chapter one
Katrina
I’m getting a look from one of the guys I’m working with on this faux wedding shoot at a Central California vineyard. He’s rolling his eyes about our fussy “bride.” Who knew a fake bride could be as bridezilla as a real one? This is a prime example of why I don’t shoot weddings for a living. That and the fact that happily ever after seems to only happen in fairy tales and movies, not real life. I’ll stick to my photojournalism shoots any day.
The guy walks over to me. “I hear there’s cake. Want to come snag a piece with me?”
“I’d actually pay big money to see the fake groom smear a big piece in bridezilla’s face right now.” He laughs and gives me a flirty smile. Ugh. No. No making men laugh. This totally goes against my motto: No men. At 27 years old, I’ve already been through what I affectionately call “the series of unfortunate events” otherwise known as my dating life. So, no. No cake with cute guys working fake weddings.
I turn him down graciously. “I actually have to hit the road to head back to L.A. as soon as I can wrap things up. But thanks.” I smile and walk over toward the bride and groom.
I manage to take a few more decent shots of the fake couple. As I’m packing up, the venue coordinator comes over. “How’d it go, Kat? Did you get enough footage to give us what we need?”
“It looks good. I have some food shots for the catering company, a good selection of the ceremony, and plenty of aerial shots of the venue on my drone. I think you’ll be pleased.”
“With your talent, I know we won’t be disappointed. You heading back tonight?”
“I am.”
I’m actually staying overnight at an inn and stopping at the elephant seal preserve and a few estuaries on the way back down the Central Coast to get some wildlife shots tomorrow, but she doesn’t need to know that.
I give her the customary thanks. “I appreciate you reaching out to land me this shoot. I’ll have the photos edited and to you by the end of the week.”
I load my tripod and gear into my trunk and drive off the venue property. I send a quick text to my assistant, Michael, to let him know I’m wrapping things up. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without Michael. He’s everything I’m not: organized, unemotional … and did I mention organized? He’s just out of college, and a total hipster. Basically, he’s like the little brother I always wanted.
Kat: Hey, Michael. I’m about to leave the shoot. I sent you a file with all the shots.
Michael: Great, Kat. I’ll look them over.
Kat: Thanks. You are officially the best.
Michael: As long as you remember that.
Kat: Ha! Well, as long as you remember that I rescued you from the dreaded life of hanging around beautiful models all day just so you could schlep around the world as my assistant.
Michael: You’ve got me there. Speaking of schlepping around the world, I talked to our contact in Uganda, and we’re set for accommodations.
Kat: Great. Let’s firm all that up together when I get home. You know if you tell me now, I’ll only retain fifty percent of the details at best.
Michael: Don’t I know it. Okay, Kat. I’ll touch base with you the day after tomorrow.
Kat: Sounds good.
I cruise down a two-lane highway dotted with vineyards on both sides heading towards Pacific Coast Highway. About fifteen minutes into the drive I hear my phone through the car speaker. It’s the ringtone I chose after I found Thomas kissing that woman at a sidewalk cafe in North Hollywood. Mick Haywood is singing “I Might Never Get Over You.” I need to change that ringtone. I’ll pick a song about swearing off men for good instead. It will be my anthem. I’ll have an anthem and a mantra. That’ll do.
I look at my screen to see the naturally tanned face and bright smile of my best friend, Patrice.
“What’s up, sweet friend?” I ask as I roll my window up to hear her better.
“Wellll … a few guys at my work want to go out on a night hike to the observatory and grab a late pizza for supper afterward Saturday. Are you game, Kat?”
“Patrice. That’s a no. No men. For real.”
“They aren’t proposing, Kat. They just want to go on a hike – as a group – you know, nothing romantic.” I hear her sigh through the phone.
“That’s what you said about speed dating. Seriously. What genius dreamed up that rare form of torture?” She laughs.
“Seriously. First, it’s a hike. Then it’s, ‘Can I get your number?’ Next thing you know I am crying my eyes out, with a pint-sized ice cream in one hand and a remote in the other.”
“Kat, not all men are Thomas. But I hear you. I won’t press the issue. How was the shoot?”
“Total confirmation that weddings and I should not coexist. The fake bride was super persnickety. And a cute guy asked me to cake.”
“What? What does ‘asked you to cake’ mean?” Patrice giggles.
“It means he wanted to sneak off and steal some of the wedding cake together … and before you get excited, I said no.”
“You are too much. If you ask me, you need to reconsider this whole man fast.” I can picture her exasperated look as I hear her exhale a little loudly.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not about to move to Austria to join a convent and sing Edelweiss the rest of my days. If an attractive man catches my interest, I might let him take me out once or twice, but that’s it. I draw the line at the third date. No men. It’s my mantra.”
“Well, whatever you decide, I’ve got your back,” Patrice says with such warmth.
“And I love you for it.”
“K. Call me when you are back home. I want to see you before you head to Africa.”
“For sure. We need to get together before I’m gone for a month.”
The rest of my drive to the inn gives me time to think. For some morbid reason I end up ruminating about Thomas. The heartbreak I went through over him has taken way longer to heal than any broken bone. It’s not like I loved Thomas, but our relationship was the most deeply committed one I ever had. Something happened inside me the day I saw him choosing another woman. He dismantled my hope for a solid relationship in one swift movement.
Still, I occasionally long for a deeper soul connection – and not platonic. If I’m honest with myself, I want a man in my life. I really don’t know how it would work since I travel like a nomad and I’m so used to living life on my own terms. Thinking of my travels lifts my mood. And to solidify my free-spirited, man-free status, I blare some Taylor Swift. I think I may have found my anthem.
chapter two
Jack
How many skeins of yarn does one woman need? And where can I donate all of this? I look around the room mom called her craft room. I can’t bring myself to throw away any half-finished projects Mom started before she passed. I sit in the rocking chair surveying piles of scrapbook paper, rubber stamps, and enough yarn to properly bind a prized bull. It’s the same rocker Mom nursed me and Caleb in. She’d always remind us of that when she felt sentimental.
I turn on a romantic comedy on Mom’s TV. I just want it to play in the background to drown out my loneliness. The house seems unnervingly empty without Mom here to give it life. The movie is about an artist who falls for a businessman. Of course, they’ll have their happily ever after. Unfortunately, life isn’t a Hallmark movie. Besides most women I meet aren’t anything like the leading woman in this film, which is why I’ve become a confirmed bachelor.