No excuses
My mama only uses the emergency family meeting protocol for serious situations. The last one was when my grandfather died. Before that, when my dad had his accident. This is not a casual “let’s catch up” video call. This is an intervention.
I know exactly what this means: if I don’t show up, my parents will be on the next flight to New York, and they will knock down my door. My mama doesn’t make idle threats.
I spend the next few hours in a fog of dread. I showered for the first time since I landed. I make coffee I don’t drink. I sit on my couch and replay the scene at her cottage over and over like a movie stuck on repeat — me pounding on her door, her silence, the closed curtains, knowing she was inside but wouldn’t see me.
At 7:58 PM, I open my laptop and join the video call. My parents’ faces appear on the screen, and the relief that floods my mama’s expression almost breaks me.
“Wyatt.” Her voice cracks. “Oh, honey.”
My dad is sitting beside her in their kitchen back in Austin, his arm around her shoulders. Behind them, I can see the familiar warm wood cabinets, the collection of mismatched coffee mugs hanging on hooks, the window that looks out over their backyard. A third window pops up — Tyler, his face going from worried to relieved when he sees me.
“Jesus, man,” Tyler says. “You look like shit.”
“Tyler,” my mama warns.
“Hi, Mama. Dad. Ty.” My voice sounds rough, unused.
“We’ve been trying to reach you for three days,” my mama says, and I can hear the worry and frustration warring in her tone. “Three days, Wyatt. Do you have any idea how terrified we’ve been?”
“I’m sorry. I just… I couldn’t.”
“We saw the photos,” my dad says quietly. His voice is calm, measured, the way it always is when he’s trying to understand a situation before reacting. “The gossip sites. The headlines. They’re calling you and that model — Jade? — the ‘new romance to watch.’”
I flinch. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“We know that,” my mama says immediately, fiercely. “We know you, Wyatt. We know your heart. That’s not what we’re worried about.”
“Then what—”
“We’re worried about you,” she says, leaning closer to the camera. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and I realize with a jolt that she’s been crying. “And we’re worried about Snow. That poor girl. After everything she’s been through with that awful husband, and now this.”
Over the past three months, I’ve told my parents everything about her — about Preston’s cheating, about her courage in leaving, about how strong and brilliant and real she is. She’s even joined me on a few Sunday video calls, charming my parents with her quick wit and genuine warmth. My mama has been asking when they could meet her in person. Now that might never happen.
“She won’t talk to me.”
“Can you blame her?” my dad asks, but his voice is gentle, not accusatory. “Son, put yourself in her shoes. She left a marriage where her husband cheated on her, gaslit her, made her doubt her own reality. And then photos surfaced of you having what looks like a romantic dinner with another woman. Photos that were set up for maximum publicity.”
“I know.” I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I know. I’ve been trying to reach her, but she won’t answer. I’ve texted, I’ve called, I’ve—” My voice breaks. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Tell us what happened,” my mama says. “From the beginning. All of it.”
I tell them about the St. Lucia trip, about Jade and Clara, and how it was supposed to be a simple professional shoot. I tell them about the publicist, about the staged photos, about how I didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late. I tell them about rushing to Snow’s cottage the moment I landed, about pounding on her door, and how she’s blocked my number.
By the time I’m done, I’m exhausted. Hollowed out.
My parents are quiet for a long moment. Then my dad speaks.
“That publicist manipulated you,” he says. “He used your trust against you. That’s not your fault.”
“But I should have known better,” I say. “I should have been more careful. I should have protected her.”
“You fucked up,” Tyler says bluntly. My parents don’t correct him this time.
“Yes,” my mama agrees as if Tyler hadn’t spoken. “You should have. But Wyatt, you can’t change what happened. You can only control what you do next.”
“She won’t talk to me. How am I supposed to fix this if she won’t even listen?”
