Page 36 of I Knead You Tonight

I shift my attention back to my laptop. I’m working on editing a few photos I took of the ocean last night.

I don’t know why I bother editing anything I upload onto my hard drive. It’s not like it’s going anywhere. I don’t share my photography with anyone outside of my family.

I don’t shoot for money. I shoot for me. I enjoy it too much to put the pressure on myself to turn it into anything more than a hobby.

I know me better than that.

Drew lets out a loud laugh, and my eyes drift back to hers because I can’t seem to stop them from seeking her out.

She’s cracking up at something Riker’s done, and her smile is infectious, even when it’s not aimed at me.

I don’t realize I’ve set my laptop aside and picked up my camera until I hear the familiar shutter sound—and feel the recognizable ache in my shoulder.

It’s getting harder and harder to hold it steady.

How the fuck can holding a camera hurt so badly?

Probably because you’re a dumbass and didn’t complete physical therapy.

Ignoring the pain, I snap a few photos of Drew and Riker, knowing she’ll appreciate mementos of these little moments with her son when she’s less angry at me.

I pop the memory card out and start uploading the images to the computer, saving them to the folder I created just for her.

It’s not a creepy folder or my spank bank.

When Drew isn’t looking, I’ve been taking pictures of her and Riker.

Or just her.

I remember when my mother died, and we had to go through our box of pictures for her memorial service. We had such a difficult time finding ones with my mom in them, as she was always the one behind the camera. She was the one waiting on the shoreline, ready to feed us or reapply sunscreen. She was the one sitting off to the side capturing the moments on film as my dad played baseball with us around the yard.

She was in on the action, but there’s nothing to prove it.

Going through that box made me realize that any time she sat down to look through old photos, she never saw herself with us.

I don’t want that for anyone else.

“NOOOO!”

A loud screech filters through the sliding glass door and I leap up, rushing toward Drew before I can even think twice.

“Move, move, move!” she shouts as she comes barreling in, holding Riker away from her. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Literal or metaphorical shit?”

“Metaphorical!” she hollers as she rushes past me and into my bedroom. I follow her. “He projectile vomited all over himself and me. Can you grab the basket from the laundry room?”

I spring into action, racing to grab what she needs.

When I skid back into my bedroom, Riker is pissed. His little scrunched-up face is beet red and his lungs are at their max capacity.

“Here.” I toss the basket onto the bed.

“No! No, no, no,” Drew chants as she digs through it. “I didn’t change the load over. Fuck!”

“What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t my stuff, it’s Sully’s. I’m out of clean burp ragsandshirts for myself.”

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