Chapter 3: The Girl in the White Dress

The system told me Tyler must have met someone really important to him—

That sent a jolt through me. I snatched my keys off the counter, left the front door swinging open, and ran to the address on my phone. I was breathing hard by the time I pulled up—late, as usual.

By the time I got there, more than half an hour had gone by.

The sun was setting.

A golden haze draped the backyard, fireflies already blinking over the patchy grass. The old gazebo behind the house looked like something out of a Southern novel—weathered wood, peeling paint, the place where secrets settle in the dusk. Cicadas buzzed in the trees, and somewhere, someone’s grill smoked up the evening air.

Tyler was sitting in the old gazebo, sketching something on his drawing board.

He was hunched over, pencil scratching furiously, headphones slung around his neck. The air was thick with turpentine and late-summer heat.

And across from him, a girl with a ponytail stood nearby.

She shifted from foot to foot, excitement bubbling off her. She had the kind of confidence that makes everyone else shrink a little.

She wore a white sundress, bright and bubbly.

The skirt floated around her knees, catching the last sunlight. If you didn’t know her, you’d guess she walked out of an indie film or an Anthropologie catalog.

Every so often, she’d exclaim,

“Wow, this composition is just perfect!”

Her words tumbled out in bursts, hands flying to her cheeks. "Dude, this is gallery-level stuff. You gotta let me show my mentor."

“I study art too, and honestly—you’re a total genius!”

Her eyes sparkled. She tapped her iPad, scrolling through digital portfolios, genuinely thrilled for him.

“What school do you go to?”

She said it like it was the most important question in the world, like she was already planning to text all her friends about him.

“My mentor’s a director at the National Art Association. Should I recommend you?”

She grinned wide, like she was about to share the secret to the universe. "He owes me a favor, seriously."

“I also know a bunch of teachers from art schools around here.”

She rattled off names—RISD, SCAD, even local junior colleges.

“They’d absolutely love your work.”

She was totally earnest, and for the first time, Tyler looked like he believed her.

…

A genius—

That’s right.

I knew it when I got this assignment.

Tyler really is a genius.

A top painter the art world rarely sees in decades.

His exhibitions can spark a city’s passion for art, and even a doodle he does when he’s bored can fetch a fortune at auction.

Once, I caught him doodling on the back of a pizza box. He tossed it out, but later, a visiting neighbor fished it from the trash and swore it was worth hundreds, easy.

But someone like him was diagnosed with autism as a kid.

By his teens, it had developed into atypical bipolar disorder.

Sometimes he was manic and anxious.

Sometimes he was withdrawn and gloomy, able to go days without saying a word.

It was like watching a weather map—sunshine one day, thunderstorms the next, never knowing if he’d want pancakes or just silence.

By high school, the Taylor family hit a financial crisis—their company was on the verge of bankruptcy.

Tyler’s parents had died in a car accident when he was a baby.

Only his elderly grandfather was left to handle everything.

The old man couldn’t take the pressure and had a stroke, winding up in the hospital.

The hospital smelled like bleach and wilted flowers. I visited with get-well cards, but all he wanted was to talk about Tyler.

Before he passed, he used the family’s last assets to find someone to care for his grandson—to look after Tyler’s daily life and mental health.

He handed me a sealed letter and some bank documents, eyes damp. "Promise me," he whispered, "that you’ll give the boy a real shot."

Then, he asked the caretaker to find a real estate businessman named Harris.

That was an old friend from his youth, someone who owed him a life-saving favor.

But the Harris family later moved overseas, and somehow they lost touch.

Their Christmas cards stopped coming, phone numbers changed, and eventually, it was just stories and rumors.

Back when our families still believed in old-school promises—like those corny childhood pacts you think nobody takes seriously—Tyler and Mia were supposed to end up together. "He needs people in his corner. Someone who actually gets him."

The old man pressed the faded photo of Mia into my palm, eyes hopeful.

I held it tight, not knowing if I’d ever measure up.