Nico shifts beside me. I know her brothers are one phone call away, but I don’t need them. I take a step forward, and something in my expression must communicate what I’m feeling, because Preston flinches.
“You don’t get to do this anymore,” I say, my voice steady. “You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do. You don’t get to stand in my way. You don’t get any more of my time, my energy, or my fear. So I’m going to say this one more time. Move.”
For a long moment, we stand there, locked in a silent battle of wills. Then, slowly, Preston steps aside. Because somewhere in his small, entitled mind, he finally understands that he has no power over me anymore.
Nico and I walk past him, our heads held high, leaving him standing there alone, a king in a kingdom of ashes.
As we reach the top of the stairs, I turn for one last look at the man who tried to erase me. He looks small, pathetic, a figure of impotent rage, standing in the doorway of the master bedroom.
“Goodbye, Preston,” I say, my voice cold and final.
The heavy oak door slams shut behind us when we finally leave the house, the sound a satisfying, definitive end to a chapter of my life.
We drive in silence until we clear the imposing front gates and are back on the public road, back in the real world. The tension holds for a beat longer, a fragile, charged thing. And then it breaks.
Nico lets out a whoop of pure, unadulterated triumph, and then I’m seized by a fit of hysterical, cathartic laughter.
Chapter 12
Wyatt
Friday evening. The night I’ve been thinking about all week. I arrive at the Huntington Arts Center a full thirty minutes early, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm against my ribs that’s entirely foreign to me. I’ve stood on stages in front of thousands of screaming fans, posed half-naked in studios under the critical gaze of a dozen crew members, and faced down aggressive authors without breaking a sweat. But the thought of seeing Snow again has my palms sweating and my stomach doing backflips. This feels different. This feels real. And the stakes feel infinitely higher.
The gallery is a sanctuary. The ceilings are high, the floors are polished concrete that reflects the soft, focused pools of light on the artwork. My footsteps echo softly, a respectful sound in the quiet hall. The air smells of latex paint and old wood and the faint, clean scent of possibility. It’s my natural habitat, the world I want to belong to. This is where I come to breathe.
But today, I can’t seem to catch my breath. I wander through the rooms, pretending to look at the art, but my mind is a chaotic buzz of insecurity. Will she show up? Did I come on too strong?Was the coffee shop a fluke, a brief moment of connection that she’s already regretted?
I replay our conversation, her hesitant but firm “yes,” and I cling to it like a lifeline. I worry that the baggage of my job, the sheer, ridiculous spectacle of the cardboard cutout, is too much for her to overcome. I worry that she’ll decide I’m just another fantasy, another pretty lie, and that she’s had enough of those for one lifetime.
I’m not just hoping for a date. I’m hoping to beseen. Really seen, for the man I am, not the character I play. I catch my reflection in the glass of a picture frame, and for a second, I don’t recognize the anxious man staring back at me.
And then I see her.
She’s standing across the gallery, her back to me, and my breath catches in my throat. She’s completely absorbed in a photograph, the same one I’d spent twenty minutes in front of yesterday. It’s a stark, black-and-white image by a featured artist, a close-up of two weathered hands. One hand is old, wrinkled, and frail, and it’s being held by a younger, stronger hand. But the grip is loose, a gentle letting go, not a desperate clinging. It’s a picture of a peaceful, heartbreaking goodbye.
I watch her for a long moment. She’s so still, so lost in the image, her expression a mixture of sorrow and a profound, quiet understanding. She’s not just looking at a picture. She’s feeling it. And in that moment, my hope for this evening solidifies into something fierce and protective.
I approach her quietly, not wanting to startle her out of her reverie. I come to a stop beside her, our shoulders almost touching.
“That one gets me, too,” I say softly.
She jumps slightly, startled, and turns to me. She’s wearing a soft gray sweater and dark jeans that look comfortable rather than styled. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and there’sa nervous energy about her — the way she’s holding herself, like she’s still not quite sure she should be here. Her eyes, those incredible hazel eyes with the flecks of gold, are wide and a little guarded. But then she recognizes me, and a small, shy smile touches her lips, softening her whole expression.
“Wyatt,” she says, her voice a little breathless. “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” I confirm, my own smile feeling a little shaky. “I was starting to think I’d dreamed you up.”
She looks back at the photograph, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “It’s beautiful,” she says. “Sad, but beautiful.”
“What do you see when you look at it?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She’s quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the image. “I see… the difficulty of letting go,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “The necessity of it. Even when it hurts. Sometimes, holding on is the thing that breaks you.”
Something twists in my chest at her words. She’s not just talking about the photograph. She’s talking about her life. She’s sharing a piece of it with me.
“I see the stories,” I say, my voice gentle. “A lifetime of work in those calluses. A lifetime of love in the way the fingers are intertwined. A lifetime of loss in the letting go.”
She turns to me, her eyes shining with a new light, a look of surprise and connection. “That’s exactly it,” she says softly.
