by Tarin Lex
When the man of my dreams isn’t writing, he reads a lot, cooks a lot, and ventures into the woods alone or with me and Rhett. We make love… the kind of love that can reach a soul and also make your toes curl. I don’t mean to make you blush, but to make sure you find it too, when you’re older. Your dad and I have endless things to talk about when he wants to talk. I’d spend every minute with him if I could, but I get that he needs longer moments of solitude. You might need that, too. On occasion he cozies up with me when I know he’d rather be alone, and it makes me smile. Life’s a fine balance of give and take, Babygirl. Give and take and loving each moment for what it is.
I smell breakfast-for-dinner coming closer, and you strike my tummy on cue. Ha! All that prodding and waiting, when all you needed was pancakes. I should’ve known!
Babygirl, I love you more than life.
Yours forever,
Mommy
I set aside my journal and look up at Steele, as Rhett follows the warm aroma in its wake. Sweet dog. I’d been anxious for Rhett’s reaction to the life growing inside me, but he’s unaware or unimpressed. Not like those precious YouTube videos. Darn that.
“How’re my girls doin’?” Steele asks with a grin. On reflex he tics his shoulder up and around to stretch. The wound healed pretty fast and without further issue, but there is still scar tissue he has to work loose.
I smile back, laying my hands over my bump. “Hungry.” I flick my gaze from the tray of delights to the rest of him as he sets it on my thighs, from his handsome face to his nice, firm…ooh my, I swear this man is sexy as sin.
“And horny,” I purr, and he pins me with a kindling look. “That last one is only me, of course.” What is it about the third trimester? When I’m not feeling like a globe, I’m insatiable for sex.
Steele leans over me, clearing his throat, and lays a hand over mine over my bump. “I’ll see to every last one of your needs, Trigger.” His low growl sends shivers down my neck and chest. “Feed our daughter first. She’ll need all the energy she can get to…lead the Resistance.”
“Holy shit.” My heart frisks. “Is that an official assent?”
He kisses my nose. “It’s the perfect badass name. Now, eat.” For the first time Rhett scoots our hands with his wet nose to nuzzle it briefly against my belly.
And then there were three.
Is this the real life? Before Steele can move away I wrap my hands over his traps and tug him toward me to smash his lips over mine. The kiss warms me to my toes. There’s so much passion in his voice, his mouth, his touch—and one great big promise. I break apart long enough to catch a breath.
“I love you so damn much, Steele Trent.”
“I love you to the moon. I will forever, Elsa Dean.”
The End
2 | Asher
“I am in the moment! It’s a terrible moment!”
-Spiderman
One
Asher
I could’ve become a watchmaker like my dad. I could do a lot worse than to follow in his footsteps. Dad took pride in his work, and we took pride in him—‘we’ being Mom, me, my older brother Hale, and Hale’s daughter Khadija. The man was like a wizard with watches. Shattered face? Take it to Mr. Kostas for fixin’. Stopped ticker? You’re in good hands with Mr. Kostas, he’s practically a heart surgeon.
For a while I thought he actually kept time, or protected it. Maybe he said that to me one day or maybe I believed it on my own. Dad’s own ticker could never stop or the world would end. And it did, and it did. For a time. Five years later I can still hear his deep laugh, still smell the polish and ash and maple wood of his shop.
Hale kept the worktable. I got Dad’s watch. A water-resistant black-and-gold Omega in loved condition, but with a new midnight-blue wrist strap I bought to make it mine. A damn fine timepiece.
I feel like him now, in a way, standing in a shadowed corner facing a shaft of wan light I’ll be using to my advantage soon. It’s almost time for the band to welcome the Harringtons as husband and wife for the first time. It’s a snazzy reception. The ceremony was quaint, sunnier than I prefer, but nice. I’m cleaning my Nikon for round two, pausing to snap a few candid shots of the attendants, with my heavier Canon strapped to my side. One is good for action and speed, the other for bringing small or faraway details into focus. In life and photography, I like to have both.
