Page 64 of I Saw Her First

With a satisfied smile, I step out of the darkroom and stretch my neck. Even with the ventilation in there, the chemical smell can become too much after a while. I wander to the sliding glass doors that lead out to the manicured backyard, blinking as I step outside into the early evening light. Sucking in a lungful of fresh air, I tell myself not to think about Wes. Even if this thing with him doesn’t work out, at least I’m back to doing myphotography. I’m back in the darkroom. I’ll be forever grateful to him for that.

“Fucking fuck fuck,” I hear a familiar female voice mutter from the other side of the fence.

Violet.

I chuckle as I drag one of Weston’s outdoor chairs across the yard and climb up to peer over.

“You okay?” I ask, glancing down at Violet. She’s on her knees in the dirt, doing something to a rosebush, and glances up in surprise.

“Oh shit, sorry.” She rises to her feet, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead, pushing her blond hair back from her face. “I’m fine. Just cut my hand on a thorn.” She cocks her head to the side, eying me curiously. “What are you doing over there?”

“I was using the darkroom.” I smile, thinking of the first time she realized the darkroom was for me, then took me to see the carriage houses for inspiration. “Actually, wait there for a sec. I want to give you something.”

I pop back into the darkroom and shuffle through my stack of prints, choosing my favorites of Brooklyn Heights. Then I head back outside and lean over the fence again, holding out the pictures. Violet pulls a stepladder over, climbing to meet me face to face.

“What are these?”

“Just a few shots from around the neighborhood, to say thanks. I know how much you love the history of this area, and ever since you took me to shoot the carriage houses, I’ve found my inspiration to explore the historical architecture of the city.”

Violet gazes at the images, her lips parted in awe. “Daisy, these are gorgeous. You’ve captured such beautiful details.” Her eyes are wide as she glances up at me. “Are you sure I can keep these? You should sell them.”

A laugh escapes me. “Of course! They’re notthatgood. They’re just—”

“No, they’re that good,” Violet interjects, serious. “I’m going to frame these and put them in our living room. I love them.”

My heart glows at her kind words. “Really?”

“Really.” She nods vigorously, studying the images again. Then her gaze flicks to mine, lit with excitement. “Would you shoot me and Kyle?”

My brows tug together in confusion. “What?”

“I’ve always wanted to get portraits of us done but never made the time. And now that we’re engaged, it’s the perfect opportunity.”

I hesitate. It was one thing to shoot images of a few old buildings, but to shoot my friends? For their engagement? What if I don’t get it right?

“Please?” Violet presses. “We could do it around Brooklyn Heights, so you’d get us in the setting of the neighborhood. It would mean so much to me.”

I swallow, studying my hands, because as nervous as it makes me to think about photographing them, there’s no way I can say no to that.

“Okay,” I say at last. I glance up uncertainly. “But I’m not a professional photographer, so they might not—”

“You will be once we pay you.” She grins, bouncing on her toes. The stepladder wobbles beneath her, and she grips the fence, laughing.

“You can’t pay me,” I say, panic swooping through me. “I’d never accept—”

“Of course we can. And we will. It’ll be great.” She glances down at her hand, her brow furrowing. “Shit, this is bleeding. I’d better take care of it before Kyle comes home and realizes I wasn’t using gloves.” Her eyes lift to the heavens in a dramatic show of exasperation, but her mouth is still fixed in a smile. Shewaves the photos as she carefully steps from the ladder. “Thanks so much for these. I can’t wait to find a place for them. I’ll be in touch soon to set up the shoot, okay?”

I nod meekly as she heads into the house. At leastshehas faith in me, because I’m not sure I have what it takes to pull off her vision.

Still, there’s no harm in giving it a go, I tell myself firmly, as I climb down and pull Weston’s chair back into place. I won’t take their money, obviously, and if it doesn’t turn out how she hopes, I guess all we’ve wasted is a few hours, and then she can find a legitimate photographer to do it properly.

I’m nervous all the same as I head back into the darkroom to begin my next round of photos. I look back at the handful of images I took of Weston at Sullivan’s Cove, and I have to admit they’re not bad. They’re candid, and the hasty way in which I took them is obvious by the poor composition, but they capture his excitement in that moment. It’s palpable. I stare at the image of him, remembering how genuinely thrilled he was for me when I picked up the camera again, how much he cared about something that to him was probably trivial, but to me was monumental.

And as I set about developing another image, I try to tell myself that things will work out with him—that they have to.

I only hope it’s true.

27

---