Worst Valentine's Day Ever: A Lonely Hearts Romance Anthology

by Kilby Blades

  A smile more genuine than any I’d sported all day spread across my face. "See? How could I ever fall out of like with you?”

  He swiveled his iPad around and I used my finger to sign the screen. When I went to lift it, my to-go bag felt suspiciously heavy.

  "Jeez, what’d you put in here? You know it's just a single order, right?"

  "It's enough for dinner tonight and lunch tomorrow. And I put in a bottle of Weihenstephaner. You need to drink. And eat.”

  I raised my eyebrow and smirked, but inside I felt warm. After my past-few-weeks of hell, it was nice to have someone looking out for me.

  "Beer first, huh?“

  “You look like you could use a bottle or four.”

  What I could use was a time machine to rocket me to February 15th, and a vacation. But I didn’t like to wallow. So I tucked the bag in the crook of my elbow and smiled a genuine smile.

  "Seriously, Wolfgang. Thanks.”

  I still adored my artist’s loft, though I’d long-since ceased to live in the bedroom at the top of the stairs. My century-old space sat at the far end of Main Street in town. The old warehouse had been renovated, but maintained the character of its industrial roots.

  It had been sub-divided into three parts. The unit in the middle held writing classes and sold books. On the far end was a wine-tasting room. What had once been loading docks in the back had been enclosed and refashioned into a large garage. Lassen was a safe town, but carrying $40,000 worth of camera equipment in my car at any given time made not having to unload it every night invaluable.

  Leaving everything except for my memory cards was exactly what I did. With my food in my left arm, I used my right to key in the security codes. Cal was a master contingency planner. The system had been his idea. So had cloud infrastructure that created redundancy and back-ups for all of my work. So had the iMac I’d come to use to show my portfolio and plan out shot lists with my clients. That last suggestion alone had cut my sample portfolio expenses by 90%. Every streamlined innovation was one I owed to Cal.

  The downstairs was where I met with prospective clients. A high table of reclaimed wood held the iMac and was seated with six gray leather stools. Upstairs was the living area: my enormous desk with its double monitor and the leftover bedroom furniture I’d never bothered to move.

  It was my favorite place in the loft and where I did the majority of my work. But it was still an industrial space—still winter—and it got its drafts. The accent pieces up here were faux-fur—from my faux-sheep area rug, to the faux-fur-gray-and-white-ombre throw that sat atop the bed. Flipping on the space heater next to my desk, I set my food on the table and fished out the first of two memory cards. I opened my syncing program, stuck the cards into their drives, and confirmed that both cards were uploading to the cloud server.

  Only then did I crack open my half-liter of Märzen and start to drink straight out of the bottle. Catching up on Hulu shows would take up too much bandwidth if I wanted the upload to go fast. So I opened my container of goulash and set in to catch up on everything I’d missed on my phone.

  Never being free on Fridays or Saturdays meant living “normal” vicariously. I hit up social media to keep tabs on what my friends and family were up to, and to be a voyeur to whatever occasion I had missed. Cal had been on my feed a lot lately. His Instagram posts always showed up close to the top because of how much engagement he got from his fans. His account featured his own superb work that had nothing to do with the work he’d done with me at the studio.

  Seeing his postings never got easier, though, in the quiet of my own studio at a quarter to midnight, I could admit that I got some sick pleasure from stalking his feed. Sure enough, today’s photo topped the one from yesterday: from a long sunrise shot of the signature peacock pillars in the Mumbai airport, Cal had literally flown to paradise. He’d posted a breathtaking selfie of in an overwater bungalow in the Maldives.

  He sat on the lowest part of the platform—a sitting dock just above clear blue-green water. A staircase rose behind him leading to the thatch-roof bungalow above. The perspective was astounding. Somehow, he’ gotten a wide view of the water, and gotten enough loft that you could see up to the bungalow’s roof. He was perfectly-aligned in the center—his perfectly-silky black hair and perfectly-tanned skin framing the perfect dimple on his perfectly-angled face. How easy it seemed for him to show the world a perfectly-impish smile that I’d naïvely believed he’d shown only to me.

