Chapter 12
The photographer clapped his hands twice and called for the bridal party. His voice cut through the low hum that had settled after they put my chair back at the table.
"Bridal party, let's grab that formal shot before sunset light is gone. Everybody together, right here against the floral wall."
I hadn't stood in twenty minutes. My chest still felt tight and shallow, and the bandana had slipped a fraction on my forehead. I pressed my palm flat on the table and pushed myself up. My knees locked, then softened again. I couldn't get my shoulders back. I stayed slumped even while standing, my weight pitched forward, my breath coming in that same labored way it had all afternoon.
The standing bridesmaid was beside me before I was fully upright. She didn't ask. She just slid her hand under my elbow, her other hand light on my lower back. Her light blue one-shoulder dress brushed against my strapless one. Same color, same fabric. We were supposed to match.
The bride was already in position. She'd smoothed her white sleeveless A-line gown, fixed the blonde low bun at her neck, and adjusted her pearl earrings without looking in a mirror. She touched the ring on her left hand and turned to us, her smile arriving all at once.
"Come on, right here. Close together. You two on either side of me," she said, and patted the air like she was arranging us.
We shuffled into place in front of the white floral arrangements. The backdrop the venue had set up, the gold chiavari chairs pushed aside just enough for the frame. The photographer lifted his camera, then lowered it.
"Great. Ladies, shoulders together, chin up. Big smiles for the bride," he said.
I tried. I pulled at the corners of my mouth and felt how thin it looked. My eyes wouldn't lift the same way. I was breathing through my mouth, and my head kept wanting to bow forward. I stared a little past the lens and felt my arms hang heavy at my sides.
The bride forced her smile wide. Her teeth showed, her cheeks lifted, but her eyes stayed hard. She crossed her arms for just a second, then remembered the pose and uncrossed them, putting one hand on her hip, the other hovering near my back without touching me. Her brow was still furrowed underneath the smile.
"Hold that, hold that," the photographer said. He stepped left, then right, checking the light from the chandeliers. "Ma'am in the middle, relax your shoulders a touch. And ma'am on the right—" he meant me "—if you can lift your chin half an inch, perfect."
The standing bridesmaid tightened her grip on my arm. She was doing visible work to keep me steady, her fingers white where she held me, her own breath steady and natural next to my uneven one. Her face held that shocked, open expression from earlier, now softened into something worried and trying to be brave for the camera.
The shutter clicked. Once, twice. Three times in quick succession.
"Beautiful. One more, everyone look right here," the photographer said, and clicked again.
He didn't comment on how we looked together. He didn't need to. The matching light blue dresses made the contrast worse, not better. Two women in the same color, one supported, one supporting, and between us a bride in white holding a smile that didn't reach her eyes. My slumped posture was obvious even in the pose. So was the way she leaned toward the camera and away from me at the same time.
The photographer checked the back of his camera. He scrolled with his thumb, then paused and turned the screen slightly so we could see.
"Preview looks great, ladies. Want to see?"
The bride stepped forward first. She leaned in, her pearl earring catching the chandelier light. The standing bridesmaid kept hold of me and we both looked.
The image told the truth.
I was pale, bent forward, my bandana slightly crooked, my mouth not quite a smile, my eyes glassy with effort. The bride beside me was perfectly composed and perfectly stern, her crossed-arm tension visible even with her hand on her hip, her disapproval frozen in the tightness around her mouth. The standing bridesmaid between us was caught mid-support, her eyes wide, her hand gripping my arm like she was afraid I'd fall if she let go.
None of us were smiling in the same way.
The bride stared at the little screen. Her forced smile faded in real time. She pressed her lips together. Her jaw moved once.
"Can you take another one?" she asked, her voice lower. "Maybe we adjust the—"
"We got a few sharp ones," the photographer said, neutral, professional. He didn't take sides. He just turned the screen off and lifted the camera again. "We can do one more if you'd like. Same positions."
She didn't answer right away. She looked from the blank screen to me, to the matching dress I wore, to the way I was still leaning on her other bridesmaid to stay upright. Something flickered across her face, a micro-expression I had seen all day, that slow eye movement followed by a tightening at the corner of her mouth. This time it stayed.
May you like
I didn't move. I couldn't fix the picture by standing straighter. My breathing filled the small silence.
"Okay. One more," she said finally, and stepped back into place, resetting her smile.
