When it was time for the group photo, I crouched down to pick up a lens cap that had fallen on the floor.
By the time I looked up, Carter Dickerson had already raised his camera and started shooting Pamela Matthews.
I started to move closer, but in the frame, there was no place left for me.
The coworkers around me laughed under their breath.
"Here we go again. The second Carter shoots Pamela, even the way he looks changes."
"This is what you call a photographer and his muse. Nobody gets it."
My fingers tightened around the lens cap.
Everyone said the two of them had a natural rapport.
But no one remembered that I was the girlfriend he'd been with for four years.
In four years, he'd taken over a thousand photos of me. Not one of them edited.
When I complained, he'd just ruffle my hair.
"It's not like your face is how you make a living. What's there to edit?"
"Natural looks best."
Then he'd turn around, open the software, and adjust Pamela's brows and the line of her face frame by frame.
Carefully completing a grand confession.
Watching his back, I suddenly understood.
It wasn't that other people had misread the two of them.
It was that I'd misread myself.
I was never going to be his lead.
...
Carter leaned out from behind the camera screen, his brow slightly furrowed.
"Violet Fox, can you move over a little?"
"The light here falls right on Pamela's face. The backers want to see this set, there's no room for mistakes."
He paused, then added,
"I'll take some of you separately later."
My fingers had gone numb. I said quietly,
"This was the spot we'd already arranged."
Carter sighed and walked over to me.
He reached out to ruffle my hair, and I turned my head away from his hand.
His tone took on a touch of impatience.
"Don't be difficult. Pamela's dress is a dark color today, she has to stand in the middle for the light."
He lowered his voice.
"Just work with me today, okay? Once this set clears, I'll make it up to you."
Pamela gave me an apologetic smile.
"Violet, why don't you take the middle? I really don't mind. Don't fight over me."
Carter turned, his voice going soft.
"We're not fighting. She's just a little tired today. Stay put, that angle's the most perfect."
I lowered my head and looked at the lens cap in my hand.
Then I quietly stepped back twice.
"Go ahead and shoot."
The shutter clicked again and again. Carter watched the screen, calling out poses now and then.
From start to finish, he didn't spare me another glance.
When the shoot wrapped, everyone suggested going out to eat together.
Carter smoothly took the prop umbrella out of Pamela's hands and turned to look at me.
"Let's get spicy Cajun. There's a new place up ahead."
I stood where I was and looked at him.
"My gastritis just settled down. I can't eat spicy this week."
Carter paused for a second.
Then he came over and slung an arm around my shoulders.
"Everyone says they want Cajun."
He stopped, then went on.
"That place has milder dishes too. I'll order you some oatmeal and soup, won't let you touch anything spicy. Just this once, okay?"
That night had been a group dinner too, the table full of spicy food.
We'd just gotten together, and to save face, I'd forced myself to take a bite.
In the middle of the night I curled up at the edge of the bed, shaking with pain.
Carter went white with fear and carried me on his back into the ER, never once letting go of my hand.
Afterward he wrote it carefully into the notes on his phone: Violet can't eat spicy, warm oatmeal when her stomach hurts.
Back then, he'd turn down everyone else's suggestions for me, with just one line: Violet can't handle it.
But now, he clearly remembered.
That arm of his felt so heavy I could barely breathe.
I nodded.