  It shouldn’t have hurt that he’d gone off to show his special to the world, and it was no surprise the world had taken it. His work had a wow-factor that was hard to fake. The bungalow selfie was an epic photo to begin with, but the way his sunglasses reflected the open ocean from behind his camera…that shot—it was just…beyond.

  I hate you, I private messaged him, not feeling even a little bit guilty. He’d never believe it anyway and there was no point in mincing words. I’d been nice enough about his earlier shots—asking him whether he’d used a panoramic fish-eye to get the jaw-dropping shot he’d taken of the Taj Mahal and telling him his stunning capture of a child playing in front of a colorful temple in Chennai was beautiful—but The Maldives? This one took the cake.

  By the time I was halfway done my beer, I was all the way done my goulash—or at least as much goulash as it was wise for me to eat. If I didn’t pace myself after not having eaten for so many hours, I’d be up all night with a stomachache.

  I was busy sealing the to-go container when my computer made the sound it did when I was receiving an incoming text. Instead of looking on my phone, I clicked on my iMessage. Cal had sent me an image: it was a meme with the two old dudes from The Muppet Movie; its caption read Haters Gonna Hate.

  It made me smile. And damn if I didn’t hate him a little for real, for knowing that it would. I hated myself even more for wanting him to cheer me up, for wanting him here, period. He was responsible for my predicament, after all.

  I tapped out a response on my keyboard with the hand not checking the seal of the container.

  Does paradise never sleep?

  Was it possible for a tone of bitterness to ring loudly and clearly through a text? Yes, I believed. It could. I wouldn’t be so jealous that he was drinking alcohol out of coconuts in South East Asia if he’d given me a remotely good explanation for why he’d left me in the lurch.

  No. That wasn’t true. I’d be every bit as jealous. Being away from Cal, it felt…wrong. Twice as wrong as finally admitting to myself that I had feelings for my best friend. Three times as wrong as it had been to wait until he left on his own and everything fell apart.

  Sunrise was at 6:20. It’s nearly 10:00.

  He was telling me he’d been up for hours. Photographers did crazy things like get up at sunrise because that was one of the best times to shoot. People thought fancy cameras were the trick. Really, it was the light that did all the work.

  I wanted to ask how he was. How he really was. What he was really doing there. What his decision to drop everything and travel the world was really about. But I didn’t do any of that. Couldn’t do anything if I didn’t even know where the hell we stood.

  How’s Nellie working out? He finally shot back.

  If you’re asking whether she knocked a bag containing $7,500 worth of equipment into Lassen Creek, that’s a no.

  So, better than Claudia? He punctuated his question with a concerned-looking emoji.

  Only slightly, I returned.

  When I’d admitted a month before that I’d fired Claudia and was currently without an assistant, he’d gone back into the applications and come back to me with a few more choices. His gesture was just the sort of thing that complicated this even more. Because he’d left with such swiftness and conviction that he couldn’t have been more gone. So why did he still take care of me like he was here?

  Be easy on her. I think she could be good.

  What?! I’m easy, I shot back with indignation.

  I scoffed when he sent b
ack three emojis laughing so hard they were crying, and I started typing back my retort.

  I don’t hear the clients complaining, I pointed out.

  Like Cal was one to talk. Not when so many of the studio’s best-loved and most iconic shots had been taken by him.

  Candace. You’re a perfectionist.

  Dancing dots told me he was still busy writing. All the better for me to lick my wounds. He was making me sound mean. Is that why he’d left? Had I been delusional to think we were in a good flow when all along he’d seen me as some sort of Boss-zilla?

  It’s not going to be smooth with someone new overnight. It took you years to train me. For me to learn how you work.

  But that was just it: it didn’t feel like I had ever trained Cal Jamison. From the first day he’d started, it had felt like he’d completely and perfectly filled a void. He’d anticipated every need and solved every problem and done it with efficiency, style and grace. I’d never wanted for anything. He’d always just been there. And it wasn’t just the assistant work. Cal delivered the full package, and was the real deal: he had the precision of a flawless assistant, the sharp eye and raw talent of a great photographer, and the technical skill to get it all done.

