Fiance Next Door

True, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now – my world is practically falling apart and nothing makes sense – but I don’t see that as an excuse not to make myself look good for a friend’s wedding. In fact, Peggy says it’s when you feel the most miserable that you should treat yourself like a queen. Besides, it would be a shame not to look pretty for that beautiful bridesmaid dress.

Just for today, I’m going to forget all my troubles and enjoy myself. Dad did say he wants that, too, right? At least that’s something I can give him.

As for the other thing, I’m still undecided. I still want to give my dad a final happy memory, even though it will soon fade. I still want to ease his fears. But pretending to get married to a man who doesn’t know me even though we grew up together, a man who doesn’t see me as anything more than the poor little girl who’s been chasing after his brother? I don’t think I can do that.

I don’t need Mason’s pity or his help. I’ll fulfill my dad’s final dream without him. I don’t know how yet, but… well, I’ll think about that after the wedding.

I soak in the tub for a few more minutes before proceeding with the rest of my routine. When I’m done, I check my reflection in the mirror.

Hair? Check.

Makeup? Not too much.

Lipstick? On. I’ve decided on a royal red shade to match my royal blue skirt.

Dress? Check.

Earrings? I’ve gone with a pair of pearls, the only piece of jewelry I have on.

I turn around to face Copper and Dali, my baffled audience.

“So, how do I look?”

Dali lifts and cocks his head. Copper gives me his usual wide-eyed look and grin. I’d say that’s pretty good feedback.

“Yup. That’s what I thought.”

I bend over to pet them both but step away when Dali tries to kiss me.

“No.” I wave a finger at him. “I’m afraid dog drool hasn’t been approved as makeup yet. Just for today, I’m going to need you to respect my space, okay?”

This way, I won’t get any fur on my dress, either.

Dali just cocks his head to the other side. I give him a smile before sitting on the edge of the bed to put on my strapped white sandals. Then I grab my gloves and my drawstring purse and head downstairs.

My dad is in the living room, already in his suit – and tinkering with a load of what looks like camera equipment spread across the coffee table.

“Dad, what’s all this?” I ask him.

I haven’t seen him touch a camera in ages.

“Giselle’s photographer couldn’t make it,” he answers. “So last night, she asked me if I could take the pictures at her wedding instead.”

What?

He holds up the camera. “Mason brought this over a while ago.”

Mason?

My eyes narrow. “It looks brand new.”

“I think it is.”

He aims the camera at me and presses his finger down on the shutter without any warning. The ensuing flash nearly blinds me.

“Dad,” I complain as I hold my hand over my eyes.

He ignores me and looks at the screen of the camera instead. His lips curve into a grin.

“Not bad.”

I sigh. “Do you even know how to use one of those things, Dad?”

“It’s simpler than it looks, actually.” He looks at the camera in his hands admiringly. “Sophisticated but straightforward. A modern marvel.”

I’m not surprised by his reaction. For someone who used to take pictures for a living, holding a camera, any camera, must come naturally to him. Seeing the look on his face now – like that of a pirate finding treasure, of someone being reunited with an old friend – I realize just how much my father gave up.

For me.

He sold all his camera stuff after my mother died and never touched a camera again because he was done taking pictures. At least, that’s what he said. Now, I wonder if maybe he just did that because he didn’t want to be reminded of what he was missing, of what he had given up. Maybe he was just afraid that if he ever held a camera again, he would yearn for his old life, that he couldn’t help but start taking pictures again.

The realization sends a wave of sadness washing over me, which leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and a quivering lump in my throat. And that’s not the only pill I have to swallow.

My father, Noah Higgins, is taking pictures at Giselle’s wedding.

I know it wasn’t planned. I know he’s just rising to the occasion, doing someone who he also treats as a daughter a favor. And I should be proud of him. I should be happy for Giselle.

Instead, I can’t help wishing it were my wedding. If it were, my dad’s dream would be coming true and neither of us would be having any regrets.