She Walked Out of His Shadow

When it was time for the group photo, I crouched down to pick up a lens cap that had fallen on the floor.

By the time I looked up, Carter Dickerson had already raised his camera and started shooting Pamela Matthews.

I started to move closer, but in the frame, there was no place left for me.

The coworkers around me laughed under their breath.

"Here we go again. The second Carter shoots Pamela, even the way he looks changes."

"This is what you call a photographer and his muse. Nobody gets it."

My fingers tightened around the lens cap.

Everyone said the two of them had a natural rapport.

But no one remembered that I was the girlfriend he'd been with for four years.

In four years, he'd taken over a thousand photos of me. Not one of them edited.

When I complained, he'd just ruffle my hair.

"It's not like your face is how you make a living. What's there to edit?"

"Natural looks best."

Then he'd turn around, open the software, and adjust Pamela's brows and the line of her face frame by frame.

Carefully completing a grand confession.

Watching his back, I suddenly understood.

It wasn't that other people had misread the two of them.

It was that I'd misread myself.

I was never going to be his lead.

...

Carter leaned out from behind the camera screen, his brow slightly furrowed.

"Violet Fox, can you move over a little?"

"The light here falls right on Pamela's face. The backers want to see this set, there's no room for mistakes."

He paused, then added,

"I'll take some of you separately later."

My fingers had gone numb. I said quietly,

"This was the spot we'd already arranged."

Carter sighed and walked over to me.

He reached out to ruffle my hair, and I turned my head away from his hand.

His tone took on a touch of impatience.

"Don't be difficult. Pamela's dress is a dark color today, she has to stand in the middle for the light."

He lowered his voice.

"Just work with me today, okay? Once this set clears, I'll make it up to you."

Pamela gave me an apologetic smile.

"Violet, why don't you take the middle? I really don't mind. Don't fight over me."

Carter turned, his voice going soft.

"We're not fighting. She's just a little tired today. Stay put, that angle's the most perfect."

I lowered my head and looked at the lens cap in my hand.

Then I quietly stepped back twice.

"Go ahead and shoot."

The shutter clicked again and again. Carter watched the screen, calling out poses now and then.

From start to finish, he didn't spare me another glance.

When the shoot wrapped, everyone suggested going out to eat together.

Carter smoothly took the prop umbrella out of Pamela's hands and turned to look at me.

"Let's get spicy Cajun. There's a new place up ahead."

I stood where I was and looked at him.

"My gastritis just settled down. I can't eat spicy this week."

Carter paused for a second.

Then he came over and slung an arm around my shoulders.

"Everyone says they want Cajun."

He stopped, then went on.

"That place has milder dishes too. I'll order you some oatmeal and soup, won't let you touch anything spicy. Just this once, okay?"

That night had been a group dinner too, the table full of spicy food.

We'd just gotten together, and to save face, I'd forced myself to take a bite.

In the middle of the night I curled up at the edge of the bed, shaking with pain.

Carter went white with fear and carried me on his back into the ER, never once letting go of my hand.

Afterward he wrote it carefully into the notes on his phone: Violet can't eat spicy, warm oatmeal when her stomach hurts.

Back then, he'd turn down everyone else's suggestions for me, with just one line: Violet can't handle it.

But now, he clearly remembered.

That arm of his felt so heavy I could barely breathe.

I nodded.

Sure.

At the restaurant, Carter handed the menu to Pamela, and the two of them leaned in over it together.

I sat on the other side.

When the food came out, it was all swimming in red chili oil.

Carter picked up a piece of fish, worked the bones out of it, and set it in Pamela's bowl.

Try it. The chef here really knows what he's doing.

Pamela took a bite, and her eyes lit up.

It's so good. Carter, you have to eat too.

Carter.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd called him anything that warm.

I kept my head down, picking the greens out of my plain noodle soup.

The noodles had already clumped together into a soggy knot I couldn't break apart no matter how I stirred.

Violet, how come you're not eating?

one of the others asked, offhand.

Carter turned his head, looked at the untouched noodles, and frowned.

No appetite again. When are you going to get over this picky-eater thing?

Pamela set down her chopsticks and looked at me.

Violet, are you upset with me? I'm sorry. I didn't know you can't handle any spice at all.

I'll step out. You order a few milder dishes.

Sit down, Carter said, pressing his hand over Pamela's, his tone stiff.

Excuse me, can we add a mild soup too?

Then he looked at me.

And quit sitting there with that face. Everyone's here.

A dull ache twisted through my stomach.

I lifted my eyes to him, something lodged in my throat.

Carter, do you even remember why I can't eat spicy food?

He froze for a second.

I didn't wait for his answer. I put my chopsticks down.

Never mind. I'm full. Enjoy the rest.

Back home, the living room was pitch dark.

I felt my way to the couch and sat down.

