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“Nate!”
“No, Devon, Dad is already having an anxiety attack. Mom sees her unicorns and rainbow shit. I want him to prove himself. That’s all I ask. Make sure he deserves you.”
Bryce starts laughing, gripping Nate’s shoulder. “Not even a week and already anxiety attacks? What happens when—”
“Shut your shithole. My dad will hang you. Just be glad you already have family love, don’t push it.”
Bryce nods with a glimmer in his eye and Nate looks at me wearily then leaves us.
“I, for one, am not having anxiety attacks. I look forward to everything involved,” my mom says behind me as she winks at Bryce. When she’s gone his stare grows heated.
“You look amazing. Absolutely gorgeous.” His fingers wipe gently down my cheek in an intimate gesture.
“Thanks, you too. Going for the Johnny Cash look in all black?” I squeak, trying to ignore the tingling his touch causes.
“Yeah, something like that. I want our pictures to be good.”
“I’ll do a great shot with you and your parents promise.”
“Babe, I know you will. But I meant us, you and me.”
I open my mouth to respond and Sheila bustles into the room in a frenzy. “Bryce, you need to confirm our reservations. Your dad and the rest of the guys are useless.”
“Got it, Mom.”
“Bryce?”
“Mom, I need a minute with my girl. Can you do that?”
I swear I hear a sniffle, but my eyes are locked with his. He captures me with the deep gaze. The room is silent but a buzz of electricity radiates around us.
“Is this really happening?” I ask.
“Absolutely. Every moment of today and hopefully everyday forward will be about us.”
“I need time, this is crazy.”
“You have time, then. As much as you need.”
“Should we join our families?”
“Yes, but don’t get weird on me. I need my Devon.”
I swallow hard and push back the tears and anxiety. How the hell did this happen?
I nod and we head to the living room to celebrate Christmas.
~~~~~
“Devon, are you done yet?” my brother asks me annoyed.
“Just one more.” I adjust the camera and run back to the group.
This should be the last picture, if everyone’s eyes stay open. It’s not my fault I’m compulsive about pictures. To me, the lens of a camera tells a story without words. That’s why I specifically chose photojournalism as my major, instead of just journalism. My words usually build on the image, not the other way around.
Once the shot snaps, everyone breaks up and heads inside while I look back through the images. Bryce comes up behind me and settles his chin on my shoulder.
“You got some great ones.”
