open the email with bated breath.

Emeline,

Though your portfolio is lovely, we haven’t had any openings. However, I may have some temporary work for you. One of our photographers took a leave of absence, and we need someone to fill in for him until he comes back. You’d partner with Theo—take a look at his portfolio on our website. I’d love to chat soon. Tomorrow, if possible. Please reply if you’re interested.

Gloria

The text burns itself into my vision. I scroll their website. Theo’s profile consists of his portfolio and a short blurb. There’s no picture of him, but he’s my age, and has worked with the studio for almost a year. His photos are well-composed. Maybe a little simple in edits, but he has a clear talent for capturing people naturally. His portfolio’s peppered with photos of the ocean—a mirror to my own.

Trying to balance the line between professional and desperate, I wait five minutes and respond with my availability. Which is pretty much fully open.

Gloria responds minutes after I do, asking me to come to the studio at 2 p.m. tomorrow, listing its address before her signature. I let out a little laugh and tilt my head back. Maybe someone’s watching out for me, after all.Whoever you are—God, bits of stardust, anyone? Please let this work out.

It’s either this or risking Seattle. I don’t think I can handle the latter.

***

The next afternoon, my car door creaks as I climb in and stuff my bags into the passenger seat. “Okay, buddy,” I say. “Work for me and I’ll treat you to a fancy car wash. Deal?” I turn the key, and the engine makes the most pathetic noise I’ve ever heard—something between a sigh and a whine. On the next turn, nothing. Completely flatlined.You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I snatch my things and sprint to the nearest bus stop. To my relief, the #22 pulls up seconds later. It’ll get me within walking distance of the studio. Riders and the driver alike stare as I scramble up the steps, mashing my pay card. Music blares from phone speakers, mixing with people’s mingled conversations, and the smell of pot hangs thick in the air. I grip the spare perfume bottle I keep in my purse. Might have to dump it on myself so I don’t show up smelling like a hotboxed car.

With impeccable timing, my mother calls. Though I’m tempted to not answer, it’d only piss her off more than I have ignoring her last two texts. “Hi, Mom, can’t talk right now. I’m on my way to—”

“It’s about time you pick up! Have you thought about my offer yet?” she asks, as if her offer is a shiny new thing and not the same question she’s been pushing for eleven months. Mom heads the fashion division for Florence, a department store back in Seattle. She wants me to move back and work for her. Much to her chagrin, I don’t.

“I can’t talk right now,” I repeat, emphasizing each word. “I’m on my way to an interview with a studio. Later, okay?”

Mom clicks her tongue. “How much longer are you going to keep wasting your time on wedding photography? You do realize half the couples you photograph will—”

“As long as it takes. Bye.” She’ll have words about my short replies, but I’ll burn that bridge when I get there.

We stop a block away from the studio with five minutes to spare. My kitten heels click on concrete as I rush onto the sidewalk, spritzing myself with perfume. Two minutes later, the office looms in front of me—a tall, glassy building, all sharp lines and blinding reflections. I bump my hip against the revolving door and step into a lobby with a row of chrome elevators.

Forever After’s on the tenth floor, according to a large sign on the wall. My stomach flips enough to rival a gymnast as the elevator swooshes up and opens with a soft hiss. To the right, a placard bearing the studio’s logo rests next to the office’s glass walls. A silver-haired woman—Gloria, I assume—sits behind a computer desk, sipping from a teacup. She’s wearing a black pantsuit with tortoiseshell glasses perched upon her head. Total Miranda Priestly vibes. Hopefully she’s nicer. I knock on the open door.

“Come in!” The room is small, just enough to fit her desk, a couple chairs in front, and another door in the back. “Emeline, thank you for coming,” she says, with a slight Southern lilt. “I’m Gloria.” I stride forward and extend my hand, but she pulls me into a bone-crushing hug instead, causing me to cough out a wheezing laugh. She smells like roses, and, God, I hope I don’t reek of weed.

“Might be good to not suffocate the new girl, Glor.” Gloria releases me, and I stumble, grabbing her desk. A man gazes at us from one of the chairs. Brown eyes, an aquiline nose, and dark wavy hair reaching his shoulders. An unmistakable warmth radiates from him as if he holds all the heat of the sun. It’s almost too much, like being stuck under a spotlight.

I freeze. “Wait, aren’t you...?”