That part, at least, is pretty nice.
After the first set, Rusty gets in the picture. Charlie lets her hold the duck. Rusty’s inability to stand still makes this set take twice as long, but finally, the photographer lowers her camera.
“All right,” she says. “If you don’t mind, can I also get a few for the engagement announcement?”
“There’s an engagement announcement?” Charlie asks, her back muscles tightening under my arm.
“Of course,” the photographer says. “You’re engaged, aren’t you?”
“Did you send that in?” Charlie asks me.
“Seriously?” I ask, and Charlie laughs.
“It was probably my mom,” she says. “Knowing her, it’ll be on the front page tomorrow.”
“All right put down the duck and get closer,” the photographer says. “This is gonna be a tighter shot so it’s not too obvious that you’re both wearing the same clothes in the regatta picture and the engagement picture.”
We both press in. My right side is against her left, and even though there are thirty things going on at once — the photographer instructing us, my brothers in the crowd talking amongst themselves, Charlie’s arm around my back, Rusty tossing the winning duck up and down in the air — it still sends a sizzle through me, an instant hit of longing, of nerves, of the wish that none of these other things were happening right now.
The shutter clicks a few times, and then she frowns. Rusty drops the duck and it bounces between the photographer and us. Just as I’m about to ask her to stop, Eli materializes to one side.
“Rusty,” he says. “Want to pet a goat?”
“A goat?!” she yells, excitedly, the duck already half-forgotten. Eli takes her hand, flashes me a thumbs-up, and heads off. I take a deep breath.
“You two switch,” the photographer orders, looking down at the camera, then frowning up at the sky. “I want to get the ring in the shot.”
There’s more direction, and Charlie and I probably look like robots trying to act like they’re filled with human emotion, because having your picture taken is hard and having your picture taken while you’re trying to look blissfully in love with your best friend who’s pretending to be your fiancée is harder.
Finally, we’re face to face, arms around each other, her left hand perched just-so on my shoulder as I gaze down at her and she gazes up at me. We’re so close that her irises don’t look hazel anymore, but like a kaleidoscope of green and brown and gold around her pupil, and I feel a little like I’m falling in.
The shutter clicks.
“Smile,” the photographer says.
We smile.
“Not like that,” she says.
I smile… less? Charlie’s trying her best not to laugh, her eyes dancing beneath black lashes, her freckles twitching with the effort of holding it back.
“Closer,” the photographer orders.
We pull closer, the heat of the warm day combining with our body heat, my fingers on her back aimlessly playing with the bow I tied earlier today.
“Don’t undo my dress,” Charlie murmurs to me. “Inappropriate, Daniel.”
Her eyes are still laughing.
Her bra and panties match, I think, then banish that thought as thoroughly as I can.
“The bow’s decorative,” I point out.
“Doesn’t mean you should undo it,” she says.
I tug on it the tiniest bit and think about everything and anything besides undressing Charlie.
“Dammit,” she hisses, and pokes me in the ribs.
“Please don’t move,” the photographer says, clicking away.
I tug again, just hard enough that Charlie can feel me doing it.
“Yeah, Charlie, don’t move,” I tease, keeping my voice low so the photographer can’t hear me.
“If it comes out and she has to re-pose us, it’ll be your fault,” she says.
“Accidents happen,” I say, and give another tiny tug. Charlie’s freckles collide as she tries not to laugh, and the photographer lowers her camera, flipping through her photos.
“All right, these’ll do, almost done,” she says then lifts it back to her face. “Just a few of you kissing and we’re good.”
There’s a sudden shift in everything: the air, the light, the timbre of the background noise, the way Charlie’s standing.
The camera clicks. There are fifty sets of eyes on me, on us.
Suddenly I have no idea how to kiss.
I lower my face toward hers anyway. Charlie’s on her tiptoes, eyes wide and slightly alarmed, and the last thing I think is we should have practiced this.
Then our noses collide.
“Ow,” Charlie whispers, and I tilt my head to one side and now our mouths are half-together, hers partially in my beard, mine a little on her cheek. I move again but so does she and now we’ve got the opposite problem and somehow her mouth is slightly open, my lip against her teeth, the photographer clicking away.
“All right,” she says. “Tilt the other way?”
We do. Our noses mash. We recover a little, manage to get our mouths together, but then the photographer is telling Charlie to close her eyes and telling me to lean in and the shutter is just clicking away.