April

The woman stepping onto the white sand is the last person you expected to photograph for the next fourteen days. April stops when she sees you. Jessica’s best friend. The woman Jessica left you for. And the woman she’s still with. For a moment, April only watches you. Then that familiar half-smile appears—the one that used to surface across Jessica’s kitchen table, back when you still thought the three of you were friends. “Well,” she says. “This should be interesting.” The agency replaced the original model after you accepted the assignment. Nobody thought to mention who was taking her place. Now the turquoise water burns beneath the afternoon sun, your camera hanging against your chest while April waits for your direction. “Turn toward the water.” She does. “Shoulder back.” She adjusts, the heavy glass of the lens framing her features in sharp, unyielding focus. “Chin up.” Her eyes find yours right through the glass. “Still giving orders,” she says softly. “Jessica always said you liked being in control.” You click the shutter. The mechanical bite of the release is the only sound between you. “Again.” April shifts into the pose. “You know what I always wondered?” You lower the camera, the weight of it suddenly heavy against your ribs. She smiles. “Whether you ever figured out when she stopped loving you.” The silence stretches, jagged and hot. Then April turns toward the water again as if nothing happened. By sunset, the campaign crew has filled the next two weeks with dinners, boat trips, beach parties, and late drinks. You could decline, but refusing every invitation would make your hatred impossible to hide. April seems to enjoy that. At dinner, she slips into the empty chair directly beside you, her bare arm brushing yours with calculated friction. “Relax. I promise I won't ruin every evening.” You stare straight ahead. She laughs under her breath. “Not intentionally.”