The conversation is effortless as we wander from stall to stall. He asks me what my favorite vegetable is, a question so simple it makes me laugh.
“Heirloom tomatoes,” I tell him. “They’re weird-shaped and imperfect and a hundred times more interesting than the perfectly round ones you find in the supermarket.”
“I like corn,” he says. “Reminds me of home. Texas summers always smelled like freshly cut grass and corn on the grill.”
We make small decisions together — choosing sourdough, sampling honey, buying sharp cheddar. It feels surprisingly intimate, like we’re stocking the kitchen of a life we could share.
We pass a flower stall overflowing with a riot of color — zinnias and cosmos and snapdragons. My eyes land on a tall metal bucket filled with sunflowers, their bright, open faces turned toward the sun. I stop, my breath catching in my throat. They are so unapologetically joyful.
“Those are my favorites,” I say, the words coming out in a whisper. I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to tell him more. “I have a tattoo of one.” I hold out my hand, palm up, showing him the small, delicate black-and-white sunflower on the inside of my wrist. “I used to cover it with a watch or bracelet.” I pause, looking at the small flower, which I no longer hide. “My mom says they’re a reminder to always turn toward the light, no matter how dark it gets.”
Wyatt doesn’t say anything. He just looks from the tattoo on my wrist to my face, his expression soft and unreadable. Then he turns to the vendor, a cheerful woman in a wide-brimmed hat. “We’ll take all of them,” he says.
“All of them?” I ask, my voice a squeak of surprise.
“All of them,” he confirms, pulling out his wallet. He pays the woman and then presses the enormous, sunny bouquet into my arms. The flowers are heavy, their faces bigger than my hands, and they smell of earth and sun and summer.
“Everyone deserves to have something or someone who helps them face the light,” he says quietly, his deep blue eyes holding mine.
My heart does a painful, hopeful flip. Preston gave expensive gifts he never chose himself, impersonal things meant to be seen, not loved. But Wyatt listened. He saw a hidden piece of me, a secret I’d just shared, and he honored it. I feel a crack form in the wall around my heart, letting in a sliver of brilliant, terrifying light.
We find a quiet stretch of sand on the nearby beach, away from the crowds. The late afternoon sun is a warm blanket on our skin, and the sky is beginning to bleed into soft shades of orange and pink. The only sound is the gentle, rhythmic shush of the waves against the shore, a sound that feels like the world breathing a long, slow sigh.
Wyatt spreads out an old, faded quilt he keeps in the back of his truck, and we lay out our picnic.
The easy market chatter deepens into something more substantial as we eat.
“So, you’re starting your own business,” he says, turning to face me. “Tell me more about it.”
I find myself telling him everything. “I’m so tired of corporate greenwashing,” I explain, the frustration bubbling up. “Huge companies slap a green leaf on a plastic bottle and call it sustainable. I want to find the small brands that are actually doing the work, the ones with ethical supply chains, and give them a fighting chance.”
He nods slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “So how do you cut through that? How do you prove to customers that your clients are the real deal and not just telling a better story?”
The question is so smart, so direct. “Vetting,” I say, feeling a surge of energy. “Deep dives. It’s about finding the companies that are a good story, not just the ones that can afford to tell one.”
“Okay,” he says, leaning in slightly. “So once you find them, what’s their biggest hurdle? Is it the budget for marketing, or just getting heard above all the noise?”
He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer a single piece of unsolicited advice. He just listens, asking questions that show he’s not just hearing my words — he’s understanding my passion. With every question, I feel more and more like the most interesting woman in the world.
The ease of sharing surprises me. I haven’t talked about my business like this with anyone except Nico. But with Wyatt, it feels natural. Safe. And now I’m hungry to see more of what drives him. “Can I see more?” I ask, my voice softer than I intend. “Your personal work.”
A small smile touches his lips as he pulls out his phone. These are different from what I saw in the gallery. More raw. Color photos of quiet, everyday moments that are full of story and soul.
There’s a close-up of a baker’s hands, caked in flour, lovingly kneading a mound of dough. There’s a shot of a lone dog waiting patiently by a grocery store entrance, its leash tied to a parking meter, its gaze fixed on the door. He scrolls to one more: two elderly men playing chess in a park, completely absorbed, while the rest of the world rushes by in a blur around them. Each image is a complete story in a single frame.
“Is it very different?” I ask, nodding at the camera bag he’d grabbed from his truck before we ate. “Using that instead of a phone?”
“It’s a different language,” he says, pulling the camera from its bag. “With a phone, you’re taking a picture of what you see. With this, you’re painting with light.”
Before I can protest, he’s pressing the camera into my hands. His fingers guide mine to the right buttons, warm against my skin. He’s so close I can smell the faint scent of his soap.Bergamot and cedar. He explains aperture and shutter speed, his voice a low murmur close to my ear. I’m trying to focus on his words, but, for a second, all I can think about is how close he is, how warm his hands are on mine.
After I steady myself, I lift the camera to my eye, focus on the setting sun, and press the shutter. The photo is blurry, the horizon crooked, but I love it because it’s mine.
The intimacy of the moment, the easy sharing of dreams, makes me brave. A small, bitter stone of a memory I’ve been carrying for years rises to the surface, and before I can stop it, I’m speaking it out loud. “Preston hated it when I baked,” I say, my voice quiet. “He said the smell of yeast was common and the flour made a mess in his perfect kitchen.”
Wyatt doesn’t offer pity or platitudes. He just meets my gaze, his own eyes full of understanding. “Well, that’s his loss,” he says simply. “I bet you make a killer chocolate chip cookie.”
A laugh escapes me, genuine and light. It feels foreign. “You have no idea,” I say, a spark of the old me — the confident, playful woman I was before Preston — flaring to life. I arch an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on my lips. “And if you behave yourself, you might just get to try one someday.”
