Worst Valentine's Day Ever: A Lonely Hearts Romance Anthology

by Kilby Blades

  It was three in the morning and freezing in her apartment. Lauren snuck out of bed, wired and unable to sleep. Cash was in her bed. That thought filled her with a quiet joy. They hadn’t done anything drastic, agreeing to approach this new phase of their relationship with care. But even just kissing and touching, ending the night curled up in his arms, Lauren felt more connected, more alive. Every nerve ending was still tingling, and her brain was bursting with words. She pulled on his puffy coat over her t-shirt, loving the way his warm, woodsy scent surrounded her in the dark.

  She booted up her computer to write her feature, so she could send it off to Wendy first thing. She uploaded her photos and, as she scrolled through her night, she realized she had a very different narrative to share than the one she’d pitched.

  My Best Worst Valentine’s Day

  Valentine’s Day. A day women either love or hate. After getting very publicly dumped the day before, well, let’s just say I was not enthusiastic about it this year. I had the perfect day all planned out. The fancy dinner, a stroll through the park, even a charity ball…sounds perfect right?

  Despite my sudden lack of a boyfriend, I was determined to keep my plans. I can be pretty stubborn. Ask my friend Cash. He’ll tell you about the time I decided that I was going to be a singer/songwriter. It took me many terrible open mic nights to let that go. Not my finest hour. Maybe I should try to be more open minded and flexible. More on that later.

  Lauren inserted a picture of herself from college soulfully clutching a guitar she didn’t know how to play.

  Given that I was determined to carry out my plans, I needed help. Friends to the rescue. Cash got me into the restaurant Le Petit Mort. I highly recommend it for date nights. The food was fantastic, and the drinks potent. It certainly lived up to its name. But even friendship has its limits in the face of a fully booked restaurant, hence my creative dining spot.

  She selected the nicer pictures from the restaurant, as well as her selfie on the milk crates.

  A stroll through Millennium Park was next on my list, so despite the cold, I went for a solo wander. The happy couples everywhere may have pinched my bruised heart, but it also reminded me that Chicago is full of love and that my true love might be right here if I’d only open my eyes.

  Lauren selected her favorite photos from the couples she’d met at the bean and skating, and linked to the proposal video with a sappy smile.

  The fundraiser to support heart health was last on my list, and I wasn’t about to let losing my ticket stop me. Cash pulled some strings, and I got to spend a few hours rubbing elbows with Chicago’s rich and famous. I’m sure lots of money was raised, as well as a few eyebrows over my spectacular exit. Side note: he deserved every drop.

  She found some useable photos from the hotel and the gala. She also included the one of Devin and Monica, deliberately cropped to remove most of her asshole ex. She’d be damned if he got one more ounce of publicity out of her.

  You might be reading this thinking that spending Valentine’s Day chasing plans I’d made with my now ex-boyfriend sounds depressing. But it wasn’t. Far from it. Because I had my friend by my side, supporting this crazy plan all the way.

  Choosing which pictures of Cash to exclude was impossible, so she used them all.

  He bent over backwards to help me out. He made me laugh over the absurdities of the evening. He held my hand and told me I was beautiful. He gave me the words I hadn’t known he was hiding. And by the end of the night, I realized that love really was right in front of my face. Here was someone who knows me inside and out, and loves me anyway. I don’t know how I missed it all these years, but I’m sure glad I opened my eyes and my mind to the possibility of us. That’s what made this the best worst Valentine’s Day ever.

  Happy with her first draft, she clicked over to Instagram and loaded the photo of him holding her hand on the dance floor. Looking at it now, she could see the truth of his love and desire clear in his eyes. The future looked bright indeed. She tagged the photo #LoveItOrLeaveIt and went back to bed.

  Hours later she woke to his kiss on her shoulder, and she reached for her phone on auto-pilot. Her notifications were blowing up, and she had her first published byline. There was also an email from Wendy congratulating her and asking if she had any more feature ideas. Inspiration swirled through her. The proposal follow-up, the faces of Chicago piece, maybe even a profile on Cash and his work…

  Cash pulled her back into his arms and kissed her gently. The rest of the world faded away, leaving only her best friend and her lover in her arms. Everything else could wait.

