The Trouble With Brent Woods
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 6
The art walk began at a nondescript corner in Jackson Heights, where murals bloomed across brick walls and fruit vendors arranged pyramids of color beneath striped awnings. Lily, photographer extraordinaire, stood at the center of it all. Her wide-brimmed hat casted a soft shadow over her eyes, with her camera already in hand.
“Street photography isn’t about perfection,” she announced to the small group gathered around her. “It’s about noticing. You’re hunting moments, not poses.”
Brent arrived a few minutes early, hands in his jacket pockets, trying not to look like he was waiting for something. When Maggie rounded the corner, hair loose, expression guarded, his shoulders tensed.
She stopped short when she saw him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Lily’s smile was serene. “Surprise.”
Maggie folded her arms. “You invited him?”
“I invited people,” Lily corrected. “You both showed up. The city does the rest.”
Brent lifted a hand, half-apology, half-acknowledgment. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Funny,” Maggie said. “I was wondering why you had so much time on your hands.”
He hesitated. “I’m ... on leave.”
She blinked. “From work?”
“Mandatory,” he said. “PR nightmare.”
Something in her expression shifted. Not sympathy exactly. Awareness.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “That explains a few things.”
Lily clapped her hands. “Pairs. You’ll learn more if you talk while you walk.”
Maggie’s eyes widened. “You’re pairing us?”
“I’m pairing everyone,” Lily said. “You two just happen to be ... narratively interesting.”
Brent fought a smile. Maggie shot Lily a look that promised retribution.
They set off down the block, a fragile distance between them.
“Rules?” Maggie asked.
“Don’t block the sidewalk,” he said.
She snorted despite herself.
They walked in silence for a moment, cameras hanging unused. A little boy chased pigeons across the pavement. An elderly man played a battered accordion.
“You really on leave?” Maggie asked.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Until my name stops being radioactive.”
She nodded. “That’s rough.”
He glanced at her. “You don’t have to soften it.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I’m just ... updating my file.”
He raised a brow. “You have a file on me?”
“Did,” she corrected. “It’s being revised.”
They paused near a mural depicting hands reaching toward a skyline.
“Take that,” Maggie said.
“Why?”
“Because it’s hopeful,” she replied. “And you look like you need that.”
He studied the wall, then lifted his camera. Click.
“Thanks,” he said.
She shrugged. “Don’t make it weird.”
They moved on. A woman in a sari laughed with a barista at an open window café. Brent lifted his camera.
“You’re good at noticing,” Maggie observed.
“It’s my job,” he said. “Or was.”
She glanced at him. “You’re more than that.”
He blinked.
“Creative directors aren’t supposed to fade into the background,” she added. “But you do.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said. “I watch before I act.”
“That night at the club?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She exhaled. “I was wrong about that.”
He didn’t gloat. Just nodded.
They reached a crosswalk. A bus roared past.
“You don’t like nightlife,” he said.
Her jaw tightened. “I don’t trust it.”
“Because?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “Another day.”
He accepted it. “Fair.”
A stray cat darted from beneath a parked car. Maggie dropped into a crouch, capturing it mid-stride.
“You’re gentle,” he said before thinking.
She glanced up. “Excuse me?”
“With animals,” he clarified. “You went soft without noticing.”
She straightened slowly. “You don’t see everything.”
“True,” he said. “But I’m learning.”
They shared a look—less sharp, more curious. At that very moment, Lily passed them, snapping a candid shot.
“Hey!” Maggie protested.
“History,” Lily replied.
They ended at a small plaza where musicians played. The group reconvened.
“Show me,” Lily said, peering at Maggie’s camera.
Maggie handed it over.
Lily smiled. “You frame people like they matter.”
Maggie looked away, embarrassed.
Brent leaned in. “They do.”
Their shoulders brushed. Neither moved away.
“Coffee?” Lily asked the group.
Maggie hesitated, then nodded.
As they walked, she said quietly, “You’re not what I thought.”
He smiled. “I’m working on that.”
She considered him.
“So am I,” she said.
And in that moment, the tension between them felt less like a wall—and more like a bridge.
Jace chose the bar like a dare.
It pulsed with neon and bass, a Midtown lounge that smelled like citrus cleaner and ambition. Screens behind the bar looped muted sports highlights while a DJ tested the edges of a beat that hadn’t yet committed to itself. The place was warming up for the night, stretching before the real chaos arrived.
Brent stood just past the entrance, hands in his jacket pockets, already tired. He remembered his promise to Annette. He didn’t want to go inside any further.
“Brent Woods, folk hero,” Jace said, grinning as he slid off a stool. “Man of the hour.”
“Don’t,” Brent replied.
Jace clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re trending, bro. That’s currency. You could walk into any room right now and own it.”
“That’s kind of the problem.”
They sat. Brent ordered soda water. Jace raised a brow.
“You used to order like a man who planned to forget tomorrow.”
“I remember tomorrow now,” Brent said.
Jace laughed. “You’re on leave, not parole.”
“Feels close enough.”
Jace leaned forward, lowering his voice as if sharing trade secrets. “Listen. This is the perfect pivot. You lay low for a while, then come back bigger. People love a comeback. Especially one with edge. You were always more interesting when things were messy.”
Brent stared at the condensation sliding down his glass.
“Messy almost ruined me,” he said.
“Almost,” Jace echoed. “That’s the sweet spot.”
“You don’t get it.”
Jace’s smile thinned. “I get that you’re scared. That happens when the spotlight turns sharp.”
“It’s not fear,” Brent said. “It’s clarity.”
“Since when did you become a motivational poster?”
Brent met his eyes. “Since I realized I don’t want to be the guy who’s only alive after midnight.”
Jace scoffed. “You’re a city guy. You thrive on this.”
“I thought I did,” Brent said. “But I was just running from stillness.”
“Stillness is boring.”
“Stillness is honest.”
The music surged. A cluster of women laughed nearby. Jace gestured toward them.
“You could walk over there right now and be the story,” he said. “You used to love that.”
Brent watched them, the shimmer and movement, the promise of noise.
“I used to love the idea of it,” he said. “Not the aftermath. Not the mornings. Not the version of myself that couldn’t sit in a quiet room.”
Jace’s voice sharpened. “You’re letting one bad night rewrite you.”
Brent shook his head. “It didn’t rewrite me. It revealed me.”
Silence stretched.
“So that’s it?” Jace asked. “You’re done?”
“I’m choosing,” Brent said. “There’s a difference.”
Jace leaned back, studying him. “You’re really changing.”
Brent smiled faintly. “I hope so.”
They parted awkwardly, an old rhythm broken.
Outside, the night air felt cleaner. Brent walked without urgency, past glowing windows and open doors, past the magnetic pull of sound and light. He felt no tug. No ache.
He’d been tested ... and passed.
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