Chapter 31
Wyatt
I stand 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 can see 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.
But I’m only half-present, my eyes constantly flicking to the door.
When she walks in, everything else fades.
Snow is wearing a deep blue dress the color of twilight, her hair swept up, and she’s carrying a bottle of champagne wrapped in a bow. But it’s her smile that stops my heart — proud and radiant and full of so much love it makes my chest tight.
I cross the room to her, unable to stay away, and she sets down the champagne to throw her arms around my neck.
“It’s perfect,” she whispers. “Wyatt, it’s absolutely perfect.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” I tell her, and I mean it in every possible way.
“Partners,” she says, echoing what we always say to each other.
“Partners,” I agree.
Nico appears next to us, mascara already threatening to run. “Okay, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry until the speech, but Ford, this is incredible. You really did it.”
“We really did it,” I correct, squeezing Snow’s hand.
The next hour is a blur of introductions and congratulations.
I watch Snow charm art collectors, explaining the artistic vision behind each photograph with an insight that makes me fall in love with her all over again.
I see my mama and Rain laughing like old friends.
I see Derek pointing out the display walls he helped build, and Annette rolling her eyes affectionately.
I see Jade posing next to photos and Clara shouting encouragement.
This is my life now. Not performing for cameras, not pretending to be characters I’m not. Just being myself, surrounded by people who love the real me.
Eventually, Derek taps a glass with a spoon, and the room quiets.
“Our host has a few words to say,” he announces, his voice full of pride.
My stomach does a nervous flip. This is it.
I make my way to the small raised platform in the center of the gallery. Everyone is watching — my parents, Snow’s parents, my friends, our community. But my eyes find Snow, standing near the back with Nico, and she gives me an encouraging nod.
“Thank you all for being here tonight,” I begin. My voice is steadier than I expected. “A year ago, this was just a dream. A vague idea of what I wanted my life to look like. And now it’s real. This gallery is real. My life as a photographer is real.”
I pause, looking around at the photographs on the walls. “As many of you know, for years I made a living pretending to be people I wasn’t. Playing characters. Heroes. Selling fantasies. And there’s nothing wrong with fantasy — but I was losing myself in it. I forgot what it felt like to be real.”
My gaze finds Snow again, and I see her eyes already shining with tears.
“Someone once told me that the most beautiful stories are the real ones,” I continue. “That being true to yourself matters more than perfection. That choosing yourself — your real self — is the bravest thing you can do.”
The room is completely silent now.
“Snow Holloway taught me that. She didn’t just teach me — she showed me. She walked away from a life that looked perfect on the outside but was slowly killing her on the inside. She rebuilt based on one simple principle: be real.”
I see her hand fly to her mouth, tears spilling over.
“And she helped me do the same. When I told her I wanted to leave modeling and open a gallery, she didn’t tell me I was crazy. She didn’t tell me to play it safe. She pulled out a notebook and started making a business plan. She believed in me.”
My voice catches, and I have to take a breath.
“This gallery exists because of her. Not just because she helped me build it — though she did. But because she loved me enough to help me become the person I always wanted to be. She didn’t try to change me or fix me or make me into someone else.
She just… saw me. The man behind the cover. And she loved what she saw.”
I can see our parents holding hands now — my mama and Snow’s mom are both crying, my dad has his arm around River’s shoulders. Nico is openly sobbing.
“Snow, would you come up here?”
There’s a collective intake of breath. I see the surprise flash across her face, see her look to Nico, who gives her a little push forward.
The crowd parts, and she walks toward me, her eyes locked on mine. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
She reaches the platform, and I take her hand. It’s trembling, or maybe that’s mine. “I have one more thing to say,” I tell the room, but I’m looking only at her. “Actually, I have one more thing to ask.”
Her eyes widen, and I hear my mama gasp somewhere behind us. She knew I was going to ask, she just didn’t know when.
This is it. This is the moment I’ve been planning for months, rehearsing in my head, playing out a thousand different ways. I reach into my pocket, and my hand closes around the small velvet box that’s been burning a hole there all evening.
I get down on one knee, right there in the center of my gallery, in front of everyone we love, and I open the box.
The gasp that ripples through the crowd is like a wave, but I’m only aware of Snow, of her sharp intake of breath, of the way her whole body is shaking.
“Snow, will you marry me?” I ask, my voice breaking on the words.
For one terrifying moment, she’s completely still. Silent. And then she’s nodding, frantically, tears streaming down her face.
“Yes,” she chokes out.
The room erupts in applause and cheers, but I’m focused on sliding the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly, like I knew it would.
Snow throws her arms around my neck, and I stand, lifting her off her feet, and kiss her.
When we break apart, I see our parents rushing forward.
My mama hugs Snow first, then Rain, then they’re all hugging both of us.
River shakes my hand with tears running down his weathered face.
My dad claps me on the shoulder and says, “That’s my boy. ”
Snow pulls back to look at me, her mascara running, her hair falling out of its updo, her smile brighter than any photograph I’ve ever taken. “You proposed in your gallery,” she says, laughing through her tears. “In front of everyone. On opening night.”
“I wanted everyone to know,” I tell her. “I wanted our parents to be here. I wanted to do this in the place we built together.”
“It’s perfect,” she whispers. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m not perfect. But I’m real. And I’m yours.”
“Mine,” she agrees, looking down at the ring on her finger. “And I’m yours.”
This is real. This is my life. And it’s better than any fantasy I ever pretended to live.