Chapter 21
Wyatt
It’s been seven days of hell. Seven days of waiting for Nico to give me any sign that Snow might listen. Seven days of printing photos in my darkroom, my hands shaking as images of her emerged in the developer tray. Seven days of convincing Bobby to let me use his bookstore for this desperate plan.
Now I’m hanging my soul on the wall.
Each black-and-white photograph I hang is a piece of me, a desperate attempt to tell a story that words have failed to convey.
I’m setting up a small, pop-up photography exhibit in the corner of Book Revue, the place where I first collided with Snow, and I’m so terrified she won’t come that my hands are shaking.
The bookstore is officially closed, but Bobby let me use the space near the café. This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done. It’s not a calculated move from a romance hero’s playbook; it’s a Hail Mary pass from a man who has run out of words.
The vulnerability is terrifying. This is a different kind of exposure than any photoshoot. In those, I’m hiding behind a character. Here, there’s nowhere to hide. This is all me. What if she doesn’t come? What if she sees this as just another performance? The fear is making me nauseous.
The exhibit is divided into two sections, separated by a black ribbon. The contrast is jarring — two different worlds.
On the left, I hang glossy prints from my professional portfolio.
The Highlander on a misty moor. The billionaire in a tailored suit.
The photo from St. Lucia — the dinner with Jade.
Candlelight. Champagne. My hand covering hers in what looks like a lover’s caress, but was actually me consoling a friend missing her wife.
It’s one of the images that destroyed everything.
Hanging it feels like swallowing glass. But I have to own the lie to prove the truth.
Underneath, a small card reads: “The Performance. A character, a costume, a story told for money. Polished. Professional. Unreal.”
On the right, the photos are different. Black and white, printed on matte paper. Grainy, imperfect, full of emotion. A secret portfolio of my feelings for Snow.
A wildflower pushing through a crack in the sidewalk.
A delicate spiderweb glistening with morning dew.
Her empty coffee cup at the café, a faint lipstick stain on the rim.
And the largest print: Snow at the beach, laughing at something I’d said, her head thrown back, the setting sun catching the gold in her hair. She looks free and completely real.
In the middle, hanging on the black ribbon, is my artist’s statement.
We are all asked to perform. We play roles for our jobs, for our families, for the world.
We construct images of who we think we should be.
But the performance is not the person. The costume is not the soul.
The real story is not in the polished, perfect moments that are sold as truth.
It’s in the quiet, the imperfect, the unguarded.
It’s in the moments between the poses. It’s behind the cover.
This is my attempt to show the difference. This is my apology. This is my truth.
I finish setting up, and then I just… wait.
This morning, Nico had confirmed via text: Tonight. 8 PM. Don’t screw this up.
No explanation of what she said to convince Snow. No promises that Snow will forgive me. Just those six words that gave me the first real hope I’ve felt in seven days. And now it’s 7:58 PM and I’m standing here, terrified.
The bell above the bookstore door chimes softly, a sound that jolts me like a cattle prod. My head snaps up.
Snow is standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the streetlights, wrapped in a dark coat. And standing behind her is Nico, her expression a mixture of skepticism and fierce loyalty. She catches my eye and gives me a single, sharp nod.
Snow hesitates for a long moment, her gaze taking in the strange, quiet scene. I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just stand by my exhibit. This has to be her choice. She has to be the one to close the distance.
After what feels like an eternity, she takes a slow step forward, then another. Her eyes land first on the “Performance” side. I watch her face, my breath held. I see a flicker of the old pain as she looks at the photo of me and Jade. Her jaw tightens.
Then her gaze moves to the artist’s statement. She steps closer to read it, scanning the words once, then twice. Her shoulders relax slightly. A small, shaky breath escapes her lips.
Finally, she looks to the right. Her gaze moves slowly over the images. The wildflower. The spiderweb. The coffee cup. And then she sees the photo of herself.
Her breath hitches. She takes another step closer, her hand rising to touch the image. Her fingers trace the outline of her own laughing face.
She turns to me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. The anger is gone. The hurt is still there, but softened by dawning understanding. “These are real,” she whispers. Somehow, I know she’s not just talking about the photographs. She’s talking about us.
I finally let out the breath I was holding. “Yes,” I say, my voice hoarse. “They are.”
For a long moment, we just stand there, looking at each other. The silence is heavy with everything I need to say but can’t, not yet. I can see the war in her eyes — understanding battling old wounds, hope fighting fear.
Then, without a word, she turns and walks back to where Nico is waiting by the door. I don’t try to stop her. I don’t call after her. She came. She saw. She understood. That’s enough.
But as she reaches the doorway, she pauses and looks back at me over her shoulder. “Our beach,” she says quietly, her voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. “In one hour.”
Before I can respond, she’s gone, the bell above the door chiming softly in her wake.
I stand frozen for a moment, her words echoing in my mind. Then I’m moving, grabbing my jacket, my keys, my hope.