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.
But he wasn't the only one I missed. Elina filled a void in me I didn't know I had until she was gone. I was so engulfed in my work that everything else became secondary, even tertiary, and I didn't know I'd dug myself into a hole of loneliness and bitterness. That's where I was stuck now, and I slowly tried to fill the hole with wine, so I could swim out. But it didn't work like that.
My thumb hovered over Angela's name in my contacts. After two years, who knew if she'd changed her number or moved out of Datoches, or decided I wasn't worth any extra effort. I certainly wasn't. I was the one who cut her out, but for the wrong reasons, so I understood if she didn't want me back into her life.
Instead I cuddled up on my tan couch, browsed Netflix two times over before I chose to watch 27 Dresses and cry about my miserable love life.
I felt so pathetic. I had to get a hold of myself and stop feeling sorry for the mess I created on my own. I could've stopped Damian from kissing me. I could've said no to gun lessons. I could've held my chest locked and boarded up without getting weak in the knees for the tall, dark and handsome mystery man.
Instead, I did all the wrong things and let the mobster break my heart when he did what I initially wanted—to leave me alone.
Nothing seemed better than to have a week off from work just as the leaves started to change colors and fall off. I treated myself to a full tank of gas, put my bags in the rusty trunk and drove out of Langston, and to the outermost part of Datoches, where my childhood home stood proud and tall.
The house itself wasn't perfect, it had several beauty marks, like a piece from the porch railing missing, and the moldings around the front door weren't on after my dad changed the door a couple of years back. The house was a faded blue color, it could've used a stroke of paint, and the moldings were red. It was my mom's choice when they moved in before I was born. I liked it, though, and I liked spending time with him even more.
When I walked up to the house he came out with an apron on and opened his arms wide to hug me. We hadn't seen each other since he helped with my car that night everything changed, so it was long overdue.
"How are you, little one?" he asked once he'd ushered me inside and let me smell the deliciousness of his special casserole simmering in the kitchen. The hallway was the same; white walls with bright red brick flooring, that continued through to the living room and kitchen.
"I'm okay," I said, not entirely lying to his face. "I've been better, but I'm okay."
"Still single, then, I assume?" He arched a brow and sent me one of his knowing smiles.
I wanted to punch him and tell him to stop, but it warmed my heart that he hadn't changed, so I hugged him instead. "Yeah, still single."
"Mrs. Johnsen's boy is still single too, he's a good one, if only just as a gateway drug to the real thing." He clapped his hand on my shoulder, pushing me through the living room where his worn-out blue chair stood directly in front of the TV, and the flower-patterned couches were placed by the far wall. It was a little different from when mom was still around and made the choices, but it was how he liked it.
"I don't need a gateway drug," I told him, laughing a little at his weird choice of words.
He kept pushing me until we reached the kitchen, which had seen better days, for sure. The cabinets were painted with the same blue as outside, some of the doors almost falling off, and the countertop was shiny and white. It was always nostalgic to visit, because it hadn't been renovated ever, and everything looked the same as when I grew up.
The smell of his casserole hit me again as he opened the lid on the tall pot, stirring around with a wooden spatula a few times, before setting the lid back on. I opened the cabinets over the sink and grabbed a crystal glass with blue birds painted on them, filling it up with cold water.
"Are you sure? You'd love him, he's quite the looker." He nodded in approval, and I rolled my eyes at him. "Not like that tall, dark and handsome man on the video call at your friend's house, of course, but more like Charlie—brunette, a little curly hair, dimples..." He trailed off, waving his hands around his head to illustrate his words.
I almost choked on my water when he mentioned my ex, and did my best to disguise it as laughter. As far as dad was concerned, I was completely over Charlie and we broke it off as an equal agreement.
That was far from the truth, of course. Charlie ruined me. Or, at least I thought he did, until I met Damian and had to let him go as well.
"I appreciate it, dad," I told him, walking over to give him another big hug, "I really do, but I don't need any other men in my life—I've got you."
"A woman, then? They can be really great, too," he countered, squeezing me tight.
I pushed him off jokingly, waving my hand at his casserole, as if to say it needed stirring, before I got back to my glass at the counter and grimaced. "I could be with a woman," I said, shrugging like it was no big deal, and added, "We'd have much more interesting conversations."
Dad stirred his food, like I instructed him to, and he shrugged with one shoulder as if to say he wouldn't mind that either. I knew he wouldn't, he never minded anything unless you hurt someone else with your choices—or hands. I gulped, thinking that my first choice for a partner at that moment had literally killed someone just moments before he appeared on my dad's phone screen. If he knew, he wouldn't try to push me back towards Damian, or Elina.
Deciding it was time to change the subject, dad brought down two bowls and started ladling the food, so we could eat. It was just as delicious as always, of course; a tomato sauce base with meatballs, carrots, potatoes and a few more secret ingredients I was never able to pry out of him. Some day I'd have to sneak into his cookbook to see if I could find it, but knowing him he probably knew it by heart and didn't need it written down.
Staying outside of Datoches always made me recharge and feel energized again. After just a day and a half, I felt so much better and ready to take on whatever life decided to throw at me, and conquer it with a smile.
My childhood bedroom was still the same, blue and yellow walls with posters of Backstreet Boys and Johnny Depp, my stuffed animals all neatly placed on my bookshelf, next to my Harry Potter and The Hunger Games books. If dad knew what I preferred to read now, he'd get something stuck in his throat and probably find the best and fastest route out of my room.
As I closed my eyes, ready to feel that lovely, recharging sleep I had the first night again, my brain decided it would be a great time to imagine Damian in front of me. When I opened my eyes again, he was gone. Then I closed them, and he was back—eyes gleaming with mischief and a smirk melting my knees into jelly, he was kneeling by my bed and holding onto my hand. Wishing I could hear his voice say, "I miss you, sweetheart, come back to me," I slowly drifted off to sleep and dreamt of him.