  “Right Hand Man” by Kilby Blades

  A Worst Day Ever Short

  January 29th - The Ostler Wedding

  “Bridesmaid down.”

  Tori’s whispered words were delivered swiftly and too softly for the others in the room to hear. I’d surely have seen the remnants of a calm smile on her face had I looked up to gratify her comment with a response. But I didn’t look up—didn’t turn my eye from my viewfinder and didn’t turn my lens away from the mother of the bride. Because I was a professional. And so was Tori. And we knew what had to be done.

  Finishing up the shots I was getting of the bride’s mother in the make-up chair, I stopped long enough to smile at the bride, Lena.

  “Your train will be gorgeous flowing down the grand staircase near the reception hall. We should get some of you and your parents, before the guests arrive.”

  “Oh!” Lena blinked. Because, not fifteen minutes before, I’d told her that, after hair and makeup, we’d shoot the bridal party on the lawns. David cast me the subtlest of questioning glances as he patted the up-do he’d just sprayed in place.

  Change of plans, I telegraphed with he subtlest of answering eyebrow arches.

  “That will be absolutely elegant,” David chimed in, then nudged Lena conspiratorially. “And breathtaking with your cathedral-length veil.”

  “Five minutes?” I asked Marla, the makeup artist who was working on Lena’s mother. As with David, Marla and I had worked together at weddings a dozen times. As soon as she nodded confirmation, I looked between Lena and her mother excitedly. “I’ll get the room ready for the shots I’ll take of you putting on your dress.”

  I was the picture of calm confidence as I turned on my heel and made the short walk to the door that separated the adjoining rooms. Hotel suites were rarely ideal for dressing, primping, and photographing when your bridal party was large. Today, it would save our bacon that the dressing suites were so small that we’d hustled the bridesmaids out as soon as their makeup was done. All that Tori would remember was tender moments putting on her gown with the help of only her mom.

  “Bridesmaid down,” I whispered calmly when I got close enough to Nellie and out of earshot of all the others. I surveyed the lenses and lighting equipment she’d laid out on the bed. By then, she should have been ready with the the lighting, lens and camera go-bags we’d need for the ceremony and the reception hall.

  Flattering shots of decorated venues were among my new assistant’s fortés. When the time came, I’d shoot candids in the anteroom where guests would be having hors d’oeuvres. Nellie could shoot the main house with its double-tiered, mirrored-twin marble stairs and the receiving-room-turned-chapel on the lower floor.

  “Oh my god! What happened?” Nellie practically shouted.

  But I was close to the door, so I moved to shut it. Had I been closer to Nellie, I may have clapped my hand right over her mouth. Eight weeks before, I’d have fired her for her antics already. I’d been through three new assistants since the day Cal quit.

  Cal had interviewed his replacements himself. His top pick had been Melanie. She’d shot beautifully and was good with people, but retouched at a snail’s pace and didn’t do it well. I’d ended up pulling all-nighters and sacrificing much-needed days off to pick up her slack. I’d fired her after just a week.

  Finn had lasted two. He’d been proactive, organized, and talented and
for a fleeting moment, I’d let myself hope that it would work out. My hopes were shattered when I’d found him hitting on the groom at the Primus wedding. I treasured my hard-earned reputation too much to expose my studio to risk like that.

  My studio was my baby. I’d moved to Lassen five years before because I wanted to shoot weddings my way and it was this cute little town seated in the most charming part of upstate New York. I’d discovered it on a shoot I’d been on with my old boss: the wedding of a bride from the city who’d broken ranks and traded Gotham Hall for an intimate affair in a rustic country barn.

