Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106798 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
I manage a grin. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“So … things are really messy with Zach? Or did you manage a clean break?”
“We’re legally married. I’m not sure there’s such a thing as a clean break. What felt like one, but now is two, will always leave remnants—little crumbs everywhere. I didn’t leave Zach behind; I took little pieces of him with me, even if not by choice.”
“You’re breaking my heart, babe.”
I nod. “Mine too,” I whisper as I pull out my phone and message him as promised.
Em: Landed safely.
He messages me right back with a thumbs-up emoji.
I spend my time working hard on social media, slowly building a highly engaged following. People just want to connect. They want to be heard. They want to feel validated like their existence and their opinions matter. I’m getting so close to a hundred thousand followers, which means I will go ahead and monetize my page. If I can make enough money on my own, I can get an okay health insurance plan. Then I don’t need to be Zach's wife anymore. And that’s both liberating and soul robbing.
Right before Thanksgiving, Leah and I take the train to Boston to shoot boudoir photos for a group of wealthy women who just turned forty. One of the women has followed Leah since she first started her Instagram page.
“What are you reading?” Leah glances over my shoulder as we wait for the clients to arrive. It’s a rented studio on the second floor of an old brownstone with spectacular natural light, various textured walls, an old bathtub, and a wrought iron bed with white sheets and fluffy pillows.
Two different velvet sofas and lots of old hardwood flooring.
“Tips for Better Boudoir Shoot?” She reads the article title on my phone.
I shrug. “I haven’t done this before. I don’t want to mess up.”
She laughs. “Just be yourself. We’ll ask them about their strengths and insecurities while sharing our own to form a connection with them. The most important part is to talk to them. Silence only invites awkwardness. Shower them with praise. They are not professional models. They’ll need encouragement. Use the mirror to create more space. Use the windows for reflections, just make sure your reflection isn’t in the photo. Encourage them to think of special people or special moments in their lives so you don’t have a bunch of shots with meaningless expressions.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“And if we have time left after they leave, I’ll take some photos of you.”
My gaze shoots to hers. “What? Why? Like headshots?”
Leah chuckles. “Sure. Your head can be in the shot too.” She winks.
“I don’t need boudoir photos.” I shake my head.
“Well, I need them for my page and my website. I don’t do a lot of these sessions, and only a handful of clients sign release forms for me to share photos.”
“What makes you think I’ll sign a release?”
She rolls her eyes before turning on her camera and checking the settings. “You already signed a photo release when I hired you.”
“That’s …”
“Clever?”
I scoff. “No. It’s … I don’t know. But I’ll think of it.”
Over the next three hours, I find myself drawn to this kind of photography. It’s intimate and revealing, but not just in a physical sense. It’s emotionally intimate as well. It’s an honor to be invited to share in such vulnerability. Leah says the same thing about shooting birth photos.
“You’re up,” she announces, checking her watch after the women leave.
“We only have twenty minutes. It’s going to take us that long to pack up everything.”
“I only need ten minutes to pack and five minutes to get some shots of you.”
“I don’t have anything to wear. Maybe some other time.” I slip my camera into its bag.
“Take off your clothes. I promise these will be the most tasteful images you’ve ever seen. I promise you’ll want to share them on your own page.”
I continue to shake my head.
“Do it or you’re fired.”
I giggle. “Stop.”
She goes straight into desperation mode. “Come on! Just do it.”
“Fine! But so help me … if you make me look like some hussy on a trashy website …”
“It’s like you don’t even know me. I’m truly offended.”
I don’t buy into her feigned offense, but I go ahead and remove my clothes. After sharing a room in hostels for nearly a year, and now sharing her studio apartment, we’ve seen each other naked too many times to count. No modesty is necessary at this point.
“A little music to get you in the mood.” She winks at me as I stand in front of her, totally naked with my hands on my hips.
Lana Del Rey sings about her “White Dress” as Leah guides me through a series of poses around the room. As promised, it only takes five minutes. I throw on my clothes, and we load up the equipment, exceeding the allotted rental time by only two minutes.