“What is this?” I looked up at him, afraid to hope.
“What I've been working on since the ESPN interview. Every free minute between broadcasting gigs and physical therapy.” He gestured to the iPad. “I hired a business attorney, worked with a financial advisor. Learned about commercial real estate, partnership structures, how to run a gallery and guest house. This isn't me throwing money at your problem. This is a real business plan.”
“But first, I need to say something.” He set down the iPad, his expression growing serious. “I fucked up with that money offer. I treated you like a problem to solve instead of a partner to respect. You deserved better than my checkbook solving everything.”
He ran his hands through his hair, agitation making his movements sharp. “You'd spent seven years building yourindependence, proving you could create something meaningful on your own. And I waltzed in trying to fix it all with money like some rich asshole who thinks cash solves everything.”
He stepped closer, and I could see the regret written in every line of his face. “You deserved someone who understood what you'd built, what it meant to you. Someone who wanted to be your equal, not your savior.”
“Cord—”
“I spent the last three weeks learning about gallery operations, market analysis, partnership structures.” His voice grew stronger, more certain. “Not because I thought you needed saving, but because I wanted to be worthy of being your partner. Your actual partner, not your investor. Someone who could contribute something real instead of just writing checks.”
The sincerity in his voice made my chest tight. “You did all that research...”
“Because you matter. Because what you're building matters. And because I wanted to show up as someone you could respect, not just someone with money to throw around.”
I swallowed hard, my hand shaking as I scrolled through the document. Spreadsheets, architectural renderings, market research. Professional, thorough, nothing like the impulsive offer he'd made before.
“Why guest house?” My voice came out rough.
“Because Marfa needs quality lodging for art tourists. The gallery brings them in, the guest house gives them reason to stay, spend more in town.” He pulled out a chair, sat across from me. “And because you're good at creating spaces where people feel seen. You've been doing it for seven years. This just makes it official.”
I kept scrolling. Equal ownership. Equal decision-making. Me managing gallery operations and curation, him handlingbusiness development and guest house management until I was ready to expand my role.
“The partnership has an exit clause,” he said. “Either of us can buy out the other's share at fair market value within the first two years. No hard feelings, clean separation. I'm not trying to trap you.”
“You learned all this since the interview?”
“Had excellent motivation.” His eyes held mine. “And I wanted to show you I wasn't trying to fix you. I wanted to be worthy of being your partner.”
The words cracked something open in my chest. I set down the iPad before I dropped it.
“You're moving to Texas,” I said. It wasn't a question—I'd heard him say it in the interview. “For real.”
“Marfa, if you say yes. Austin if you say no. There's an ESPN affiliate there either way.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I want to build something real, Dusty. And I want to build it with you, if you'll let me.”
I stared at the business plan, at weeks of work he'd done to show me this wasn't charity. This was partnership.
“Can you show me everything?” I heard myself say. “All of it?”
Relief flooded his expression.
We spent the next hour going through every detail. Market analysis for Marfa's art tourism—he'd researched comparable galleries in similar markets, tracked foot traffic patterns, analyzed seasonal variations. The renovation budget broke down every expense: electrical upgrades, HVAC, plumbing, ADA compliance. Staffing plans accounted for gallery attendants, housekeeping for the guest rooms, maintenance.
He was gesturing with both hands now, the careful movements gone as he got excited about vaulted ceilings and natural light and sight lines for displaying art. This wasn'tsomeone who'd skimmed a few articles. This was someone who'd learned.
“The guest house revenue stabilizes the gallery income,” he continued, swiping to a financial projection. “Art sales are unpredictable, especially starting out. But lodging in Marfa is consistent, especially during peak tourist season. It gives us runway to build the gallery's reputation without panicking about monthly expenses.”
“You thought of everything.”
“I had help. My financial advisor Gail, the business attorney, Kendon connected me with a real estate specialist who knows West Texas.” He paused. “But the vision is yours, Dusty. I just figured out how to make it sustainable.”
I looked at the renderings again. He'd captured what I'd been imagining, the way light would fall on the gallery walls, the courtyard that could host openings and small events, and even added a new twist with the guest rooms. Wow.
“I need to think,” I said. “Not long. Just... give me a minute. Alone.”
Understanding flickered across his face. “Of course. I can wait outside—”
