Chapter 19
Wyatt
Three days. Seventy-two hours since I stood on Snow’s doorstep, pounding on her door, begging her to let me explain. Seventy-two hours since she refused to answer. Seventy-two hours of staring at my phone, willing it to buzz with her name.
My phone has become both my lifeline and a torture device.
I read every message that comes through — my mom’s increasingly worried texts, my dad’s careful questions, Derek’s offers to come over.
I read them all, but I just can’t bring myself to respond.
What would I even say? How do I explain that I’ve destroyed the best thing in my life through my own stupidity?
The only person I want to hear from is Snow. Or Nico, telling me Snow will talk to me. But there’s nothing. Just silence.
The notification that pops up on my screen on day three makes my stomach drop.
EMERGENCY FAMILY VIDEO CONFERENCE
Tonight, 7 PM Central / 8 PM Eastern
Mandatory attendance
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?”
“Words aren’t going to fix this,” my dad says. He leans forward, his elbows on the table. “Think about it, son. From what you’ve told us, Preston could talk his way out of anything, make Snow doubt what she saw with her own eyes. Words are cheap. They’re easy to fake.”
“So what do I do?”
“Show her,” my mama says simply. “Don’t tell her the truth. Show her.”
“How?”
My parents exchange a look, one of those silent conversations that comes from thirty years of marriage.
“What are you good at?” my dad asks. “What’s your language?”
“Photography,” I say automatically. “Building things.”
“There you go.” My dad sits back. “You’re a photographer, Wyatt. You understand the difference between a genuine moment and a staged one. Use that.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’ve been telling us for months that you’re ready to leave modeling behind,” my mama says. “That you want to focus on your photography, capturing real moments instead of fake ones. So do that. Show Snow the difference. Show her what’s real.”
The idea begins to take shape in my mind, vague and terrifying. “You mean like… an exhibit?”
“I mean, show her your truth,” my mama says. “In the language you speak best. Not words. Not apologies. Show her your heart.”
“What if she doesn’t come? What if she sees it and it’s not enough?”
“Son,” my dad says. “If this woman is as smart as you say she is, she’ll see it. She’ll understand.”
“Your father’s right,” my mama adds. “Snow is strong, Wyatt. She walked away from a man who tried to break her. She built a whole new life for herself. That takes incredible courage. Give her credit for being able to see the truth when it’s right in front of her.”
I feel something shift in my chest — not hope, exactly, but maybe the possibility of hope. “I don’t even know if she’ll show up.”
“That’s where her friend comes in,” my dad says. “Nico, right?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s protecting Snow. That’s her job.” He pauses. “Wyatt, you said Nico ran a background check on you before Snow got serious with you. That means Nico knows you’re not like Preston. She knows your history. Use that.”
“Reach out to Nico,” my mama says, nodding. “Be honest. Be vulnerable. Tell her what you want to do and ask for her help. The worst she can say is no.”
“What if she says no?”
“Then you do it anyway,” my mama says firmly. “You create this exhibit, you put your heart on display, and you hope. Because that’s all you can do, honey. You can’t control whether Snow forgives you. You can only control whether you show up and tell the truth.”
“Maybe fire that agent of yours,” my dad adds.
We sit in silence for a moment. I can hear the clock ticking in their kitchen, the distant sound of their neighbor’s dog barking.
“I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls,” I say finally. “I just… I couldn’t talk to anyone. The only person I wanted to hear from was her.”
“We understand,” my mama says, but her voice is still tight with worry. “But Wyatt, you can’t shut us out like that. We’re your family. We love you. And when you’re hurting, we need to know you’re okay.”
“I’m not okay,” I admit, and saying it out loud makes it real. “I’m really not okay, Mama.”
“I know, baby.” Her eyes fill with tears. “But you will be. One way or another, you will be.”
“What if I lose her?”
My dad takes a deep breath. “It will hurt like hell, but you’ll survive it. But Wyatt, I don’t think you’re going to lose her. Not if you fight for her the right way.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen the way you talk about her,” my mama says, smiling through her tears.
“I’ve seen your face light up when you mention her name.
I’ve watched you become more yourself since you met her.
That kind of love doesn’t come around often.
And from what you’ve told us about Snow, she feels the same way.
She’s just scared. And she has every right to be scared after what that idiot did to her. ”
“Give her a reason not to be scared,” my dad says. “Show her that you’re different. Show her that you see her. Show her what you see when you look at her.”
The idea is fully formed now, terrifying and desperate and exactly right. “I need to go,” I say suddenly. “I need to start working on this. I need to—”
“Go,” my mama says, laughing a little through her tears. “Go. But Wyatt?”
“Yeah?”
“Call us tomorrow,” my mama adds. “Just to check in. Even if it’s just a text. We need to know you’re alive and breathing.”
“I will. I promise.”
“And honey?” She leans closer to the camera. “We’re proud of you. For fighting for her. For being brave enough to be vulnerable. That takes real courage.”
“Thanks, Mama.”
“You got this, bro,” Tyler says, his voice serious for once.
After we hang up, I sit in the quiet of my loft for a long moment. Then I stand up and walk to my darkroom. I have work to do.
I start pulling prints from my files — photos I’ve taken over the past three months. Moments I captured because I couldn’t help myself, because I was falling in love with her, and photography was the only way I knew how to hold onto those moments.
I look around my darkroom at the photos covering every surface. The truth lay bare in black and white. Performance versus reality. The fake versus the real.
My dad was right. Words won’t fix this. But maybe I can show her what I don’t have the words to say.