Istand in the center of my gallery — mine, actually mine — and adjust the same photograph for the third time. The black-and-white image of wildflowers growing through cracked concrete hangs perfectly level, has been for twenty minutes, but my hands need something to do with the nervous energy thrumming through my veins.
This is different from the anxiety I felt at the Huntington Arts Center six months ago when I was a featured artist in someone else’s show. That night, I was testing the waters, dipping my toe into the photography world while still keeping one foot in modeling.
Tonight, I’m all in.
The sign above the door reads “Ford Gallery” in simple, clean letters. The space is small — just under a thousand square feet — but it’s mine. Every wall I painted, every display I built, every light I positioned. The polished concrete floors reflect the warm track lighting overhead. My photographs line the walls — not just mine, but work from three other emerging photographers I’m showcasing. In the back, through the open doorway, you cansee my darkroom, the red light glowing softly. And upstairs, the small classroom where I’ll start teaching next month.
It’s not grand. It’s not glamorous. But it’s real. It’s exactly what I wanted to build.
My phone buzzes.
Both sets of parents are five minutes away. I’ll be there soon, too. This is going to be perfect.
I smile, my heart doing that thing it always does when I think about Snow. For the past six months, we’ve been building toward this. She helped me finish the business plan, sat with me through a dozen bank meetings, designed the marketing strategy, and held my hand through every moment of doubt.
Three months ago, her divorce was finalized. The day the decree arrived in the mail, she’d texted me a photo with one word:Free.We’d celebrated quietly that night, just the two of us, and I’d felt something settle in my chest. Not relief that Preston was finally, legally out of her life — though there was that too — but a deep certainty that our future was really beginning.
Two months ago, I asked my mama to send me my grandmother’s ring.
Tonight, I’m going to ask Snow to marry me.
She believed in this gallery before I fully believed in it myself. And now I’m going to ask her to believe in us, permanently.
“You need to stop touching that photograph,” Derek says, appearing at my elbow with Annette. “It’s been level since Tuesday.”
“It’s a nervous habit,” Annette says, grinning. “Like how you reorganize the therapy room supplies before every new client intake.”
“That’s different,” Derek protests. “That’s organizational efficiency.”
“That’s anxiety,” she corrects, then turns to me. “Wyatt, it looks incredible. You did it.”
“We did it,” I say, because Derek spent weekends helping me build the display walls, and I know he understands what I mean. We both left our old lives behind — him opening his physical therapy practice with his brother, me leaving modeling for this. We built our dreams in parallel.
The bell above the door chimes, and my heart stutters.
My parents walk in, and my mama immediately bursts into tears. “Oh, honey,” she says, her voice breaking as she looks around. “Your own gallery. Your name on the door.”
My dad is quieter, but his eyes are shining as he shakes my hand and then pulls me into a hug. “Proud of you, son. This is exactly what you were meant to do.”
“Thanks, Dad.” My voice catches. “Thanks for flying out for this.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it,” he says. “Your mama’s been talking about nothing else for months.”
I wish Tyler could have made it, but asking him to fly in from Austin would have tipped off my parents about the proposal. Having them here is enough.
The door chimes again, and Snow’s parents walk in — Rain with her long silver hair and flowing purple dress, River in his worn jeans and hand-knit sweater. They look like they just stepped out of a folk festival, and they’re absolutely perfect.
Rain makes a beeline for me and takes my hands, studying my face with that intense, intuitive gaze of hers. “You’re nervous,” she observes.
“Very,” I admit.
“Good,” she says. “That means it matters. That means your heart is in it.” She looks around the gallery, her eyes taking in every detail. “This place has good energy. It feels like you.”
River claps me on the shoulder. “Any man who builds things with his hands and his heart is doing it right,” he says. “You’re doing it right.”
I watch as my parents and Snow’s parents gravitate toward each other, my mama admiring Rain’s hand-dyed scarf, my dad asking River about the wooden beads on his bracelet. Two completely different worlds, finding common ground in loving the same two people.
The gallery starts to fill. Jade and Clara arrive, and Jade makes a show of pretending to look for shirtless photos of me on the walls. Former modeling colleagues show up, some curious, some genuinely supportive. Clients from Snow’s consulting business come to support us both. The space hums with conversation and laughter.