  I’d moved to New York at seventeen to go to the New School and get my BFA in Photography. My classmates had looked down their noses at me for photographing weddings. As they’d vied for assistantships with the Annie Leibovitzes and Frans Lantings of the world, I’d worked my way up, apprenticing for a few of the greats who shot Manhattan’s elite. I’d slowly but surely made a name for myself—even had my work featured in some of the bigger bridal magazines. Then it had happened: Lassen had been named the #1 Most Romantic Town in America by a big travel magazine. The piece had featured an indulgent photo spread of a Valentine’s Day wedding. I hadn’t shot it, and if you ask me, the affair came off as a bit kitschy in the piece. It didn’t matter. People loved it and began to flock to Lassen in waves.

  Cal had joined me the year before the article was written. We were already an amazing team—were already building something far better than what I’d started. For three blissful years, I’d adored my job and business had been great. Until, out of the blue, Cal had given his notice and quit.

  That was how Molasses-Slow Melanie and Flirtatious Finn had found their way to my doorstep. Clumsy Claudia had been fired after only a day when she’d accidentally kicked a go-bag full of equipment off of a bridge where they were shooting to die a watery death in the creek below. Now, here I was with Nervous Nellie. Her portfolio was beautiful. It was rare to find a girl in her early twenties who composed and lit shots with such distinctive style. Nellie had talent. And perspective. She reminded me of a younger me. Problem was, she didn’t really think before she talked.

  “What happened…” I began calmly, even as I felt frustration heat my face. “Is that one of the bridesmaids is drunk. Can you guess which one?” I quizzed.

  This was my fourth week and the fourteenth wedding I’d done since hiring Nellie.

  “The one in the green dress?” she finally replied.

  I let my hand fall to my side and placed the camera on the bed. I took a few seconds to stretch my neck and rub my temples. I was exhausted from eight weeks of pulling so much more than my own weight. If Cal were here, the go-bags would be packed and we’d have Lena halfway to the new location. He’d have made sure my bag had water, and he’d have probably slipped something in there for my headache. When I shot for too long and strained my eyes, both my head and my neck got sore. All the shoots these past weeks had shown me just how much I’d depended on Cal. He was a brilliant photographer. But, to me, he’d been so much more.

  Nellie didn’t now and probably never would have this sort of intuition, let alone such attention to detail. Had she really not noticed that all of the bridesmaid’s dresses were green?

  “You gotta pay attention,” I scolded her lightly, and not for the first time. Because lots of people could take pretty pictures. What lots of people couldn’t do was keep the shots looking good when a wedding was turning to shit. No couple wanted to look at their wedding album for years to come and always be reminded of how drunk their sister was, or how badly their divorced parents hated each other. No one wanted gritty, painful truths.

  “It’s Bridesmaid #3. The blonde who’s been drinking since ten o’clock. Tori’s handling her now.”

  “Handling her?” Nellie hissed at a much wiser volume.

  You had to learn to be a human breathalyzer in this job. It was hard to shoot groups, let alone shuffle the schedule if need-be, if you didn’t know who’d had how much to drink.

  “Letting her get it out of her system. Giving her a coffee and a Zofran. Sobering her up.”

  Nellie blinked. “Is that even legal?”

  I had to smirk a little at that. I’d seen some things, but Tori could write a book. But we needed to get on track.

  “Do you know what I need for the staircase shoot?”

  Nellie’s eyes answered with a definite “no”.

  “Yeah,” she squeaked.

  “Do you have the shot list printed?”

  This time, the “no” in her eyes matched the “no” in her spoken words.

  How the hell did I let this happen?

  It was the question I’d been asking myself non-stop since he’d given notice. Hell—I’d even asked him. Made him counter-offers. Practically begged him to stay. Eight weeks later, I still had no clue why he’d gone.

  What did I do to make Cal quit?

  January 30th - The Tucker Wedding

  My stomach did worse than growl when I walked into Wolfgang's to pick up dinner. It roared a warning that it needed food—now. Keeping power bars and almonds in my camera bag didn't mean much if I never had time to eat them. Even on a light day, I was on my feet for eight hours.