  I didn’t train you. You were born with it.

  I shot it off like it was nothing, but it was the first time I’d lavished that praise. My flattery-leads-to-hubris mentality had always made me stingy with giving credit.

  He didn’t answer right away. Maybe I’d said too much. Maybe I was just feeling sentimental. I’d never been comfortable with him referring to me like he was my pupil.

  Okay, Miss “let the light do the work.”

  Alright. He had me there. I’d said that to him at least two-hundred times.

  Shut up, Mr. “Breathe through the shot.”

  He’d taken me to the gun range every day off for two straight months. I’d never forget the feeling of his arms guiding me into shooting position—his breath on my neck as he’d instructed me what to do. He’d told me that shooting guns was exactly like taking pictures and he’d proven to me he was right: if you held your breath, you’d never get the best shot.

  She’ll get better, he rejoined, bringing me back to the original topic. Do her like you did me. Just give the girl a chance.

  February 5th - The Sweetwater Wedding

  “Hey, Candy girl"

  I heard Dev’s voice before I found him in the room. He stood next to a counter in the corner, hands busy arranging pencils and glosses and all sorts of makeup-y things. Dressed in his standard all-black uniform of a stylish v-neck, fitted slacks, and a pocketed apron, he looked every bit the professional; but it was the details that always made him stand out. His pants had a bit of sparkle. Diamond studs shined in the lobes of his ears. And his bejeweled ring made him look like an African prince. And I wouldn’t have put it past Devereaux Jones to have a shocking secret past or even a shocking secret present. His VIP client list was rumored to be a mile long.

  “Hey! I thought that was you...” I trailed off, referring to the Range Rover parked next to mine, outside. That was an understatement. No one else in town had a pearl white chameleon custom candy-painted car.

  I scanned the room quickly, eager to set down my armful of lighting equipment and one of my three camera bags. It had good light, was elegantly-furnished and spacious. It had plenty to work with for shots I could take of the bridal party getting ready, but it was light on work surfaces.

  “Half and half?” Dev had already splayed out what looked to be dozens of compacts and brushes on the marble island of the only good working space—the kitchen. Seeing my predicament, he reached out, shifting his setup to accommodate mine.

  “Thanks.” I threw him a grateful smile and walked carefully with my precarious load. He relieved me of a tripod bag that would have certainly hit the floor had he not stepped in exactly when he did to save it. I set the rest down eagerly and gave a sigh of relief when I did.

  Brushing my hands off a little, I stepped forward to hug him and stood on my tip-toes. Dev was tall. Like, male runway model tall. But I only wear sensible flats to jobs.

  “You know you do not need to be carrying all of that yourself,” Dev scolded.

  “My assistant’s running late.” I gave him a put-out look and started unzipping the first of my equipment bags.

  “Your assistant?” Dev crossed his arms, speaking the title as if it were a dirty word. “What happened to Cal?”

  Shit. He doesn’t know.

  Thinking back, I realized that Dev and I hadn’t been on a wedding together in weeks, maybe even a couple of months. Between that and his jet-setting it was, indeed, possible that Dev was the only person in my circle who hadn’t heard about Cal.

  I was tired of telling the story and still raw from the reactions some people had expressed: “Cal was amazing.” “You were an incredible team.” “How could you have let him go?”

  “Cal is on an epic journey that doubles as a permanent vacation.” I said it with a practiced mix of humor, irony, and admiration. It was the perfect misdirection. It made me sound begrudgingly happy for him. It was also carefully-chosen phrasing. It wasn’t a lie. It let me avoid coming out and saying, “Cal quit.”

  Anyone who knew anything knew that he’d been more than my assistant. That was why Dev had bristled at the word. It might have been my initials that made up the company name, but Cal and I—we’d been an unstoppable team.

  “He left you during Valentine’s season?”

