Chapter 3 – Jade
My camera bag is packed and waiting by the door. I check my equipment one last time—extra batteries, memory cards, lenses. The tools of my trade, as familiar to my hands as my own heartbeat.
When I step outside, the world is wrapped in predawn mist, everything softened at the edges. Stars still pierce the darkened sky, though the eastern horizon hints at the coming dawn—a barely-there lightening from black to deepest blue.
And there's Victor.
He stands at the edge of the clearing, his back to me, a dark silhouette against the silvery fog. He's perfectly still, like he's been carved from the mountain itself. Steam rises from a mug in his hand. He hasn't heard me yet.
Without thinking, I raise my camera. Frame him against the misty backdrop. Adjust focus. The shutter clicks, loud in the dawn stillness.
His head turns sharply. Even in the dim light, I can feel the weight of his stare.
"Morning, sunshine," I call out, not bothering to hide my grin.
"You always ambush people with that thing?" His voice is morning-rough, gravelly.
I cross the dewy grass toward him, camera still in hand. "Only the photogenic ones."
"Delete it."
"No can do. Journalistic integrity."
He makes a sound that might be a scoff. "Journalistic integrity would include asking permission."
"That's not how candids work." I stop beside him, close enough to smell coffee and something woodsy—pine soap, maybe. "Besides, the best shots happen when people don't know they're being watched. When they're just... existing."
He shifts his weight, uncomfortable with my proximity or my philosophy or both. "Sounds invasive."
"Or intimate," I counter, feeling oddly bold in the quiet dark. "Seeing someone as they really are, not the version they present to the world."
"Are you always this philosophical before sunrise?"
"Only on mountains. With grumpy guides." I smile to take the sting out. "I bet you wake up this early just to practice that brooding mountain man stance before anyone sees you."
His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close. "There's a thermos in the pack. Help yourself."
I pour a cup, grateful for the warmth between my palms. "So where are we headed? The ridge you mentioned?"
"That's for later. First stop is a glade about two miles up. If we hurry, we'll catch the first light on the wildflowers."
"Wildflowers? In the Victor Myers guided tour package? I was expecting, I don't know, tactical survival bunkers or the bones of hikers who annoyed you."
This time he almost smiles. Almost. "Those are usually on day two. Today is just flowers and waterfalls."
"Was that a joke? From you? The sun isn't even up, and I've witnessed a miracle."
He shoulders his pack. "Let's go. We're burning starlight."
The trail is steep and narrow, winding through pine forest so dense that our headlamps barely cut through the darkness.
Victor moves with the confidence of someone who could navigate this path blindfolded.
I focus on not tripping over roots or my own feet, which is harder than it should be when I'm trying to catalog every detail of the journey.
"Slow down, Sasquatch," I call after fifteen minutes of practically jogging uphill. "Some of us have normal-length legs."
He pauses, turning back. In the dim light of dawn, his expression is unreadable. "You need a break?"
"No," I lie, breathing hard. "Just commenting on your freakish pace."
"We have thirty minutes before the light hits the glade. If you want your shot—"
"I'm coming, I'm coming." I adjust my camera bag and push forward. "Lead on, mountain guide."
The climb gets steeper, my breath coming in sharp pants that create little clouds in the cold air.
Victor doesn't speak, but occasionally he glances back, making sure I'm still there.
Once, when I slip on loose rock, his hand shoots out to steady me—warm, strong fingers wrapping around my upper arm for just a moment before releasing.
After what feels like hours but is probably only forty minutes, the trail levels out and the trees thin. Victor stops so abruptly I nearly crash into his back.
"We're here," he says quietly.
I step around him and freeze.
The glade opens before us, a perfect circular clearing ringed by pines.
Dawn light has just begun to creep over the eastern ridge, painting everything in gold and rose.
And carpeting the ground, as far as I can see, are wildflowers—blues and purples and yellows and whites, nodding gently in the morning breeze.
The mist hovers just above them, catching the light, making the whole scene look like something from a fairytale.
"Oh my God," I whisper.
Victor says nothing.
I'm already moving, camera raised, trying to capture the interplay of light and color and mist. I circle the glade, shooting from different angles, changing lenses, dropping to my knees for a closer perspective. The world narrows to this frame, this moment, this light.
When I finally pause to check my shots, I realize Victor has settled on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing. He's just... watching me.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
He shakes his head. "Nothing."
"No, really. What?"
"You're... different when you work," he says after a moment. "Focused. Quiet."
"Oh." I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Is that good or bad?"
"Just different."
I join him on the log, leaving space between us. The light has shifted now, warming from gold to yellow as the sun clears the ridge. My fingers itch to keep shooting, but something in the moment feels significant.
"My dad used to say I was born noisy," I say, surprising myself with the admission. "That I came out of the womb with something to say."