The cramping in my stomach was sharp now. I dug out my stomach pills and swallowed them dry.

The bitter taste spread through my throat.

One in the morning.

Carter walked in reeking of barbecue.

He flicked on the light without thinking.

Why are you sitting in the dark? He changed his shoes, came over to the couch, and looked at me.

I said nothing.

He sighed, sat down beside me, and reached up to tug his tie loose.

Still mad about tonight.

Pamela's new to the industry. As someone more senior, it's only right that I look out for her a little. What's wrong with that?

I opened my eyes and looked at him.

Carter, tomorrow is our fourth anniversary.

He stalled for a beat, a flicker of irritation in his eyes.

I know. I booked the restaurant ages ago. I'll keep tomorrow night free for you.

I'm exhausted today. I'm going to shower, and I still have to push Pamela's photo set out.

With that, he stood and walked straight into the bathroom.

The water started running.

I looked at the sketchbook he'd tossed aside.

Page after page, packed edge to edge, all of it Pamela's profile and the line of her back.

Beside every sketch, notes on settings and adjustments.

My own photos lived forever in a folder labeled "everyday."

The next afternoon.

I left work early, bought groceries, and picked up the cake.

He'd said he booked a restaurant, but I knew how slammed he'd been these past days, running nonstop. He was bound to forget.

Sure enough, at seven that evening,

a voice message came in from Carter.

Violet, I'm sorry. Something went wrong with the set on Pamela's shoot, and I can't get away.

I canceled the restaurant reservation. Just fix yourself something to eat. I'll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise.

I listened to the whole thing in silence and didn't reply.

I sat at the table and waited a long time.

The food went from steaming hot to a cold film of grease congealed on top.

I looked at the "Happy 4th Anniversary" on the cake, and all at once I remembered that this time last year, I was still secretly browsing wedding-ring designs.

So I was the only one keeping the day.

I cut into the cake and took a bite.

Too sweet. Sweet to the point of being cloying, cloying to the point of nausea.

I sat there for a long time, not moving.

Then I dumped the cake and the food into the trash.

At eleven that night, Carter came home.

He looked exhausted, but there was a light flickering in his eyes.

"Violet, Pamela's set is incredible. The investors are thrilled. They've decided to expand her solo exhibition."

He'd forgotten completely what day it was.

I was sitting at the computer, sorting through my work files.

"Congratulations."

Carter saw the food in the trash, and his brow furrowed.

"That's all you ate tonight? I told you to make yourself something decent."

"I didn't stand you up on purpose. Things were complicated on Pamela's end. It's her first time carrying a project, and the pressure's enormous."

He reached out to hug me. I stepped aside.

"Violet, do you really have to protest with this cold-shoulder routine?"

"I already said I'd make it up to you tomorrow."

I turned and looked at him.

"I'm not making a scene."

"I really do mean it. Congratulations."

A flare of irritation crossed his face.

"Fine, you're not making a scene." He let out a cold laugh. "Then I won't bother making it up tomorrow either. You don't care anyway."

He turned and walked toward the study.

The door slammed shut behind him.

I looked at the study door and opened the apartment rental app.

My finger scrolled, then stopped on a city two thousand kilometers away.

Southport.

There was a magazine there I'd always wanted to work for.

Over the next few days, Carter all but lived at the studio.

He was in the final sprint for his photography exhibition.

Friday afternoon, Carter's assistant called me.

"Violet, Carter's stomach is acting up. He's in so much pain he's covered in cold sweat, but he won't go to the hospital. Could you make some soup and bring it over?"

I almost refused. But then I thought of the empty box of stomach medicine in his drawer, and I went into the kitchen without a word.

One last time, I told myself.

I pushed open the studio door. Inside, everyone was busy.

Carrying the thermal container, I headed straight for Carter's lounge.

The door wasn't fully closed. A gap had been left open.

I was about to push it when I caught the scene inside.

Pamela was wearing a wine-red gown, turning in slow circles in front of the full-length mirror.

Carter's face was pale, but his eyes were soft.

"Does it look good?"

Pamela turned her head to ask him.

"It looks good," Carter said with a smile. "That dress really suits your skin tone."

My breath caught for a beat.

That dress. Carter had bought it last month on a business trip.

He'd sent me a photo at the time, said he'd seen it and thought it would look perfect on me, so he'd bought it as an early anniversary gift.

But after he came back, the dress never appeared again.

I'd assumed he'd forgotten.

It turned out it had been put on someone else.

"But this was meant for Violet, wasn't it?"

Pamela lowered her head, her tone a little awkward.

Carter rubbed the bridge of his nose, his voice low.

"You need it for the audition today. Just wear it this once. I'll buy her a new one later. She won't hold something like this against you."

I drew a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The moment Pamela saw me, the color drained from her face.