There will be almost 200 guests here tonight, most of them arrived already and keeping the bartender very busy. I’m the only one wearing all black except for the bride’s new mother-in-law. I’m not curious enough to wonder about the story there. Some of them mistake me for one of the bodyguards. Maybe in another life. In this one I keep moments, not people, safe. Each click a memory held.
Dad would be proud. He left me with his entrepreneurial spirit. He gave Hale the deeper tan and four more years I wish I could’ve had with him. My brother and Mom and I have stayed close, along with my teenaged niece. Mom and I see Dad’s Greek face in Hale’s; I look as Irish as her grandfather, with lighter skin, steel-gray eyes, and hair she describes as “wheat.” Funny thing though, when I grow a short beard like I have now, it comes in a darker shade of amber, almost red.
Enough about me. The band is bringing their pretty badass rendition of Temper Trap’s “Sweet Disposition” to a close, and that’s my cue. On impulse I flick my wrist to glance at the Omega.
Showtime.
The couple look like royalty when they walk in. I zoom in on their smiles, especially as they beam at each other. These aren’t moments I take lightly—it’s my actual job to still their love in the frame. A reminder they can hold in their hands when things get tough. Her dress is an elegant light-pink A-line with layers of flowy chiffon and lace. She’ll want me to encapsulate that, also. I take more candid shots of their attendants’ faces, the band, the bar, all the splashy details as they dance. After staging dozens of portraits after the ceremony, it’s exhilarating to capture these unmasked moments and expressions. It feels like art—not like a painter adds paint to his creation, but like a sculptor who takes away. His art, revealed.
I make sure to get shots of the father’s happy-sad gaze when it’s his turn to dance with the bride.
The ballroom is impressive but its dizzying carpet pattern, loud red accents, and awkward lighting make it an event photographer’s nightmare. I made some adjustments before the reception and work through the rest, tuning the field, flash, and shutter as needed to make it perfect. Some of the guests come to me for special requests. The bride and groom are my client, not any of the guests, but sometimes I oblige. Like when the bride’s pregnant second cousin once removed wants a maternity shot in her formal dress. Understandable.
Then I look for the quieter ones, the hidden ones. The ones who don’t submit requests…for anything. I seek them out. I want to notice them like no one else does. I sweep the room with my lens.
And that’s when I see her.
She’s underdressed and perfect, wearing a bright floral short dress and black laced-up combat boots. She’s pretty and feminine and punk-rock grunge. She has light-brown hair and fabulous legs. She’d look great on the back of my motorcycle…
But she has a camera, a decent one, pointed at me.
My chest constricts. Who the fuck… I belong behind the lens.
I get three shots. One of her taking shots at me. In the next frame she’s looking over the camera at me in wide-eyed surprise. Damn, those eyes. My heart does an unsettling flip. My settings are set for focus, not speed, so the third pic is her blurry form dissolving into a throng of attendants. I’m not sure which of these frames stimulates and then cements a new motive in my mind that extends down to my feet. Maybe all of them.
It’s a primal, innate, savage feeling.
Me. Her. Now.
I’ve done my job well. Snapped first dances and dinner and the cutting of the cake. The heartfelt speeches. I’ve captured the evening’s best moments.
Hell if I’m going to stop now and
let this woman take my picture and then slip through my fingers.
I whip my gaze around the ballroom. If she meant to blend in tonight, the bright dress probably wasn’t the way to go, but somehow it works. Shrouded in the chaos of the room and the party. I’m looking for her, but I don’t see her. And then I do—a glimpse. She smiles at me, the little fox. Then scampers off.
I feel silly. There are more than 200 people here if you count the ones working tonight. Three frames. Two seconds. One woman.
How can one woman in a room of hundreds leave me so fucking captivated?
Two
Ariel – An hour before
“Go. Away. Now!” I hear Elsa bellyaching from the other room, followed by Steele’s rumbling chortle.
“Reminds me of the first words we exchanged when we met.”
I swear I can see Elsa grimace at him when he says that.
