“What?”
“Nathan needs to see something.”
“I was shooting candid frames before Andrea’s dress tore.”
She turned the camera around.
There was Isabella behind us.
Nathan scrolled once, then stopped.
There was Isabella behind us.
In that photograph, Isabella was looking directly down at my train. Her heel hovered above the lace, already angled toward it. She wasn’t distracted or looking at another guest.
And on her face was the faintest smile.
Her heel hovered above the lace, already angled toward it.
Nobody said anything.
Nathan scrolled back.
Then forward.
Once.
Twice.
He handed the camera to the photographer.
“You have all of these?”
“Every frame,” she replied.
“Good.”
“You have all of these?”
I looked at him.
“Nathan.”
He bent and kissed my forehead.
“Stay here.”
“What are you going to do?”
He didn’t answer.
He walked out.
“What are you going to do?”
Mom watched the door close.
One bridesmaid resumed pinning my train.
I stared at the photograph still displayed on the camera.
The warning at the rehearsal sounded different now.
Just don’t expect everyone to spend the day watching where they step.
The warning at the rehearsal sounded different now.
Mom touched my hand.
“Andrea.”
“She did it on purpose.”
