Page 3 of Hooked on Emerson
“Don’t get used to it,” he said, following her through the glass doors, the warmth of the building washing over him.
Inside, the community center hummed with nervous energy. Folding tables lined one wall with sign-in sheets and name tags. A makeshift photography studio occupied the center of the room—plain white backdrop hung slightly crooked on a metal frame, a few standing lights casting warm pools of illumination, and a teenage girl with a camera around her neck, directing people with surprising authority.
“That’s Natalie,” Krysta said, nodding toward the girl. “Everyone calls her Nattie. She’s got a real eye.”
“For what? Torturing strangers?” The words came out harsher than he’d intended, betraying the knot of tension in his stomach.
Krysta laughed, the sound easy and familiar. “For capturing moments. Real ones.” She handed him a clipboard with a form attached. “Fill this out. I need to help with the sign-ins. Apparently half the town decided to show up today.”
Emerson took the clipboard and retreated to a corner near a potted plant that needed watering. The questionnaire was simple: name, age, occupation, three things he enjoyed. He answered mechanically, the pen scratching against paper.
Emerson Reed. 35. Handyman. Woodworking, hiking, quiet.
He paused at the last word. Quiet. Was that even something people enjoyed? But it was true—he valued silence, the space to hear his own thoughts, the absence of expectations that came with conversation. He left it.
He handed the clipboard back to Krysta, who scanned his answers with a raised eyebrow, her lips quirking at the corners.
"Quiet? That's what you're going with?"
"It's not a dating profile." He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the reassuring shape of his pocket knife, a habit from years of always having tools within reach.
"Thank God for that," she joked. "Just try to enjoy it, okay? It's thirty minutes of your life. Who knows, you might actually connect with someone new."
He nodded, watching as the young photographer arranged her subjects. She worked efficiently, pairing people together seemingly at random, positioning them against the backdrop, then stepping back to observe before adjusting angles and expressions with gentle commands.
"She's good," he admitted, watching as an elderly man and a college student who'd never met laughed together, their initial awkwardness dissolved by whatever the girl had said to them.
"She's going to art school in the fall. Full scholarship." Krysta squeezed his arm. "You're up next. Be nice."
Emerson watched as Nattie finished with a pair of elderly neighbors who'd known each other for forty years but had never had a proper conversation. The resulting photos showed them laughing, heads bent close, sharing some secret joke that bridged decades of living on the same street without really seeing each other.
"Mr. Reed?" Nattie approached, camera dangling from her neck like an extension of herself. She couldn't have been more than seventeen, but she carried herself with the confidence of someone twice her age. "You're paired with—" She checked her list, scanning with her finger. "Ava Bennett."
The name was vaguely familiar, stirring something in the back of his mind, but he couldn't place it.
"She runs the flower shop on Main," Nattie supplied, as if reading his thoughts. "Bloom & Vine. The one with the blue awning?"
Now he remembered. The impatiens outside the shop yesterday, petals open to the sun. He'd never been inside, had no reason to buy flowers, but he'd passed it countless times on his way to jobs around town.
"She's just finishing her paperwork," Nattie continued, adjusting her camera strap. "We'll start in five."
Emerson nodded, his stomach tightening like a screw being turned. He scanned the room, searching for someone who might be Ava Bennett, the florist he'd never met.
And then he saw her.
She stood by the window, filling out her form with quick, efficient strokes, the morning light catching in her hair. Dark waves fell past her shoulders, the color of coffee beans before they're ground. She wore a green dress that reminded him of new leaves, cinched at the waist with a thin belt, and there was something about the way she held herself—straight-backed but with a certain fragility—that made him think of a sapling bending in the wind but refusing to break.
She looked up suddenly, as if sensing his gaze, and their eyes met across the room. Her expression remained neutral, almost guarded, but she gave a small nod of acknowledgment before returning to her form, the pen moving a little faster now.
"That's her," Krysta whispered, appearing at his elbow.
"I figured that out."
"Be charming.”
"I don't do charming."
"Then just be human." She gave him a gentle push forward just as Nattie called them both to the backdrop.