“Do something useful, please? Some water would be nice. Or you know, go chop up some wood.” She’s not joking. It’s almost August, but the way the cold air settles over their cabin near the dale, it’s cool enough to want to keep warm by a fire at night.
Steele passes me and mouths good luck as he trudges outside. I nod, understanding. I’ll get the water.
Visiting my 41-weeks-pregnant sister, in the middle of summer, in the very same mountains where I left a man at the altar almost two years ago…is not quite the exciting occasion you might envision. We were all smiles and giggles at first. Elsa showed me around the cabin. She’d gotten stranded the night of my planned wedding and fell in love with her rescuer, Steele, and now they live here together with Rhett, the world’s most adorable blue heeler. Steele is an impressive man, a good man—he made almost everything here with his own two hands. He helped form the little bean in my twin sister’s belly.
I arrived a week before Elsa’s due date, just in case, but D-day came and went a week ago and still no Leia. Two weeks. For two weeks she’s tried all the stuff—the exercises, the herbal teas, sex and…nipple stimulation. I did not even wanna know. Baby Leia has no awareness of her eviction. Rhett stays by Elsa’s side as she yields to the understanding she’s going to remain a planet forever. Her daughter is going to stay in there forever.
“Here’s some water,” I offer.
“God. Thank you.” It comes out more grumbly than appreciative. I love my sister to death, I swear. At first I was alight with helpfulness and optimism. The gallant sister from Texas. I was housecleaner, foot-rubber, research assistant, World’s Best Twin. But after two weeks and a hundred futile attempts to lift her mood, I am literally succumbing to cabin fever. Not even kidding. It’s like nothing I’ve felt in Dallas, not even that one winter when everything froze for like a week and we couldn’t leave our homes without ice skates.
This…this comes over me as something dark and heavy and very, very cramped-feeling. I want to be here for Elsa, I do. But I’m losing my resolve. Her hormones are not helping.
She downs the water in one big gulp and then casts her gaze over mine. “Ari.”
I know what it means when Elsa says only my name. Heartfelt emotions ahead…these fueled by a surge in oxytocin. “Yeah, Els.”
“I’m so glad you’re here.” She takes my hand in her warm, puffy one. “I’m so, so glad you’re my sister…and you’re here.” Her eyelids flutter like butterflies’ wings. My lungs press into my heart. “You should go out. Go do something. I’m miserable here and I can’t hide it and I know I’m making you miserable, too.”
“No, you’re—”
“I am. It’s all over your face. The roads are safe this time of year. The little town, Stanbery…it’s cute. Go…have a drink or something. You deserve it.”
I could’ve done better these last few days, but she’s not lying. We’re both miserable, and we both can’t hide it.
For a second my eyes go big. She looks ready to pop. After all of this waiting, what if… “But what if Leia comes and you can’t get ahold of me?”
“Ari, be serious.” She sighs, exhausted. “She’s not going to come tonight. Even if I felt any sign of labor, which I don’t,” she says, regrettably, “it would be hours before she’s born.” Elsa lets go of my hand and lays her arms over her belly. “There’s a little café stand in Stanbery that makes the best White Sawtooth latte with Ghirardelli chocolate chips.” Aha—this gal knows her audience. “Go. Have fun.”
Maybe it would be fun to get out and explore the Wylder Bluffs, the little town, all the stuff. But then I’d have to face…all the stuff. I saw the cabin only once when we came to get Elsa after she’d been stranded. It conjures a happy moment. The rest of this place…the rest of all of Idaho…might make me remember too much.
The things he said. The thing I did. The aftermath.
All the stuff I buried deep in the back of my mind. It’s all knocking for attention. Say no. Stay here.
But I swore to myself I’d be stronger than that. Elsa needs me. She probably needs me to be nicer. And I need to know, for a fact, I’ve moved on. Forgiven myself. Loved me like he never could.
It’s all of that or it’s masochism.
“All right,” I say, knowing exactly where I’ll head to first.