  “He stayed through Thanksgiving,” I said a bit defensively. We’d done eight weddings that week. He’d stayed on to help with post-production—had done all the retouching and sending out of approval proofs to the brides. He’d even done a full sweep of our equipment inventory and stocked replacement parts so that I wouldn’t have to worry about that piece for awhile. He’d done first-round interviews for the candidates. And on December first, he’d been gone.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late!”

  Nellie’s panicked voice saved me from further explanation. Though, when I laid eyes on her, I was less appeased. It was good that she’d arrived. With the bridal party coming in less than half an hour, we had a lot to do. What wasn’t so good was her frazzled appearance: her clothes were wrinkled, her glasses were crooked, and her hair was in disarray.

  “I don’t know what happened. I set the alarm. But for some reason, it didn’t go off. Then I was halfway down the road when I realized I hadn’t fed my dog…” By the time Nellie had traversed the room and set her heavy purse down on the counter, she was still deep into an account of how her tiny Yorkshire Terrier, Buttons, needed her food heated up and a special anxiety medicine mixed in.

  “Nellie.” I interrupted in what Cal called my “mom voice”—the perfect mixture of sharp authority and calm. She stopped talking and appeared to be somewhat out of breath. I allowed for a deliberate beat of silence. Two beats. Nellie was getting better at most aspects of the job, but she still needed to calm the hell down.

  “Yes?” she said finally, still seeming a bit out of breath.

  I smiled and motioned to my side. “This is Devereaux Jones. He’s the platinum standard of talent in the glamour business.”

  Nellie needed to learn to stop—to be sensitive to people and to the climate in the room—to being a calming force instead of adding to the drama. Tensions were high enough at weddings. A photographer who couldn’t help people relax was a photographer who couldn’t get good shots.

  “Oh. Nice to meet you, Devereaux,” Nellie said politely, straightening her glasses with her left hand while extending her right hand across the kitchen island. “I’m Nellie.”

  “Charmed,” Dev returned. “You’ve got gorgeous bone structure, darling.”

  The corner of my lips turned up. Because Dev was working his own magic. I’d seen him pay the same compliment to countless brides when they’d shown up with the same nervous energy. Dev was helping me calm down my wet-behind-the-ears assistant. Yet
another reason why I loved working with him.

  Nellie blushed. “Thank you. I get it from my mother.” Her tone had changed from panicked to one of flattered flirtation.

  He’s gay, honey, I thought pitifully. Though, I mostly pitied myself. She needed more sensitivity training than I may have been equipped to provide if her gay-dar was that broken.

  “Come on,” I said, going around to the side that she stood on and pulling one of the bar stools out. “We’ve got less than twenty minutes to go over the shot list.”

  As I went to sit, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a number I didn’t recognize, from the city. No matter who it was, now wasn’t the time to pick it up. Receiving the call was a good reminder. The wedding was starting. Time to turn on the Do Not Disturb.

  February 8th - The Couple with the Dogs

  I could’ve filled my book two years in advance with people ready to sign with me, sight unseen. And I’d learned my lesson years before. It added to my plate, to meet with every couple personally before even offering the possibility of a contract. But no sum of money was worth the wrath of an unsatisfiable bride.

  To be fair, it wasn’t always the bride who had the loftiest expectations. Sometimes it was the mother of the bride or whoever was writing the check. My goal for any first meeting with a couple was 10% understanding what they were looking for and 90% figuring out whether I wanted to work with them at all.

  “What’s your vision for a perfect wedding?”

  I smiled across the table at Claire and Nicholas, taking a long sip of steaming herbal tea after voicing the same first question I always asked. The heat hadn’t kicked in just yet and my loft was drafty. Nicholas had already won points with me when he’d taken off his gray cashmere blazer and placed it across Claire’s shoulders as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

  The “perfect wedding” opener was a trick question. People who believed in the lie of perfection answered too quickly and with too much precision. Anyone who described in wistful detail their perfect sunny day or the expressions that would be on their guests faces was an automatic “no”. I wasn’t in the business of engineering idealized images—I was in the business of capturing magic when it happened. I didn’t work with any couple that didn’t have enough of that.