"Violet, let me explain, I was only trying it on."

Carter froze too, a flicker of panic in his eyes.

"Why are you here?"

I set the thermal container on the table.

"Your assistant said your stomach was hurting."

"It's nothing serious. Sorry to make you come all this way."

He reached for the thermos, but Pamela darted in ahead of him.

"Let me pour it for you, Carter."

Maybe she meant to break the awkwardness, but she moved too fast, and her sleeve swept against a file box.

A clatter.

The box hit the floor, and everything inside spilled across the ground.

A few handmade photo albums.

I had spent three whole months on them, taking the negatives Carter had discarded over the years and rebuilding them into a collection.

I'd planned to give it to him, hoping it might help him find his way back to why he'd first picked up a camera.

But that day, I never even got the chance to take it out.

So afterward, I just left it at the studio.

Now the photos lay scattered everywhere.

Lunging to catch the falling thermos, Pamela stepped right on top of them.

A heel punched a hole through the photo paper.

A cry.

Pamela shrieked, and still couldn't hold the thermos steady.

The scalding porridge sloshed out and splashed across the top of her foot.

"It hurts," she said, her eyes going red in an instant as she clutched her foot and crouched down.

Carter shoved the table aside and pulled Pamela up.

"Where did it burn you? Let me see."

He glanced at the thermos, then at the top of Pamela's foot, his expression darkening.

"Violet, I'm not blaming you."

"But before you came in, couldn't you have knocked first? None of this would have happened."

I looked at the wreckage on the floor, my voice flat and even.

"She knocked it over herself."

He helped Pamela into a seat and frowned at the photos.

Watching how anxious he was, I was suddenly struck by how absurd it all felt.

I quietly crouched down and picked up the scattered photos, one by one.

Then I dropped them into the trash can beside me.

The exhibition was set for that Saturday.

It was the biggest one since Carter founded the studio.

Three months ago, when he handed me the plan, he pointed at the first item on the schedule.

"Violet, the featured speaker spot, it's yours and no one else's."

"Without your support these four years, there'd be no Carter today."

For those words, I turned down every work function the company had.

I lined up the venue for him, coordinated with the media, even reworked the press release line by line.

Saturday morning.

A huge poster stood at the entrance to the gallery.

I stopped, my eyes settling on the line of text at the very bottom.

The featured-speaker spot that had been mine was covered by a sticker.

It read: Pamela.

I stood there and looked at it for a while.

Then I walked into the main hall.

Carter was directing the workers on the lighting. When he saw me, he came over quickly.

His gaze swept over me, and his brow creased.

"You're here. Go rest backstage, we're cutting the ribbon soon."

I looked him in the eye.

"The name on the poster. What's that about?"

Carter paused.

"The investors brought it up at the last minute this morning. I was dealing with the media and didn't get the chance to talk to you about it."

"Violet, I know this is unfair to you, but today really can't go wrong. After it's over I'll thank you in front of everyone, just you."

I said nothing, stepped past him, and walked into the hall.

On one of the display walls hung an enormous photo of a girl's back.

The girl wore a white dress, standing on the rocks by the sea.

The light and shadow were handled flawlessly, carrying a cool, mysterious air.

It was taken two years ago, when Carter and I went on a trip to the coast, a candid shot of his.

Back then he'd said it was the most soulful photo he'd ever taken.

I looked at the plaque beneath the photo.

The title: Muse.

The model line had no name, just a single printed line.

For my muse.

Beside it, the exhibition brochure carried the press headline.

*Pamela Matthews, through Carter Dickerson's lens a born muse.*

My eyes stung before I could stop them.

So it turned out even my silhouette could be hung under someone else's name.

"This piece" Carter came up behind me, a thread of panic in his voice.

"Violet, let me explain."

"I know it's you in that photo." His voice dropped lower.

"But everything's riding on Pamela right now. If the promotion changes course, the whole exhibition takes the hit."

"Once it sells, I won't touch a cent of the money. I'll set it aside for when we get married."

I turned my head and looked at the face I'd loved for four years.

"Carter, is it because you think I'll never leave?"

Carter froze.

He clearly hadn't expected the question.

Then he gave a soft laugh.

"Don't make a scene today, all right?"

He kept his voice down.

"After the exhibition wraps up, I'll bring all the press together and introduce you properly as my lead planner, and the most important person by my side."

I didn't answer.

I reached up and took the lead-planner badge off my chest.

I laid it gently in his hand.

"That's all right."

I turned and walked toward the exhibition hall doors, one step at a time.

Behind me came Carter's impatient voice.

"Violet, don't do this today, okay?"

I didn't look back.

I took out my phone and opened the rental app.

I pressed confirm.

The sunlight outside was sharp, and I walked straight into it.

Carter didn't come after me.

He held the badge in his hand, then turned and walked toward Pamela.