  Today had not been a light day. Nellie had forgotten to charge the backup batteries at the Tucker wedding, which I didn’t discover until five minutes before cake-cutting time. I’d already been shooting for five hours and had run out of juice on both of my DSLRs. By the time I’d hoofed it to my car for the old 35mm I used for my own personal shooting, old Uncle Bob had shown up and taken my spot. Every wedding had an Uncle Bob—a hobby photographer who showed up with an entry-level Nikon and tried to bogart all your shots. Yes, I told myself. It had been a shitty wedding all-around. But Nellie was getting better…right?

  At least it was Sunday, which meant the weekend weddings were officially over. I wouldn’t start this madness again until Thursday night. Weekdays were mellow and I really liked the couple I was scheduled to meet with tomorrow, the soon-to-be-Bedrossians. Their wedding would be at my favorite venue—the most sought-after but hardest-to-book spot for miles around.

  Erin McKay was fiercely protective of Kilroy House, the old stone beauty in Berridge. Couples spoke their vows in what had been Erin’s ancestral family chapel and received guests in a gorgeous, rustic barn. It was ideal for small weddings, and those who married there loved it most for the guest accommodations: twenty bedrooms between the classic estate home and the converted carriage house.

  Weddings at Kilroy House were a weekend-long affair. The Bedrossian family would pay me an ungodly amount of money to have me photograph clean-through from when guests arrived on Friday to the post-wedding brunch on Sunday morning. The last wedding I’d shot at Kilroy House also marked the last time when things had been good between Cal and me. Better-than-good, I recalled. We’d always been in sync, but I’d felt more connected to everything that weekend.

  The Bhojani wedding had been magical. Every wedding was a gift but this one had that rare extra something—something ethereal and palpably divine. It had been heartfelt. Unencumbered. Un-self-conscious. After we’d finished taking pictures each night, I’d barely been able to sleep. I’d felt inspired and rejuvenated. The grounds had been beautiful and the early November evenings had been unseasonably mild. Both nights, Cal and I had stayed up for hours and just talked. When I looked at the pictures we’d taken days later, I wasn’t surprised that it had yielded some of the best work we’d ever done.

  "What happened? You don't like me anymore? I haven’t seen you in two weeks.”

  Wolfgang always ribbed me and I always let him. Wise decision, seeing as how he stayed open late and served the best comfort food in town. He also catered some of the higher-end weddings with traditional dishes from his native Austria. I ran into him on the occasional job.

  His restaurant was so renowned for its imported coffee, apple strudel, and Sachertorte, that he attracted a better-than-decent afternoon coffee crowd for his
baked goods alone. His typical gasthaus dinner menu kept the people of Lassen deep in Wienerschnitzel and red cabbage. I came for the bread dumplings and beef goulash.

  "I don't even know if I like myself anymore,” I grumbled, only half-joking. “I can’t take another two weeks of this.“

  From the way I said it, I knew he’d understand. He crossed his arms and fixed me with a look of mild scrutiny.

  “The holiday that shall not be named?”

  He still had hints of an accent, stood tall with light brown eyes and straight, dark hair, and his tone held the subtle commanding quality that I’d only ever seen German-speakers pull off.

  “I need an invisibility cloak,” I complained.

  I fished into my pocket and handed him my credit card. I rarely carried a wallet. Purses were too hard to keep track of at a wedding, and I didn't like to keep my wallet in my car. It had occurred to me more than once that if I ever got in an accident and had to be rushed to the hospital, they'd have to frisk me to figure out who I was.

  "Hey…” I just remembered something I’d been meaning to ask. “…speaking of the 14th, are you working the Dryer wedding?"

  "How do you know?" He stuck my card in the reader.

  The truth was, I’d warned them off of Spiriani’s and suggested they consider Wolfgang’s. Spiriani’s had really gone down since the mother had stopped running it. Wolfgang’s food was amazing and his plating really held up.

  "Lucky guess." I smiled. “What’s on the menu?”

  "We’re doing Tafelspitz and vegetable strudel. But I'll be sure to bring you a bowl of goulash.”