Chapter 5: The Photographer Keeps Shooting
The pastor hadn't dismissed us. He'd just stepped back, which was worse because it left everyone frozen in the aisle with nowhere to look. I could hear the air conditioner humming against the stained glass and the soft click of the photographer's shutter still going.
He hadn't stopped. Not even after Margaret said her last line. He was up near the altar, crouched low, lens pointed straight down the aisle at us.
Emily noticed him at the same time I did. Her hand was still tight on her bouquet, knuckles white.
"Stop shooting," she whispered, but not to me this time. "Please stop shooting."
He didn't lower the camera. He took two more frames and then checked the back of it, his jaw tight.
Margaret turned toward him first. "Sir, I think we need a pause."
He stood, camera strap pulling at his neck. He was younger than I'd expected, maybe thirty, in a black button-down with the sleeves pushed up. He looked exhausted, like he'd been herding family photos since eight that morning.
"I understand this is a difficult moment," he said, his voice practiced and flat. "But I have a contract for eight hours and a shot list your daughter approved. If we don't keep the timeline, we lose light for formals. The deposit is non-refundable."
Emily's face changed at the word deposit. A little color came back. "My shot list," she repeated.
He nodded and came down the two steps from the altar, flipping through a printed sheet on his clipboard as he walked toward her. He held it out.
I could see it over the arm of my wheelchair. It was laminated, with little boxes checked off. Bride prep. Groom prep. First look. Bridal party - and there, under Bridal party, it was printed in neat type: Maid of Honor (Emily's friend Jessica), Bridesmaids (three names), Flower girl. My name wasn't on it. Not anywhere. On the family formals section, he'd written in pen: Mother of bride, Father of bride, Bride + Groom, Groom's parents. No sister.
Emily didn't look at me when I saw it. She looked at the paper.
"It was just for organization," she said quickly. "We have a lot of combinations and I didn't want to—"
"You excluded me from the pictures before I even got here," I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
The photographer shifted his weight. "We can add a grouping if you want. But honestly, Claire, the window for the natural light portraits is closing. We need to decide if we're shooting or not."
It was then I felt the draft on my arm. I looked down at my left sleeve, the blue lace that I'd spent an hour steaming that morning in the vestry bathroom. The lace at the elbow had caught on something, probably the rough white end of the pew when Margaret had stepped forward and I'd flinched back. It had torn, a clean two-inch pull, and the threads were frayed open against my scarred skin. It wasn't big. It was just ruined.
I ran my thumb over it without thinking. The lace snagged.
"Mom texted Aunt Linda the video," Emily said suddenly, holding her phone out toward the photographer like it explained something. "Someone in the second pew recorded when Margaret— when she— and now my mom sent it to family. What if they post it?"
The photographer glanced at the phone and then back at his camera. "That's exactly why I should keep documenting. You want your own record of what actually happened."
He lifted the camera again, just slightly. I saw the red light.
Something in my chest went tight. I didn't want that moment saved. Not the way I'd looked with my head bowed while my sister told me to disappear, not Margaret's face over mine, not Emily staring past me. I didn't want that to be the picture someone found later and forwarded.
"Please delete the aisle shots," I said.
The photographer blinked. "What?"
"The ones from the last five minutes. In the aisle. Where I'm— where you can see me crying." I had to pause to breathe. "Delete them. Please."
He frowned. "Claire, those are part of the event. I don't delete in-camera during a wedding. It's in my contract that I retain—"
"I'm not asking as the bride," I said. "I'm asking as the person in them. You don't have my permission to keep them."
It got quiet again. Emily stared at me. Margaret didn't move, but I felt her hand rest lightly on the back of my wheelchair, not pushing, just there.
The photographer looked from me to Emily, calculating. Then he sighed and lowered the camera. He hit a few buttons and turned the screen away so we couldn't see.
"I'm pausing," he said, finally. "I'll hold off on shooting and we'll flag those frames for review later. But I'm telling you, Emily, your Pinterest timeline is gone. We can't get the church empty again, we can't get that morning light back, and if we do a reset it's going to be late and messy. You need to decide what kind of day you want to have now."
Emily's hands were shaking. She held the shot list and her bouquet and her phone, too many things at once. Her perfect schedule, printed and laminated, was suddenly useless.
May you like
She looked at me, then at the tear in my sleeve, then at the aisle where everyone was still watching.
"I don't know," she whispered.