Victor's expression shifts at the mention of my father. "You were talkative, even as a kid."
"I drove him crazy sometimes." I smile at the memory. "But he was the same way. Always telling stories, making jokes. The life of every party."
"He was good at that," Victor agrees, voice gone soft. "Making people feel welcome."
"Until he wasn't." I trace a pattern in the frost on the log beside me. "After Mom left, he changed. Got angry. Started drinking more."
Victor goes very still beside me. "When was this?"
"I was eighteen. In college." The old pain surfaces, dulled by time but never completely gone. "They split right after Christmas. Dad never really recovered."
I can feel Victor's eyes on me, but I keep my gaze on the wildflowers, shimmering as the breeze moves through them.
"He died two years ago," I continue. "Heart attack. They said it was quick, at least."
"Jade, I—" Victor's voice breaks. "I didn't know."
"How could you? You two weren't speaking." I finally look at him. His face is a mask of shock and grief. "I tried to find you, actually. For the funeral. But you were off the grid by then."
"I was on a remote expedition in the backcountry," he says quietly. "No phone service for almost a year."
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of shared history between us.
"He talked about you, you know," I say finally. "Even after whatever happened between you. He'd see something on TV about survival skills and say, 'Victor would do it better.'"
Victor looks away, his profile sharp against the morning light. "We had a falling out. About his drinking, actually."
"I figured it was something like that." I hesitate, then add, "He didn't blame you. For what it's worth."
"He should have."
The simple statement holds so much pain that I instinctively reach out, my hand hovering near his before I think better of it and pull back.
"Tell me something good about him," I say instead.
Victor is quiet for so long I think he might not answer.
Then: "Yosemite, summer of '99, just before your mom got pregnant.
We were climbing Half Dome. Got caught in a thunderstorm halfway up.
Had to shelter on a narrow ledge for three hours.
" A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Your dad told the worst jokes I've ever heard, one after another, until we were both laughing so hard we almost fell off the mountain. "
The image hits me with unexpected force—my father young and strong, laughing in the face of danger. My throat tightens, and to my horror, tears well up.
"Sorry," I mutter, wiping at my eyes. "I don't usually—"
"Don't apologize." Victor's voice is gentle. "He was worth missing."
A tear escapes, tracking down my cheek. Before I can brush it away, Victor's thumb does it for me—a brief, whisper-soft touch that stops my breath.
"Thank you," I whisper, not sure if I'm thanking him for the story or the gesture or just for being here, solid and real, when memories threaten to pull me under.
He nods once, dropping his hand. We sit in silence as the sun rises fully, warming the glade and burning off the last of the mist.
"I should get more shots before the light changes," I say eventually, standing.
Victor rises too, stretching his long frame. "Take your time."
I work for another twenty minutes, capturing the glade from every angle. But something else has caught my attention—Victor, standing at the edge of the clearing, half in shadow, watching the wilderness with a quiet intensity that makes my fingers itch.
"Can I take your portrait?" I ask before I can stop myself.
He frowns. "No."
"Why not?"
"I don't like being photographed."
"I noticed." I take a step toward him. "But I'm good at what I do. I won't make you look... I don't know, whatever you're afraid of looking like."
"I'm not afraid," he says, bristling.
"Then prove it." I lift my camera. "One shot. If you hate it, I'll delete it."
He sighs, resignation in the slump of his shoulders. "Fine. One."
I approach slowly, like I would a skittish animal. "Stay right there, in that light. It's perfect."
He stands awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable. I reach up and adjust the collar of his flannel shirt, my fingers brushing his neck. His skin is warm despite the morning chill.
"Relax," I murmur.
"Easy for you to say."
"Just look at me." I position myself, frame the shot. "No, not like you're facing a firing squad. Like you're seeing something interesting."
A small furrow appears between his brows. "Like what?"
"Like... like you're seeing a deer in the distance. Or a particularly impressive cloud formation. Whatever men find fascinating."
That gets me an eye roll, which is perfect—it breaks the tension, makes him human. I capture that moment—the slight softening around his eyes, the quirk of his mouth, the way the sunlight catches in his beard and turns the silver strands to gold.
"There," I say, lowering the camera. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Like a root canal," he deadpans, but there's no heat in it.
I've photographed hundreds of people, from celebrities to strangers on the street. I know how to capture essence, how to find the story in a face. But this...
In the photo, Victor looks straight at the camera—at me—with an expression that's both guarded and exposed.
There's wariness in the set of his jaw, but something else in his eyes.
Something raw and wondering, like he's seeing something he thought was lost. The morning light carves his features into sharp relief, emphasizing the strength there, but also the vulnerability.
It's the best portrait I've ever taken. And I have absolutely no idea what to do with that fact, or with the strange flutter in my chest when I look at it.