Page 18 of Groomsman to Groom

“That’s—surprisingly analog for someone who writes about AI.”

“I know. But there’s something about being on real paper that helps me think. Plus, no notifications, no distractions. Just me and the story.”

Hayes nods thoughtfully. “I get that. I have my best photo ideas at three a.m. when I can’t sleep. There’s clarity in isolation sometimes.”

We fall into a comfortable silence, watching the people and the moving rides. As the sun begins its descent, the carnival lights grow brighter, giving everything a dreamlike quality.

“Want to try the shooting gallery?” Hayes asks.

“Lead the way.” I tuck Balerion into my purse so that only his head peeks out.

Hayes picks up a cork gun and hands me one, our shoulders brushing as we position ourselves in front of the moving targets. He hits three ducks in a row with impressive precision.

“Wow.” I’m genuinely impressed. “Have you done this before?”

Something shifts in his expression—a shadow crossing his face. “I actually took up target shooting after my wife died. Needed something to focus on, something that requiredcomplete concentration so I couldn’t think about...” he trails off, then shrugs. “It sounds strange, but it helped.”

I lower my gun, the game forgotten. “It doesn’t sound strange at all.”

He stares at the moving targets, not really seeing them anymore. “I worry sometimes that I’m not enough for August. That I’m failing him by being both parents but doing neither job well.” He glances at me quickly, like he’s surprised by his own honesty. “Sorry, that got heavy fast.”

“Don’t apologize.” I consider mentioning that he seems like an amazing kid from what he’s told me, but I’m not supposed to know that. “Tell me about August.”

Hayes’s smile returns, though tempered now. “He’s amazing, too smart for his own good. The other day he corrected my explanation of black holes. Apparently, I wasn’t being ‘scientifically accurate’ enough in my bedtime story about space bunnies.”

That sounds like him, and the mental image makes me laugh. “A nine-year-old astrophysics expert. I love it.”

“I was worried, you know, after Sarah died, that he’d withdraw. Become bitter. But kids are resilient in ways adults aren’t.” His voice drops lower. “I wasn’t half as strong.”

Without thinking, I reach for his hand. “Grief isn’t linear. And there’s no failing at it, just surviving it.”

His eyes meet mine, searching, like he’s wondering if he should bring this up on camera. “You sound like you know.”

I nod, suddenly feeling the pressure of discussing my loss on TV. “My mom. Ten months ago. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and just like the first time he said it, he does it in a way like he truly understands the depth of what it means.

“She was my best friend.” The words feel raw in my throat. “We texted about everything. Books, movies, the weird guy atthe grocery store who always wore oven mitts instead of regular gloves. And now whenever something happens—good or bad—she’s still the first person I want to tell.”

Hayes squeezes my hand. “That doesn’t go away,” he says gently. “But eventually it stops feeling like a stab wound every time you reach for your phone.”

“I’m not myself yet.” I’m surprised by my own openness. “I’m still... figuring out who I am without her.”

“You don’t have to be yourself yet,” he says with such understanding that my eyes prickle with unshed tears. “The hurt doesn’t get smaller, but you grow around it. Like a tree encompassing a fence post—the post stands, still solid, but the tree keeps growing, anyway.”

His words give me permission to be exactly where I am in my grief. Not moving on, not getting over it, just growing around it. “That might be the most helpful thing anyone’s said to me since she died.”

The moment stretches between us, intimate and raw despite the noise of the carnival surrounding us. I’m acutely aware of the cameras, probably capturing every nuance of this exchange, but for once, I don’t care. This connection feels too real, too important to worry about how it will play on television.

The night air grows cooler, and Hayes drapes his jacket over my shoulders without me having to ask. It smells like him—a mix of cedar and something spicy I can’t name—and I resist the urge to bury my nose in the collar.

After a quick round of Skee-Ball, Hayes nods toward the Ferris wheel that towers over us, its lights reflecting on the pavement. “One last ride?”

My stomach does a nervous flip. “Sure.”

We join the short line, standing close enough that our arms touch. The camera crew hangs back, apparently giving us theillusion of privacy for this final part of our date. Then they signal we can turn our mics off, and I’m thrilled.

We get to have a few moments of speaking privately as we climb into the swinging seat and the safety bar lowers across our laps. All I can think about is how Hayes’s thigh is pressed against mine and how the lights from below cast shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw.

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