Chapter 10
Wyatt
It’s been a month since the collision at the bookstore.
A month of replaying that final, devastating moment when the fragile connection between us shattered against the cardboard image of my own stupid, brooding face.
I’ve told myself a dozen times to let it go, to forget about the woman with the sad, determined eyes and the stack of self-help books.
But her look of profound disappointment is seared into my memory.
It was so different from the usual reactions I get.
It was honest. And it’s the honesty that I can’t shake.
But I couldn’t forget about her. I lasted a week before I found myself casually driving past the café.
Then I went in. Just for coffee, I told myself.
Good coffee. Since then, I’ve been stopping by once a week, maybe twice, different days and times, ordering a coffee, sketching in my notebook, pretending I’m not hoping to see a flash of honey-blonde hair through the window.
I tell myself I’m here for the coffee, which is genuinely good.
I tell myself I’m here for a change of scenery, to get out of my loft and away from the lingering scent of darkroom chemicals.
But I know I’m lying. I’m here because of her.
The thought makes me feel like a stalker, a feeling I despise.
It’s the kind of obsessive behavior I’ve seen in fans, and it makes my skin crawl to recognize a shadow of it in myself.
But this is different. It’s not about a fantasy.
It’s about a mystery. Why was she so disappointed?
What was it about my job, about that two-dimensional hero, that made her build a wall of ice around herself in a single, heartbreaking second?
I’m nursing a black coffee, a sketchbook open on the small table in front of me, trying to look casual.
I’m sketching the intricate pattern of the pressed-tin ceiling, but my eyes keep flicking to the door, a nervous, hopeful tic I can’t control.
And then, she walks in.
My heart gives a hard, sudden jolt against my ribs, a physical reaction that takes me by surprise.
She’s wearing a soft, gray sweater and jeans, her honey-blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
There’s a determination in her posture. The fragile, hunted look from the bookstore has been replaced by a quiet, steely resolve.
She doesn’t see me. She walks to the counter, her movements efficient and focused, and orders a coffee.
I watch her, my hand frozen above my sketchbook.
This is my chance. But what do I say? How do I approach her without seeming like the creepy guy who followed her to her favorite café?
I decide to let her make the first move.
I’ll just sit here, and if she sees me, if she acknowledges me, then I’ll take that as an invitation.
If she doesn’t, I’ll finish my coffee and leave, and that will be the end of it.
She turns from the counter, her coffee in hand, and scans the room for a place to sit.
Her eyes pass over me once, a quick, dismissive glance, and my stomach plummets.
She doesn’t recognize me. Or worse, she does, and she’s choosing to ignore me.
But then her gaze returns, and her eyes widen slightly.
I see a flicker of recognition, followed by a complex mix of emotions I can’t quite decipher.
There’s surprise, yes, but also a hint of something else.
She hesitates for a long moment, and I can see the internal battle playing out on her face.
She could turn around, walk out, and I would never see her again.
My own breath is caught in my chest, waiting for her verdict.
Then, with a small, almost imperceptible sigh, she starts walking toward my table.
“Wyatt, right?” she says, her voice a little tight. She doesn’t come closer, staying a careful few feet away from my table.
I give her a small, non-threatening smile, trying to project an aura of casual, harmless coincidence. “Yes, ma’am. And you’re Snow.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Are you following me?” The question is direct, no-nonsense. She’s not playing games.
The accusation hits me like a punch to the gut, even though I’ve been expecting it. “No. I mean—” I gesture helplessly around the café. “I come here sometimes. For the coffee. I know how this looks, but I swear, this is just… a really weird coincidence.”
She doesn’t look convinced. Her arms cross over her chest, a clear defensive posture. Her eyes narrow. “Did you happen to find a note? At the bookstore? After I left?”
My face heats up. Busted. There’s no point lying now. “Yeah,” I admit. “I did. It had this café’s name on it. And a time.”
“So you came here hoping to see me.” It’s not a question.
“I…” I run a hand through my hair, feeling like an absolute creep.
“I tried to forget about you. Then I found myself driving past here. And the coffee really is good, so…” I give a weak, self-deprecating shrug.
“I’ve been stopping by since then. Hoping I’d run into you again.
