Page 68 of Slapshot Bride

She's in the cream blouse she bought at Valentina’s, the one that looks like it was made for her, and the jeans in the faded indigo. Her hair is down. The freckles are out in full. She looks like she slept well.

“No practice today?”

“Rest day,” I grin.

“Lucky you. My guess is you’ll be at the home gym?”

“Actually, I was thinking we could get out of the house today. Somewhere quiet.”

She starts shaking her head.

“Hey, trust me. It’s private. No public appearances.”

Her eyes narrow on me. She wraps both hands around the mug. Her eyes move to the window.

“No cameras?”

“Except this one.” I push the bag I’d dropped on the counter toward her. Her eyes take in the bag. Then they return to mine. “Come on, open it,” I grin.

She’s skeptical, but she reaches for it and opens it. Slowly, she pulls out the old camera. The one I drove out to get an hour ago, at the garage sale.

“E-Easton…”

“It’s yours, sweetheart. Something to begin with, while you find your rhythm.”

“N-no…” she shakes her head and steps away from the counter, leaving the camera. “I can’t. You can’t… I don’t need…”

“Shhhh…” I’m by her side, wrapping my arms around her. “You need it, Riley. It’s not exactly the ideal one, but it’ll make for a good start.”

“No.” A lone tear rolls down her cheeks. “I can’t accept this. Can’t afford it.”

I cup her face and gently tip her chin up until she looks at me, brushing the tear away with my thumb.

God, this woman is stubborn.

Doesn’t she understand yet that I don’t give a fuck about the money?

“Riley, it was fifty dollars at a garage sale. You need it.” I keep my voice soft. “And if it makes you feel better, you can pay me back later. Okay?”

She looks past me to the camera still sitting on the counter, and her arms circle my waist. She presses her face to my chest.

“Thank you.” The words are barely audible, but I hear them.

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” I kiss her head. “Now, finish your meal, and we’ll begin our day. You can test your new camera, and start fine-tuning those skills.”

Thereafter, I watch her eat and occasionally steal from her plate, but she lets me. When she’s done, she grabs the camera, and we head out to begin our day outdoors.

The place is a stretch of state park trail that runs east of the city, the kind that doesn't show up on the popular hiking apps because the access road is unmarked and the parking area is a dirt lot with a hand-painted sign that looks like it was made by someone’s grandfather in 1987.

Kai showed it to me two seasons ago. I have come here maybe a dozen times, alone, usually when the noise of everything gets too loud, and I need somewhere that has no reception and no reason to have it.

We drive in comfortable silence. She has the window down, her elbow on the sill, watching the city thin out into scrub brush and the long dry gold of the hills.

When we park, she gets out, stretches, looks at the trail ahead, and breathes in like she's remembering what air is supposed to taste like, outside a home.

I hand her the camera, and she takes it. Her eyes travel around the expanse of land, and I patiently wait for her to begin, or decide where to start from.

For the first ten minutes, she doesn't shoot. She holds the camera down at her side and walks beside me on the trail, talking a little, pointing at things, doing everything except lifting it