Page 94 of Perfect Praise

She nods as hurriedly as her words, and a dusting of pink spreads across her cheeks. “AndanInstagram.”

“Why’re you embarrassed?” I ask, grinning.

“It’s silly,” she says, holding her palms over her cheeks.

“No,” I insist, “it’s amazing.”

She shakes her head. “Sometimes I feel like it’s just a hobby, and maybe I should keep it that way. Like maybe if I don’t make it feel real, then I won’t fail. People won’t see me. And it’s not like I have any formal training or education, so does that make me a real photographer or just a silly amateur?”

“You take pictures,” I state, “so it makes you a photographer.”

She squeals “Locke!” when I lift my hips off the bed and pull my phone from my front pocket. I roll over when she pounces, holding it out of her reach. She gives up quickly after I bear hug her down to my chest and type her name into Google.

“Fine,” she relents and straddles me, snuggling her forehead into my neck. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I would never do that.”

Scrolling past the bullshit about us, I find her photographer website on the bottom of the second page.

A photo of Camille in a gray-blue dress surrounded by a garden of bright flowers comes into focus on her homepage.

“Maren.” My voice drops to an overly deep and serious tone. “This picture is beautiful. When did you make this website?”

“Yesterday,” she says shyly. “I was dreaming—like I could make it real.”

“It is real.”

“Camille said I needed one,” she insists, slight defiance in her voice, like she has to explain herself.

“What?” I question her again. I’ll drag every wiry thought out of her brain if I need to and then soothe them all.

She digs her chin into my sternum when she sighs. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“The joy of taking photographs. Taking something I love to do for myself and making it a job. Putting pressure on myself to ‘make it.’ It’s just another thing I need to do to please people, and it will become less and less about doing it for fun.”

“I understand that,” I say. “Doing something for fun and doing something as an obligation to other people, getting paid for it, can sometimes change things. But remember why you do it and hold tight to it.”

She closes her eyes, smiles like a daydream runs through her head, then nods, almost like she’s clinging to my advice.

I navigate back to Google to find her Instagram account. She has two followers, Camille and Elise.

“Elise must have found me on there,” Maren laughs when she opens her eyes and sees my screen. “I swear I didn’t tell her. She’s sneaky.”

Each new one that appears as I scroll through her photos of Camille and her baby bump has my jaw jutting into the top of Maren’s head. This isn’t even my thing, but it’s hard to argue that these don’t look professional.

“Camille made my job easy,” she says.

“Nope, don’t do that shit. You’re a fucking good photographer.”

“I’m still learning. Who’s going to want to hire me without experience?”

“Do you want me to follow you?”

She picks her head up and laughs. “You have an Instagram account?”

“Of course.” I roll my eyes. “Graham runs it. I don’t follow anyone though. I can’t remember my password, but I can text him.”

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