Chapter 12 #2
Roman lowers his voice—not enough, but the effort counts. “Something with more atmosphere… something people feel, something they can’t just scroll past.”
Caleb holds out his hands and shrugs. “Sex sells, Everett. We gotta pivot.”
The warm flicker dies.
Sex sells. Of course it does. Of course that’s what matters.
Because four generations of history, the craftsmanship of master woodworkers, the vision of a family who built something lasting—none of that matters if it can't be hashtagged and thirst-trapped.
“What exactly are you proposing?” Everett asks, his voice careful.
“Let us handle the rest of the week's events. Me, Caleb, Nolan. You’re both uncomfortable taking it in a fresh direction and that’s okay, but the event can’t wait for you to get comfortable.”
Roman glances at our brothers, who nod in agreement with him. “We'll do a 2.0 version tomorrow. Heritage Walk: After Dark. Torchlit. Romantic.”
“The heritage walk isn't romantic,” Everett says. “It's historical.”
“Then we make it romantic.” Caleb is already typing on his phone, ideas clearly forming faster than his mouth can keep up. “Atmosphere. Storytelling. We lean into the whole 'rugged mountain men' thing. Trust me, it'll work.”
Everett shifts, uncomfortable. “Rugged mountain men, torches, and romance? That’s your idea?”
Caleb shrugs, but he doesn’t grin. “It doesn’t have to be cheesy. Just… engaging. Something people want to post about.”
Roman nods. “We’re not trying to hijack anything, Ev. We just don’t have time to rebuild momentum. Let us put together a version for tomorrow. If you hate it, we scrap it. Look, we’re just trying to help.”
Everett looks like he wants to argue. I can see the storm building—indignation, protectiveness, frustration—all cracking under the weight of reality.
He exhales slowly. “Fine. Tomorrow. But I want the plan before anything goes live.”
“Done,” Roman says, relieved rather than triumphant.
Nobody checks whether the thing they’re “enhancing” is the one thing I’ve been hanging my self-worth on.
I'm just the baby sister. The one who needs to be protected and managed and worked around.
The one whose vision just got hijacked, and who can't do a damn thing about it.
I slip out the back door before anyone notices welcoming the slap of cold air—anything to shock me out of the humiliation burning in my chest.
My phone buzzes. Another notification from TravelWithTalia’s thread. The likes are up to five hundred now. Someone's quoted it with “yikes, might skip this one.”
Shoving my phone in my pocket, I start walking. I don't know where I'm going. Anywhere that isn't here. Anywhere I don't have to watch my brothers turn my life's work into a punchline.
Heritage Walk: After Dark. Torchlit. “Romantic.”
God.
My feet pound through hallways, around corners, and down stairs my phone vibrating in my pocket the entire time, notifications from socials I can’t bring myself to look at even one more time.
When I finally stop, I blink away the anger and overwhelm to only to find my fingers curled around a familiar brass knob.
The scent of chemicals linger with the ghosts. I haven't stepped foot in here since... since before. Since a time the red light meant something other than warnings and the silence was a sanctuary instead of a reminder of everything I've lost.
My mother taught me to develop photos in a room like this. Not this exact room, but the same ritual.
Stripping sheet after sheet from the equipment and counters, I find trays in a neat line across the surface, positioned just so. As though the room has been waiting for this.
Waiting for me.
I drag my fingertip over the enlarger, trailing my way to the enlarger easel, to the edges of the trays used for the delicate dance of paper through liquid.
My heart pounds out of control in my chest remembering the magic of watching something emerge from nothing as she guided my hands through the process.
I listened. I learned. I made it my whole identity—the girl who preserves things, who captures moments before they disappear. Every picture her own personal white knuckled grip on everything she loves.
And then I let Everett in.
Into my heart and this room.
With my arms wrapped around him from behind, I guided him through the steps. My cheek resting against his biceps. The pads of my fingers tracing over his. Every soft-spoken word only turning up the volume in our hearts until the beats became deafening.
Until his hands wound through my hair. His mouth on my—
I slam the door on that thought so hard my teeth ache.
The safelight hums overhead, bathing everything in crimson. It's supposed to feel protective. Instead it feels like standing inside an open wound.
My fingers find the edge of the counter, tracing the familiar grooves of a developing station. The muscle memory is still there—how to time the bath and the gentle rocking motion that coaxes images to life.
I could do this in my sleep. I have done this in my sleep, in dreams I won't admit to having.
“Some things are worth preserving,” I whisper to the empty room, my mother's words feeling hollow in my mouth. “Not because they're perfect, but because they're real.”
But real got hashtagged into irrelevance today.
Real is #SnowFestFail.
Real is watching my brothers take over without a backward glance.
I sink onto the stool in the corner—the same position I've taken in a hundred darkrooms before this one—and let the red light hold me.
Tomorrow, I'll document whatever circus they create. Tomorrow, I'll smile and pretend my heart isn't cracking down the center.
Tonight, I just need to sit in the dark with my ghosts and remember why I started preserving things in the first place.
Because I couldn't preserve her.
I couldn't preserve us.
And maybe I’ve been trying to save everything else to make up for the things I couldn't keep.