” I meet her eyes. “I know that’s weird.
I know it’s borderline stalker behavior.
If you want me to leave, I completely understand. ”
She studies me for a long moment, her hazel eyes searching my face. I can see the calculation happening behind them, the careful weighing of risk. Finally, she lets out a slow breath.
“Look,” she says, her voice a little softer but still wary. “I’m sorry for how I left the other day. At the bookstore. That wasn’t fair to you. But I’m going through something right now, and I don’t have the bandwidth for… whatever this is.”
She’s setting a boundary. Getting ready to leave. I’m losing her again.
“Just five minutes,” I say, the words coming out more desperate than I intended. “Please. Let me explain about the cardboard cutout thing. And then if you want me to leave, I won’t bother you again. I promise.”
She looks at the chair, then back at me, her jaw tight.
I can see her warring with herself. Finally, with visible reluctance, she sits down on the very edge of the chair, her body angled toward the exit like she might bolt at any second.
She places her coffee on the table between us, but doesn’t take off her jacket.
“Five minutes,” she says firmly.
The silence that follows is heavy and uncomfortable. She’s not making this easy for me, and honestly, she shouldn’t. I decide to take a risk, to address the elephant in the room head-on.
“That guy on the cardboard,” I say, keeping my voice low and casual. “He’s a character I play for work. He pays the bills so I can do what I really love.”
Her expression doesn’t soften. If anything, her eyes get sharper. “A character,” she repeats, her tone flat. “So you pretend to be something you’re not for money.”
The words land like a slap. “I—I mean, it’s not exactly—”
“That came out harsher than I meant,” she says, but she doesn’t take it back. She takes a sip of her coffee, her gaze steady on me. “I’m just trying to understand. You pretend to be a fantasy for a living. How is that any different from the cardboard cutout?”
I feel my defenses rising, but I force myself to sit with the discomfort. She’s testing me. She has every right to. “You’re right,” I say finally. “It’s not that different. The cutout is what people see. The modeling is what I do. But it’s a means to an end, to what I really want to do.”
“What you really want to do,” she echoes, and there’s something knowing in her voice. She pauses, then asks, “Photography, right? That’s what you said at the bookstore.”
“Yeah,” I confirm, surprised and pleased that she remembered. “Real life. Not… that.”
She nods slowly, and I can see her reassessing me.
“I get that,” she says, and her tone is a fraction warmer.
“The difference between the job you have to do and the life you want to live.” She glances at the stack of books she’s carrying, the same ones I saw her with at the bookstore.
“I’m sort of in the middle of that myself. ”
“The revolution?” I ask, echoing my words from our first meeting.
For a moment, I think she’s going to shut down again. But then a small, reluctant smile touches her lips. “The revolution,” she confirms. “Or at least, the planning stages of it.”
I watch as she takes a slow sip of her drink. She’s starting to relax, but only barely. “So, what’s the big plan?” I ask gently. “For your revolution?”
She hesitates, and I can see her deciding whether to trust me with this.
Finally, she says, “Helping small, ethical businesses find their voice. There are people with incredible, sustainable products who get drowned out by corporate giants. They have a story, but no one to help them tell it. I want to be their megaphone.”
As she speaks, the energy in her shifts. The wary woman from minutes ago isn’t gone — she’s still there in the careful way she holds herself — but there’s a spark now. A passionate gleam in her eye. “It’s about authenticity. Helping good people tell an honest story.”
I find myself leaning forward, completely captivated. “That’s… brilliant.”
She leans back slightly, creating distance. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not just saying it,” I insist. “I mean it. That’s exactly what I’m trying to do with photography. Tell honest stories instead of selling fantasies.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for insincerity. “Now it’s your turn,” she says finally, her gaze landing on the camera sitting between us. “What’s your big dream?”
“A gallery, maybe,” I admit. The idea feels both huge and fragile out in the open. “I want to tell stories with images, not just… be one.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “People have a funny way of deciding who you are based on a single glance. They put you in a box.”
A look of profound understanding crosses her face. “Tell me about it,” she says, her voice low. And in that moment, I feel a connection so sharp and sudden it almost steals my breath.