Page 80 of The Very First Night

All the bridesmaids wear light purple dresses, almost the exact shade as the drapery hanging above us. The bride’s dress is simple yet elegant and her fiery red hair is swept up in a tight bun atop her head, giving her an effortlessly glam look, accentuated by the bright red lip she is sporting.

With my finger pressed firmly against the shutter button of my camera, I am determined to capture every angle and detail as the elated couple concludes their vows. As they embrace in a passionate kiss, I snap away, capturing this moment of pure love and joy forever in time. The sunlight flowing in through the barn door creates an ethereal sight and makes me hopeful that I’ll have less editing to do in post.

The bridal party exits the barn to a cheerful song that I can’t quite place—I think it’s from The Parent Trap. I follow them out into the field of wildflowers. Everyone is cooperative and understanding that I’m learning and am incredibly nervous. At first the bride is a little apprehensive, but when I show her a few of the photos from the ceremony on the viewfinder, her anxiety is instantly quelled.

I begin packing up my equipment, as they didn’t ask me to photograph the reception. Just as I zip up my camera bag, a beautiful woman with light brown skin and tight, bouncy curls framing her face approaches me. Her hair is expertly styled into a soft bun, not as tightly pulled back as the bride’s. She’s one of the bridesmaids.

“Hey, thanks for doing this. I know Rachel was insanely nervous about finding a photographer in her budget. You really are a lifesaver,” she says earnestly.

“Of course—I was happy to help. Everyone has to start somewhere, so I’m happy for the experience for my portfolio.”

She doesn’t say anything else at first. However, just as I sling my camera bag over my shoulder and prepare to say a polite goodbye and walk away, she speaks again.

“I’m Cheyeanne. I know this is weird because you don’t know me, but I’ve always wanted to pursue photography and I was wondering…if you ever need a second shooter or anything, I’d love to give you my information. I might not have any formal training, but I promise I don’t suck.” She smiles awkwardly with a nervousness in her voice that I recognize all too well.

“Like I said, everyone has to start somewhere, right?” I say with a smile, sifting through the side pocket of my camera bag. “I have another wedding I’m shooting in November in the area. I swear, everyone at Rachel’s work is getting married right now. I was planning on shooting it alone, but it might be a good opportunity for you to get your feet wet since it’s a small wedding. Are you available November seventh?”

“Yes!” Her face brightens with joy. “Yes, I am available.”

I try not to chuckle, because I get it—I was similarly enthusiastic when my mom mentioned Rachel needed a photographer for her wedding.

I smile as I finally find and hold out my brand-new business card. “Sounds great, Cheyeanne. Text me your portfolio and if I like what I see, we can go from there.”

She says thank you before skipping back toward the bridal party to head into the reception and I can’t help but shake the feeling that I just met someone who will become a lifelong friend.

THIRTY-EIGHT

TANNER

As soon as we step foot inside the Dusty Armadillo, the unmistakable thump of boots hitting the wooden floor and the twang of country music sweeps over us. The dance floor is a sea of cowboy boots and hats, swirling and moving to the lively beat. The thick smell of beer and sweat mingles in the air, transporting me to a honky-tonk time warp. The dimly lit walls are embellished with vintage signs and neon lights, adding to the rustic atmosphere.

I’ve been here a handful of times over the years, but most of my experiences in this bar were at the hands of Jenna and Kat dragging us out for college night, despite both Marcus and I having early classes on Thursday mornings. However, tonight isn’t college night, and while the line-dancing bar is significantly less crowded than usual, it’s still chaotic.

We all had midterms this week. They were hard—really hard—but being prepared definitely paid off. I got a 92% on my physics exam, which has easily been the hardest class this semester. It’s not to say that I don’t understand physics, but Professor Stanton is older than dirt and can’t stay awake for half the class, yet expects us to know all the material anyway. In all honesty, I’m not even sure he knows how to upload our grades into the portal; his TA handles most of that shit.

Gotta love tenure.

My hand rests against the small of Kat’s back as we get pushed closer to the bar by a group of people who apparently haven’t ever heard of personal space or manners.

My fingers trace the delicate curve of her spine below her crop top before I quickly pull my hand away. She blushes, and I can’t help but admire the subtle flush that sweeps across her cheeks. I mutter an apology even though I would do just about anything to keep that rosy hue on her face.

We haven’t hooked up since that first night, and while I would like nothing more than to do it again, I also don’t want to push her to do anything she doesn’t want to do. The sex was incredible—so incredible that I’m a bit embarrassed by how often it comes to mind when I’m jerking off.

When Jenna came barreling into my bedroom earlier to inform me that we were all going out to the Dusty to celebrate the end of midterms, I was admittedly…apprehensive. With what happened between Kat and me well over a month ago, I’ve been avoiding Elijah like the plague. Not because I give a shit what that prick thinks of me, but because I don’t want to say something that puts Kat in a weird position.

Elijah is a fucking dick who never deserved her, and I stand by that. However, her decision to stop caring what he thinks needs to be hers and hers alone.

To my delight, however, the dickhead isn’t here. He was invited, but he has some campaign dinner for his dad’s reelection tonight and I say good riddance. If I’m being totally honest, I doubt Jenna really wanted him here anyway. Dude’s an absolute buzzkill, and after everything he did to Kat last year, I’m pretty sure Jenna would love nothing more than to dump him in Lake Erie and watch him sink to the bottom.

Actually, I’m not sure anyone particularly likes him outside of Marcus, and even then I think they’ve just been friends for so long that it’s a friendship of obligation. That’s fine with me, though; it’s Marcus’s obligation, not mine.

Jenna squeals as some old Shania Twain song comes on and instantly yanks on Kat’s arm. The upbeat country song reverberates through my body as I lean in close to Kat. The smell of her floral perfume carries on the warm air and I can’t help but brush my lips against her ear as I ask, “Do you want a drink? I can order it for you while you’re out there.” A small smile creeps across my face as I feel her shiver in response.

Kat hasn’t been drinking much, so I’ve been cutting back too. Honestly, I kind of wish I had eased off years ago because I feel like a million bucks. That, and the idea of having a beer gut by twenty-five makes me want to throw up.

Kat glances at Jenna—who is growing noticeably more irritated as her favorite song’s precious few minutes waste away—before she looks at me. “Yeah, can you order me a vodka cranberry, please?”

“For sure.” I smile before she disappears onto the crowded dance floor.

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