Page 26 of How to Ruin Your Ex's Wedding
Shit, I probably should have added a licensing fee. I’d originally planned on taking the next few months off, so anything I make through this job is gravy. Let’s be honest, I don’t really care what I make from this. I’ll be doing it for sport more than anything else.
“Okay then.” She picks up some papers from her desk and taps them on the tabletop to straighten them before handing them to me. “Here is the contract we are using for this event. Please review it carefully and return it as soon as possible—”
“Where do I sign?” I ask.
“You don’t want to read it?”
I glance at the top page, seeing boilerplate verbiage. I know it’s stupid to sign anything without reading it. But I want this gig. Rather, Matthew wants this gig. And I don’t care about the rights to the photos of my ex remarrying, which is usually all these contracts talk about anyway. I sign his name in all the correct places and hand it back to her.
“Well, this is great. Just great. Thank you. I’ll make sure to get a copy of this emailed over to you today. I am looking forward to working with you, Matthew.” She reaches her hand across the desktop and I take it in mine. We shake, but she keeps my hand in her grasp for too long than is customary.
“You have nice hands, Matthew.” She lets her fingers trail against my palm as she lets go. “I’m going to let the happy couple know that we’ve decided on a photographer. We have a cake tasting this week you’ll be expected to cover. As soon as I have the exact day, time, and location, I will let you know.”
“Sounds good, thanks, Liza.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Matthew. Just a pleasure.”
* * *
Traffic is light on the way back to my house, I catch the ferry at just the right time, and find myself at home with most of the afternoon still free. I remove the ball cap/wig and the porn ’stache then use a special cream to get the remaining adhesive residue from my upper lip.
My house is built into a hill with a small part of it being subterranean. It makes for an exceptional darkroom. I do some work in there as well as some in my studio, then grab a beer and sit out on my back deck to watch the boats in the sound.
I grab one of my cameras and capture a few shots as I sit there. I probably have a million of the sound already, but it never grows old. Neither does Mount Rainier or the Olympic Mountain Range. That’s the beauty of nature, it changes by the second and no two shots are ever the same. There is always something new to commit to film or paper.
I go back inside to start dinner, taking a steak from the fridge to grill and throw a potato in the oven to bake. It’s a simple meal, but still my favorite. I turn on the sports channel while I wait for the potato. One beer turns into three and I start to feel antsy.
Tabatha’s picture taunts me from the wall. She doesn’t know I still have it. She may not even remember posing for it. She’s sitting on the bed, naked, her head leaning in one direction with her hair covering her face, and her body leaning in the other. Her knees are bent to the side before her with her feet covering any lady parts that might otherwise be exposed to the camera. One arm is crossed in front of her, hiding her breasts, the other crossed over and clasping her side. The shot is incredibly sensual despite not showing any actual nudity.
I’ve got it enlarged on my wall to near life-like size, and only I know who it is. Even Gregor doesn’t know. I’m sure that Tabs would recognize herself if she ever saw it. But she won’t ever see it, so it doesn’t matter. I took it a few weeks before the final split. During a “good” time in our marriage. You can’t tell from the photo, but she’s on the bed, waiting for me. A little drunk, a little tired, a little turned on. She was in motion when I grabbed the shot, but it’s a perfect moment in time.
She’s just too fucking beautiful for her own good.
Time to eat, you sap.
I turn on my grill to let it heat, then prep a quick salad, thinking all the while about Tabs and just how different life may have been if we were able to keep it together and get along. After I finish my dinner, I clean up, grab a book, and settle down to read before bed. I like my solitude for the most part. Yeah, sometimes it’s lonely, but I’d rather be lonely than with the wrong person.
That’s my favorite sentiment to come out of a year plus of therapy. I was a bit of a wreck after Tabatha and I split, spiraling from girl to girl, job to job, drink to drink. It was Gregor who finally pushed me to reach out to talk to someone. Someone professional. Which is how I found Doctor Cal and grew the fuck up. He helped me both in ways that I didn’t expect and in ways I didn’t even know I needed help with.
It’s one thing to get a divorce, but it’s a whole other thing to realize the divorce was probably caused by the interference and manipulation of outside forces with the sole purpose of increasing viewership. And to then acknowledge I was too young and stupid to realize it or stop it. So, I went along with everything happening, not quite believing my marriage was ending until it was too late to turn back. Because Tabby and I had both said too much in the heat of the moment and stayed too proud to be rational about it.
Only sometimes do I believe Tabatha was the wrong person. More often than not, I think she’s the right person, but we were together at the wrong time. That we needed to grow more as individuals before being able to handle a relationship as potentially volatile as ours.
As I’m settling down and turning in for the night, I get an email from Liza Littleton asking me to attend a cake tasting two days from now in downtown Seattle. Both Wimplecox and Tabatha will be there. I don’t have a full plan in place yet for what I want to do, I just know there won’t be a single decent photo of either one of them to be found by the time they are through with all the planning. Maybe Gregor was right, and I can substitute a dildo for the groom’s nose in all the photos. I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
7
Tabatha
I find parking near the bakery shortly before noon, having made good time from my hair appointment. I had my hair extensions swapped out today. My hair is long and thick anyway, these just make it more so. And my hairdresser is a genius at matching my natural red, not an easy task. Between fake lashes, control top undergarments, push-up bras, acrylic nail polish, and hair extensions, I’m not sure which parts of me are even real anymore. At least I don’t need Botox yet.
Do I?
I take a peek in the visor mirror, turning my face to and fro. Deciding I’m good for now, I move to exit the car, then quickly glance in the mirror, thinking back to my conversation with Hunter this morning about my breasts and wondering if maybe they do need to be larger. I’d just exited the shower and was drying off with a towel.
“You’ve lost weight,” he’d said.
I’d nodded and smiled. “You noticed.”
