“And… cut!” Antoine finally yells, clapping his hands together. “Magnifique! That’s a wrap, people.”
I release Tiffany, who gives me a lingering, hopeful look. I offer a small, polite smile and a nod before turning away, grabbing a towel to wipe the sheen of sweat and oil from my chest. I can feel her eyes on my back as I walk away, a silent question hanging in the air that I have no intention of answering.
I head to the small, cluttered dressing room, the adrenaline of the shoot already fading, leaving behind a familiar, bone-deepweariness. My job is to be a fantasy, a two-dimensional hero. Six-foot-two, deep blue eyes, and a body that sells books. People don’t see Wyatt Ford, the guy who likes to build furniture in his spare time and reads history books. They see the character. The cowboy. The billionaire. The pirate. Today, I was a Scottish laird from the 17th century, complete with a scratchy kilt and a fake sword that kept digging into my hip.
After I’ve showered and changed back into my own clothes — a worn pair of jeans and a soft gray Henley — I feel more like myself. I’m packing my bag when the door creaks open.
“Hey,” Tiffany says, leaning against the doorframe. She’s changed into a dress that’s a little too tight, her makeup still perfect. “I was thinking, maybe we could grab a drink? To celebrate the wrap?”
“Thanks for the offer,” I say, keeping my tone gentle but firm. I make sure to meet her eyes, to give her the respect of a direct answer. “But I’ve got plans.”
My only plan is to go home, order a pizza, and spend hours in my darkroom, but she doesn’t need to know that. Her face falls, the professional smile replaced by a flicker of genuine disappointment. “Oh. Okay. Well, see you around, I guess.”
“Yeah. Take care.”
I feel a pang of something, not guilt, but a kind of sadness for her. Some people thrive in this world. But for those of us who don’t? We’re caught in this machine, selling pieces of ourselves for rent money and dreams that exist somewhere else. I finish packing and head out, navigating the maze of corridors to the studio’s lobby.
The building has an open lobby policy on shoot days — great for the studio’s PR, a nightmare for talent like me. That’s where the second part of the job often happens.
A woman is waiting by the elevators, clutching one of my book covers. She looks to be in her late forties, with bright,intense eyes. The moment she sees me, her face lights up with a possessive glee that always sets my teeth on edge.
“Wyatt! Oh my god, I can’t believe it’s really you!” She rushes forward, her phone already out. “I’m your biggest fan. Can I get a picture?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, slipping into the public persona. The easy smile, the friendly charm. It’s a well-worn costume. “Nice to meet you.”
I pose for the selfie, and she presses herself against my side, her hand gripping my arm a little too tightly. “I just knew you’d be as sweet in person as you are on the covers,” she gushes. “My book club is going to die when they see this.”
“Glad I could make their day,” I say, trying to gently extricate myself. But she’s not done.
“You know,” she says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “that model you were just shooting with? She’s all wrong for you. You need someone with more… substance. Someone who really gets you.”
My internal alarms start to ring. This is the danger zone. The point where the fantasy blurs into a disturbing reality for some fans. They feel like they know me. They’ve readmythoughts in a hundred novels, stared into my eyes on a hundred covers. They think the character they’ve fallen for is real.
“It’s just a job,” I say, my voice a little cooler now. “We’re just playing characters.”
Her face hardens. “Don’t say that. What you do is special. You bring dreams to life.” She takes a step closer, her hand reaching for my face. “I could bringyourdreams to life.”
I take a firm step back, my smile gone. “I have to go.”
Thankfully, the studio’s security guard, a large man named Frank, has seen the interaction and ambles over. “Everything alright here, Wyatt?”
“Everything’s fine, Frank,” I say, giving him a grateful look. “Ma’am, it was nice to meet you.”
I don’t wait for a reply. I turn and walk out into the cool evening air of Manhattan, the sound of the woman’s indignant sputtering fading behind me. Some days, this job is harder than others.
An hour later, I’m back in my loft in Huntington, a world away from the city’s glare. The space is open and airy, with exposed brick walls and large windows that overlook the street. It’s filled with things I’ve built myself — a sturdy oak dining table, a set of bookshelves that climb to the ceiling. It smells like sawdust and turpentine and home.
I skip the pizza and head straight for my darkroom, a small, windowless space I converted from a walk-in closet. This is my sanctuary. The red safelight casts a warm, calming glow over the trays of chemicals. Here, I’m not a fantasy. I’m a creator. An artist. I run my fingers over the smooth, cool surface of the enlarger, a piece of equipment that feels more honest and real to me than my performance in that Manhattan studio.
I pull out my real portfolio. Not the one my agent shows to clients, filled with glossy headshots and smoldering poses. This one is for me. It’s filled with black-and-white prints, images I’ve captured on my own time. There’s a photo of an old man sitting on a park bench, his face a roadmap of a long life, a shot of a child’s hands reaching for a dandelion, a picture of a rain-slicked street at midnight, the neon lights bleeding into the puddles.
These are the stories I want to tell. Authentic moments, captured and held still. My dream is to open my own gallery one day. To transition from being the subject to being the one behind the lens, and showcase my and others’ work. I’m close. Maybe another dozen kilt-wearing, bare-chested photo shoots, and I’ll have enough to make it happen.
My phone buzzes, pulling me from my thoughts. It’s my mom. I smile and hit accept on the video call as I switch the light on.
“Hey, Mama,” I say, leaning back against my workbench.
“There’s my handsome boy,” she says, her warm Texas accent filling my quiet apartment. “How was the shoot?”
