“It was a shoot,” I say with a shrug. “Pays the bills.”
She gives me that look, the one that sees right through me. “You look tired, Wyatt. That kind of tired that has nothing to do with sleep.”
“It’s nothing a few hours in here won’t fix,” I tell her.
“Are you still thinking about your gallery plan?” she asks, her voice soft.
“Every day,” I admit. “I’m getting closer, Mama. I really am.”
“I know you are, honey. Your father and I are so proud of you. Just… don’t lose yourself in all that glitter. Remember who you are.”
“Never and always,” I say.
We talk for another twenty minutes about family — my brother’s new job, my dad’s recent health scare. He’s fully recovered now, thank God, and back to fixing everything in the house whether it needs it or not. Mom tells me about the gossip from her classroom. These calls ground me. They’re my anchor to reality in a life that often feels like fiction.
After we hang up, I feel better. More centered. I’m about to start developing some new film when my phone buzzes again. This time, it’s my agent, Leo, with a text.
Call me. Big gig.
My stomach tightens. Leo’s texts are always short, but “big gig” usually means a multi-day event that will drain every last drop of my social energy. I contemplate ignoring it, just for an hour, to give myself some peace. But Leo is not a patient man. I sigh and dial his number.
He picks up on the first ring. “Wyatt, my man! Just the hunk I was looking for. Got an opportunity for you. Major one.”
“Hey, Leo,” I say, my voice flatter than I intend. “What’s up?”
“What’s up is your bank account, if you play your cards right,” he says, his voice a slick, fast-paced New York hustle. “There’s a big romance convention next weekend at the Javits Center. Historical Hearts. And the keynote author, Delilah Drake, specifically asked for you.”
I close my eyes. Delilah Drake. She writes epic historicals with heroes who are all impossibly noble and tragically misunderstood. I’ve been on five of her covers. “What’s the gig?” I ask, already running through Delilah’s characters in my head.
“A panel. ‘Hunks of History.’ You, a few other guys, on stage, in costume. Answering questions from the fans.”
In costume. Of course. “Leo, I don’t know. I was planning on taking some time to work on my portfolio.”
“Work on your portfolio on Monday after the convention,” he says, his voice losing its cheerful edge. “This is five grand, Wyatt. For a weekend of smiling and looking pretty. Think of it as funding the dream, kid. You want that gallery, right?”
He always does this. Dangles my own dream in front of me like a carrot. He knows it’s the only reason I’m still in this game. The golden handcuffs. They’re starting to chafe.
“She really asked for me?” I ask, a last, weak attempt at finding some meaning in this beyond just my looks.
“Kid, she loves you. Says you have the ‘soulful eyes of a tortured hero from years gone by.’ Her words, not mine. So, are you in? I’ve got to let her people know.”
Soulful eyes. Tortured hero. It’s all just part of the brand. The product they’re selling. I am the product that sells their product.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m in.”
“Attaboy! I’ll send over the details. Don’t be late!” He hangs up before I can say another word.
I drop the phone onto the workbench and stare at the image of the old man on the park bench. Five thousand dollars. That’s two, maybe three months’ rent on that space over on New York Avenue I’ve been keeping my eye on. It’s half the cost of the professional-grade printer I need to make prints worthy of a gallery wall. It’s a huge step closer to my goal. And a giant leap away from my sanity.
I wonder, not for the first time, if there’s anyone out there who would look at me and see the real story, not just the cover. A person, not a product. A man, not a myth.
Chapter 8
Wyatt
Isign my 200th book cover of the day, the muscles in my hand seizing into a tight, angry cramp around the black Sharpie. My smile, the one I’ve been holding for three straight hours, feels less like an expression and more like a mask carved from plaster. It aches with a deep, radiating pain from my jaw to my temples. I’m surrounded by squeals and the relentless, percussive flash of phone cameras, a sensory assault that has long since numbed my brain into a state of detached self-preservation.
Two fans in front of me, their faces flushed with excitement, are openly debating whether my abs are real or airbrushed. “They have to be airbrushed,” one says, a woman with bright purple lipstick. “No one’s stomach actually looks like that.”