“Yes!” Her smile lights up her face, which makes me smile too. I go and slip on a pretty frock I packed for this exact reason—also just in case. I lace up my boots. I give Rhett a pat on the head. I kiss Elsa goodbye on the cheek and Leia goodbye over her tummy and grab my camera off the end table on my way out the door.
I need to see it. I need to stand there and be okay.
I am totally going to be okay.
Three
Asher
I stop tracking her like a goddamn grizzly. Her little game is distracting my work, and tying my heart in a hundred knots. I let her disappear for a while.
Then comes a whisper. “Has anyone ever told you, black is not your best color?”
I’m leaning against the wall at the back of the ballroom near the bar, deleting blatantly unusable frames. Stalking down the gorgeous girl who took my picture has not been my proudest moment. So she has a camera here, too. Is that a high crime? Almost everyone has one. I’ve taken thousands of shots tonight. I’ll edit and deliver the best two hundred of them. And no one here but the newlyweds expressed their consent for that. Why should I need to?
So I’m back to work until the party dissolves. Forget her, man. Always the words I say to the guys. I’m better about forgetting than they are. It’s all about having the right filing system in your mind. Memories are just snapshots to be locked away in tiny drawers if it hurts to look. The more you feel, the more you work to lock that shit down.
Forget her.
I aimed to, but then the sweet, airy voice arrests my heart. Somehow I know. Even before I turn to look.
Her camera clicks when I look at her, then she lowers it slowly, titling her head sideways at me, brazenly.
“I’m supposed to wear black,” I say to the angel in the feminine dress and combat boots. Her eyes are every shade of the forests. “So I don’t stand out.”
“That’s funny.” Her full lips tick up in a smile. “You’re all I saw when I walked in.”
The band strikes up a cover of Radiohead’s “No Surprises” at the exact moment I couldn’t be more surprised. She’s hitting on me?
“And what would you suggest instead?”
She surveys me with a long, lingering gaze I can actually feel. “Jewel tones would complement your light tan,” she says. “Think sapphires, emeralds, garnet—”
“Purple. You want me to wear purple?”
“Garnet is really more of a grape color.”
“So…purple.”
She lifts her brow, still smiling at me. This chick is like a shot of tequila. “I think it would contrast the nice gray in your eyes, make ’em pop. And would really bring out your strawberry-blond.”
“No strawberry,” I insert. I lower my equipment and relax toward her, pressing my right Benton shoe aga
inst the wall, and cross my arms. “Just blond.”
“Your beard.” Tequila Incarnate makes an inquisitive face. “I swear in this lighting it looks…” She comes closer, gets up on tiptoe and presses a few of her soft little fingers against my jaw. “I definitely see some russet in your beard.” Observant, this one. Her scent, like cranberries and pine, activates more than just my sense of smell.
“Go on,” I tell her, craving more of her gentle touch and buoyant whisper.
“Gray would also look nice on you.”
“Gray but not black?”
“It’s a matter of detail.” She lowers back to her feet. “Sorry. I work in fashion.”
“No apology needed. Tell me…” I prompt for her name.
“Ari.”
I wonder if it’s her full name or short for something. Ariana, Arabella, something else. “Asher,” I tell her.
“Pleasure to meet you.” She takes my offered hand. Suddenly I realize her palms are damp, and her fingers are trembling. They were fine before. Did I make her nervous?
“Tell me, Ari. How much do I owe you for the fashion advice?”
“Um, consultations are free. But after that I’ll expect you to buy.” Her face goes crimson and I can’t help but smirk. “Oh god! I’m not. I wasn’t.” The red blush blooms down her throat and chest and dips beneath her neckline, and I wrench my gaze upward again, to her enchanting face. “That came out so wrong!”
I chuckle at that. I notice her camera’s a Sony point-and-shoot, a beginner’s camera but not low-end. I say on impulse, “Nice cam.”
“Thanks,” she says, just as a server comes up to us with two slices of chocolate groom’s cake.
“Don’t mind if I do.” I reach for mine.
Ari accepts the offering shyly and takes a bite when I do. She got quiet, but she isn’t moving away from me. Why is she here? I’ll have to get to that.
