Bullet ✔️

Chapter 14

Days were blurring together as I engrossed myself in work. The end of August was approaching fast, and there was a horde of last-minute bookings for my photography skills, even for weekdays, because people were desperate to have their dresses and suits immortalized.

I didn't complain. It kept me busy, and when I was busy I didn't think about Damian or Elina or James, and I didn't think about the fact that every dark-dressed man I met in the city now had a fifty percent chance of being some sort of crime boss, or murderer. What I did think of, however, was the loving looks between the couples I photographed, and the proud parents and siblings and best friends, and the lovely honeymoons I was told all about during the sessions.

I also thought about the happy ending in the book I stole from Elina. The fireman ended up proposing to the chestnut-haired heroine, and she said yes. He carried her over the doorstep to their newly bought house, still in her white dress, and they lived happily ever after.

My broken heart wasn't entirely sure it wanted to deal with all the loving couples and their stories.

I was setting up and adjusting some lights for a staged photo shoot with a new couple as the bride so willingly told me all about how her man proposed. "I had no idea at all," she told me, practically squealing, "and he was so clever! He put the ring into my favorite record on our shelf, and he suggested we'd play some music. It was like he knew I'd pick that record, and when the ring fell out he was on one knee behind me."

It was hard to deny it was a cute, personal way to do it. They'd bonded over records and music a few years prior, and it was a lovely story. I just wished I could've said more than just that, and asked more questions, and been more happy for them.

I tried. Oh, God, I tried.. But all I kept thinking was that I was doomed to see love through my lens, and never truly know it myself.

I'd had a lot of conversations with my dad over the last month, where he'd urge me to try to contact Damian, or Elina at least, and not be stuck alone in my apartment again. "You know, Mrs. Johnsen's son is your age," he'd even said, knowing it would put me off said son and rather go towards the man I was really pining for, but it didn't work.

"Are you okay?" the groom to be asked me as I realized I'd been staring at a soft box for several minutes.

"Oh, yes! I'm sorry," I said, turning back to the camera to adjust the focus. "I've been working hard lately, I should get a vacation or something soon."

I laughed it off, and they both joined me, posing for pictures showing off the engagement ring and their loving embraces and looks. It was almost sickening, and I wondered for a minute if I'd made it in the wrong career—but then I reminded myself that I loved weddings. I really did. I loved the uniqueness of every one, despite how many I'd been to, and I loved the love.

"Don't we all," the groom said, smiling down at his soon-to-be wife. They shared a longing look, probably already daydreaming about whichever island paradise they were going to spend their first few weeks as a married couple.

I snapped some photos of them, keeping the conversation light and forcing myself to smile and ask questions about how they met and what their wedding would be like.

After what seemed like forever, I finally made my way back home to do some editing and heat up some leftover Italian from the day before. I treated myself to a bottle of wine as well, and considered it a good day.

My days were pretty much only like that after Damian left me in the garage. My heart was fiercely broken, but I didn't feel like I had a reason for it to be broken—we kissed twice, three times if you're generous, and never really did anything together other than stare at each other. It was pathetic.