We decompress, our conversation a mix of gallows humor and genuine support. We talk about our exit strategies. Derek loves modelling but is just a few grand away from having enough money for the physical therapy practice he wants to open with his brother in Queens. “We’ve already found the space,” he says, his eyes shining with a hope that I know mirrors my own. “Small storefront near the elevated train. Nothing fancy, but it’s ours. My brother’s got the clinical expertise, I’ve got the business side covered from dealing with Leo all these years.” He laughs, but it’s tinged with real emotion. “So close I can taste it.”
“Queens,” I say, raising my beer. “You’re going to be amazing at it.”
“And you’re going to have that gallery,” Derek says, clinking his bottle against mine. “Just a little longer.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, and we both drain our beers.
Chapter 9
Wyatt
The week after the convention is a blur of self-imposed exile and the comforting smell of darkroom chemicals. By Sunday, I can’t stand the silence of my loft anymore.
Book Revue in Huntington is my antidote to the Javits Center. A local bookstore with a cafe, where I have often spent hours just looking at books.
I run a hand over the spines of photography books, tracing the names of artists I admire — Ansel Adams, Diane Arbus, Robert Frank. Men and women who captured truth through their lenses. Leo calls my photography a “cute little hobby.” He doesn’t understand that this is the real work for me. The modeling is just a transactional necessity that funds the dream. It’s a means to an end, but lately, I feel like a fraud, my life a performance for an audience I don’t know, and I’m desperate for something different.
I wander through the aisles, letting the quiet soak into me. That’s when I see her.
She’s in the “Personal Growth” section, her back to me. There’s an intensity in her posture, a focused stillness thatdraws my eye. She has long, honey-blonde hair that falls in soft waves down her back, and she runs a hand through it as she studies a shelf, a gesture of quiet contemplation. She’s holding a precarious stack of books, and from my angle, I can just make out a few of the titles. There’s one on mindfulness, another on launching a small business. And on top of the pile, the one that makes my breath catch in my chest:Starting Over After Divorce.
An immediate, unexpected pang of empathy hits me. It’s sharp and strangely protective. I’ve seen thousands of women at conventions, but they’re a blur of excitement and expectation. This woman is different. She’s not looking for a fantasy; she’s trying to piece together a new reality. I notice the faint tan line on her left ring finger, the ghost of a commitment that’s no longer there.
I’m so lost in observing her that I don’t realize I’m moving toward her. At the exact same moment, she turns, her arms full of books and a cup of coffee.
The collision is not gentle. It’s a clumsy, chaotic crash of bodies and books and lukewarm liquid. Her stack of books tumbles to the floor. The coffee cup flies from her grasp, its dark contents splashing across the front of my leather jacket and, more importantly, all over her hand.
She lets out a sharp gasp, a sound that cuts through the quiet of the bookstore. Her first instinct is mortification. “Oh my god, I am so, so sorry!” she says, her voice flustered. “Your jacket! It’s ruined!” She’s already fumbling in her purse for a napkin, her attention entirely on the mess, on the damage she thinks she’s caused to my things.
But I barely register the coffee dripping down my front. All I can see is her hand, dripping with coffee. “Forget the jacket,” I say, my voice low and, I hope, soothing. “Are you okay?”
I instinctively reach out, not to touch her, but to steady her, to get a better look. My only concern is for her. I crouch down, gathering the scattered books, carefully stacking them.The Power of Now.The Lean Startup.Starting Over After Divorce. The story of a life in transition.
“I’m fine, really,” she says, holding her coffee-stained hand awkwardly away from her body. “I’m just so clumsy. I should have been looking.”
“So should I,” I say, standing up and handing her the stack of books. Our fingers brush, and a jolt of electricity, real and unscripted, passes between us. Her eyes, a warm hazel with flecks of gold, meet mine for the first time, and they’re filled with a surprising mix of embarrassment and strength.
“At least let me buy you another coffee,” I insist. “It’s the least I can do. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
She hesitates for a moment, her gaze wary. I can see the wall she has up, the caution of someone who has learned not to trust easily. I make sure my expression is open, my smile genuine. I’m not the guy on the book covers right now. I’m just Wyatt, a guy who accidentally walked into a beautiful stranger.
Finally, she gives a small, reluctant nod. “Okay.”
I guide her to the café, a quiet space with a few mismatched tables at the back of the bookstore. The air is thick with the scent of cinnamon and steamed milk. I ordered her a new coffee, a latte, just like the one she spilled.
We sit in a slightly awkward silence for a moment before I nod toward the stack of books on the table.
“Looks like you’re planning a revolution,” I say gently.
A small, sad smile touches her lips, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Something like that,” she says, her voice a little guarded. “Trying to, anyway.”
“I get it,” I find myself saying.
She looks up from her coffee. “Get what?”
“The crossroads,” I say. “Feeling like you’re on one path, but you’re supposed to be on another. Wanting to build something that’s actually yours.”
A flicker of understanding crosses her face. “Are you at a crossroads, too?”
