Elena sighed, a heavy, dramatic exhale. "Whatever. We're late. Let's just go. But Mark, please try not to stand directly next to me when we get there until I check the lighting. I don't want to throw off the vibe."
I didn't say a word. I grabbed the keys to the Audi, I carried her bag, and I carried Julian's camera equipment bag because it was too heavy for him.
The drive was an hour of torture. They sat in the back; I was the chauffeur. They laughed about inside jokes, gossiped about people I didn't know, and critiqued the Instagram feeds of their friends. Not once did Elena ask me how my week was. Not once did she touch my shoulder or look at me in the rearview mirror with anything other than impatience.
We arrived at the vineyard. It was beautiful: rolling hills, white tents, expensive cars lining the gravel drive. I parked the car, got out, and opened the door for her.
She didn't say thank you. She stepped out, adjusted her dress, and immediately turned to Julian. "The light is perfect right now," she said, grabbing Julian's arm. "Let's go to the main entrance before it gets crowded."
They walked ahead. I followed, holding her purse and Julian's backup lens.
We made our way to the step-and-repeat: a massive floral wall set up specifically for photos. There was a line of people waiting. When it was our turn, Elena handed her phone to the professional photographer hired for the event.
"Okay, Julian, get in here," she squealed.
Julian slid in next to her. They posed: blue steel, pouty lips, laughing candidly at nothing. Flash! Flash! Flash!
Then the photographer looked at me. "Does the gentleman want to join?"
Elena hesitated. I saw the calculation in her eyes. She looked at Julian, then at me. "Sure," she said, her voice tight. "Come on, Mark."
I stepped in. I stood next to her, putting my arm around her waist—the waist of the woman I had lived with for two years, the woman whose rent I paid. I smiled.
Elena stiffened. She leaned away from me toward Julian.
The photographer raised the camera.
"Wait," Elena said, her voice sharp. She held up a hand and turned to me. There was no warmth in her eyes, no love—just cold, filtered vanity. "Mark, can you actually move?" she said, loud enough for the ten people in line behind us to hear. "You're crowding the shot."
"I'm just standing next to you," I said calmly.
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and it looks cluttered. The aesthetic is ethereal, and you look stiff. Just move out of the picture. Your face is ruining the aesthetic. Just stand behind the camera, okay? You can hold my purse."