Abby hadn’t liedabout the close distance between the hotel and the restaurant where they were having a rehearsal dinner; Sarah followed a group of scattered guests on the short walk along the curve of the two-lane road to a restaurant a half a kilometer away, her camera bag slung heavily over her shoulder, feeling grateful for her practical shoes.
The road hugged close to the sea, and she was soon surrounded by the quiet wash of sound from the pounding surf, interrupted only by the occasional call of gulls or the hum of a rare passing car. The smell of tangled seaweed brought her back to childhood: the isolation and poverty of her home province, its insularity and quiet beauty. She had spent her teenage years driving the short trip from her town to the coast with her two best friends. They would climb on the rocks and throw pebbles into the waves, talking about their plans to escape. She had first kissed a boy on a rocky beach like this one, their lives feeling achingly full of potential.
She paused and swung her camera out to capture the guests drifting like scattered seabirds in the last light of sunset, her heart heavy with a feeling she couldn’t place.
Grief, she thought. She was grieving.
After she took the photo, she registered someone standing close to her. Ren was behind her, only a couple of steps away, dressed in his usual charcoals and greys, a fancy camera bag on his shoulder.
“Nice capture,” he said quietly, and the phrase infuriated her. He did photography for a living, now. And she hadn’t even known.
“We should talk about how we want to handle this,” she said briskly. “Do you want to shoot the rehearsal dinner and I’ll do the wedding? I don’t want them to feel overwhelmed by too much camera presence. There are only about twenty guests, so we should keep a light touch.”
“True,” he said, smiling at her professional tone. “How about you do the rehearsal dinner and I do the wedding?”
She shot him a look. This seemed vaguely insulting, especially given that he only seemed to shoot stars and mountains. “Have you shot a wedding before?”
“Well, no…”
“Have you shot people?”
“I was a journalist.” He smiled even more.
Of course. He was perfectly qualified for this, just as much as she was. Still, she had shot her friend Anya’s wedding years before. “I’ve shot a wedding, so I think I can handle the ceremony and reception.”
“Do you not want me to shoot?” He was giving her an odd look. “I just wanted you to be able to relax and enjoy yourself.”
“Well, I’m not doing that either way, so it doesn’t matter.”
His frowned. “Why not? Do you not like Abby?” His green eyes regarded her keenly.
“No! No, not at all. I like her. I’m honestly just…” She sighed. “I’m not terribly optimistic about weddings these days.”
“Ah.” He nodded.
They had arrived at the restaurant and paused, stepping to one side.
“Okay, we can both shoot,” she said, her eyes fixed on the ground so she didn’t have to see his thoughtful expression. “You decide how to divide things up.”
He nodded. “Sure. I would like to talk to you at some point, too. Maybe after dinner?”
Oh, no.
Was he going to make the apology that she had been owed all these years? She didn’t want it anymore. She didn’t want to feel anything else right now. What she was feeling already was more than enough.
“Ren,” she said, “you don’t owe me an explanation for…Everything that happened was a long time ago.”
His eyes were full of something she couldn’t read. Mischief? Pity? It was frustrating sometimes, trying to get a lock on him. “I’d like to talk to you all the same,” he said.
We’re not friends anymore,she wanted to shout, but she couldn’t get the words out. That would be a little too unkind. She was a grown-up, so she was going to have to let him hurt her one more time.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “We can talk later.” He smiled at her with more affection than he had a right to, so she turned away and walked into the building.
The restaurant was small and unfussy, the kind of place that sold fried clam platters and lobster rolls, though the separate dining room reserved for the event had been nicely decorated with flowers for the occasion. The evening seemed relaxed: there were around fifteen people at dinner, a few bottles of wine on a table in the corner, and trays of food arranged to one side: lobster rolls, pasta, and steamed mussels. Quiet pop music played. She got out her camera and stood to one side, taking some establishing pictures of the space, the room, the view.
One good thing could be said for photography: it took your attention away from yourself. For the next few minutes, she was framing shots, checking focus, and adjusting her exposure. Everyone in her shots was laughing and happy. Everyone was a portrait of joy.
Then her lens found Ren chatting with a petite blond woman with punk rock hair and a lace dress. Sarah recognized the woman vaguely as Lisette, a friend of Paul’s from his improv comedy group in St. John’s. She had met Lisette at Christmas a couple of years ago and knew her to be a close friend of Paul’s. An old jealousy rose up—an ancient hostility towards any other woman talking to Ren—and Sarah shook it off. He could sleep with Lisette if he wanted to. He had been willing to sleep with anyone but Sarah, so she should be used to it by now.
