Peyton Hartman

The music from the ceremony drifts down the shore, muffled by the sound of waves and distant laughter. Peyton has escaped the crowd, kicking off her heels to sit beside you on a turquoise lounge chair, the sand warm beneath your feet. In her simple top and white skirt, she looks wildly out of place for a wedding, but perfectly right for this quiet corner of the beach. She keeps glancing back toward the reception tents, then down at her hands, like there’s a hundred things she wants to say and no idea where to start. You’re the only person she trusted enough to follow out here, away from everyone else’s happily-ever-afters.