Chapter 4

Russell snatched his phone off the glass table before the vibration stopped.

He unlocked the screen with a quick swipe of his thumb.

I didn't move.

I stood over the coffee table, watching the glow of the display reflect against his cheekbones.

He didn't curse.

He didn't lock the phone.

For three seconds, his jaw went slack, his eyes fixed on the image lighting up his palm.

"What did they post?" I asked.

Russell didn't answer right away.

He tapped the display once, his knuckles tightening against the black plastic case.

"It's just marketing," he muttered, tilting the screen down. "They post previews from every session. It's in the contract."

"Show me, Russell."

He hesitated, then turned the phone face-up between us.

The grid post filled the screen.

Russell stood barefoot by the window, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

He was looking at Audra's camera with the same smile I had seen in his old college photos.

At the edge of the frame was a strip of ivory silk.

My train, cut off at the edge of the image.

The caption read: Some connections don't need direction. Real history behind the glass with @AudraKeenePhoto.

"They didn't tag me," I said.

Russell rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Maren, the studio tags the photographer and the client account. It's an editorial crop."

"I am the bride, Russell. This was supposed to be our wedding portrait."

"They'll post the full gallery next week—"

"Look at the comments," I said.

His thumb hovered, then slowly dragged the feed upward.

The studio's account had fifty thousand followers.

The preview had been live for forty minutes.

"Pure chemistry. You can't fake that kind of history."

"What is that white fabric in the corner? Crop it out."

Russell stared at the words scrolling past.

His chest lifted slightly.

His eyes lingered on that first comment—pure chemistry.

Then I saw the small red heart beside the caption.

He had already liked the post.

Before I had even walked out of the spare room.

While he was sitting on that couch drinking a beer, pretending to grade his sophomore essays.

"You liked it," I said.

His thumb jerked away from the screen like he'd touched a hot burner.

"I tapped it automatically," he said quickly, his voice rising. "I saw the studio tag and hit like. I didn't read the comments, Maren. I didn't read them."

"You saw the photo," I said. "You saw that I was cropped out of our own shoot. And you liked it."

"Ask them to take it down," I said.

Russell blinked. "What?"

"Call the studio. Tell them they posted a private wedding image without the bride's approval."

"It's already getting attention. If they delete it now, it'll look worse."

"Worse for whom?"

He picked up his phone, but he did not call.

He opened the post again and watched the number beneath the heart climb.

That was his answer.

"Willa is waiting for this picture," I said. "What am I supposed to send her?"

Russell's eyes moved to the strip of my dress at the edge of the post.

"We'll pick another shot when the gallery comes in."

"There is no gallery coming into this house."

He flinched then, not at what the post had done to me, but at the first consequence he could not talk around.

I pulled my phone from my cardigan pocket.

I didn't yell.

I took a screenshot of the post, the crop, and Russell's name beneath the likes.

Russell watched my fingers move across the glass.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "Are you taking screenshots now? For what?"

"So I don't let you tell me tomorrow that I imagined it."

"It's an algorithm! It's a social media preview!" He stood up, towering over the coffee table, his frustration finally breaking loose. "Why do you turn every single thing into a trial? We are seven days away from our wedding! Two hundred people are coming! And you're standing here interrogating me over comments from strangers who don't even know who we are!"

"They know who you are," I said, keeping my voice low so he had to stop to hear it. "And they know who she is."

Russell stared at me, his mouth open, searching for an argument that wasn't hollow.

My phone buzzed against my leg.

Willa had already texted twice asking which portrait belonged in the center of her welcome board. I had not answered because I still did not know how to tell her that the studio had posted a picture of the wrong couple.

A single vibration.

I pulled it out, expecting Bonnie from The Birch Room or a question from Willa about the welcome board.

It was an unknown local number.

The text was two lines, followed by an attached screenshot:

[Russell told me you agreed to separate portraits before the couple shots. I need to tell you something. I'm at Juniper Diner on Hennepin.]

Beneath the message was the sender's contact card.

Audra Keene.