Page 24 of Groomsman to Groom

But real life doesn’t follow clean narrative arcs. Real life is messy, with complications like career ambitions, single fatherhood, and living in different cities.

I step under the water and try to quiet my racing thoughts. Focus on the good, I tell myself. Hayes’s laugh when I decimated him at Skee-Ball. The way his eyes crinkled when he talked about August. How his hand felt in mine, solid and warm.

I manage to make it through the long day with nothing to do, and by early evening, exhaustion claims me, pulling me down into uneasy dreams.

I’m running down a hospital corridor that never ends. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting sickly shadows thatseem to reach for me. I know what’s waiting in the room at the end—Mom.

“Nobody stays,” says my mother’s voice from everywhere and nowhere. “Everyone leaves in the end.”

“Mom!” I call, but the hallway stretches longer with each step.

“Brielle,” her voice echoes back, weaker than a whisper. “Hurry...”

But I can’t move fast enough. The air feels thick as molasses, my legs leaden.

I wake with a gasp, sheets twisted around my legs like seaweed, heart hammering against my ribs. My face is wet—tears or sweat, I can’t tell. The display on my watch reads 3:47 AM.

Untangling myself, I sit up, pulling my knees to my chest. The dream clings to me like the damp sheets, too vivid to shake off. Mom’s voice echoes in my head: Nobody stays. Everyone leaves in the end.

Is that why I’m here? Not just for Hayes or a break from grief, but to prove my mother wrong? Myself wrong? To find someone who’ll stay?

The room is quiet except for Taylor’s soft snoring. I reach for my phone, a reflex born from years of texting Mom whenever I couldn’t sleep. But my phone’s not there because I’m not allowed to have it, and there’s that stab of remembering—the one Hayes said doesn’t go away but eventually stops feeling like a mortal wound.

Tonight, it feels pretty mortal.

I manage to drift off again, and when I wake, I see that it’s 7:43 AM. The weight of impossible choices presses down on me. Part of me wants to pack my bags and leave—walk away before I can be humiliated today, before I can be hurt any worse. Butrunning is what I do—what my mother taught me. New town, new start, new Brielle.

It doesn’t work.

Balerion the penguin stares at me from under my pillow, his oversized eyes somehow accusatory. Hayes won that for me. Hayes kissed me like I mattered. Hayes listened when I talked about Mom. Whatever game the producers are playing, whatever secrets we’re both keeping—that connection was real.

I reach a decision, clarity crystallizing out of the chaotic swirl of emotions.

It’s time to stand and fight.

The talent show begins at ten. Two hours to figure out how to protect myself without blowing up everything else in the process. I’ll face it head-on, and I’ll fight through whatever petty sabotage they have planned.

I sit up, straighten my shoulders, and lift my chin. Let them film. Let them plot. Let them try to break me.

We spent the last four hours preparing for the show, and I stayed longer, practicing until I felt ready.

Except now I’m late as I make my way toward the makeshift dressing room, my cello case in hand. Today feels like the chance to show Hayes a side of me that has nothing to do with trivia knowledge. I’ll be just me, my music, and a dress that’s fit for a classical music magazine. The deep emerald silk hugs in all the right places, and when I tried it on this morning, even my reflection seemed to approve.

I’m sticking with what I know—the prelude Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1, a piece I’ve been playing since I was twelve and could perform in my sleep. Besides writing, music has been my other escape. All those years of dragging my cello from house to house—music was another constant that couldn’t be left behind or forgotten in a hasty midnight move.

Lost in my thoughts, I make my way into the chaotic dressing area, which has mirrors, lighting rigs, and most of the women in various states of preparation. My hair and makeup are ready, I just have to change into my dress. The air thrums with nervous energy, hairspray, and that competitive anxiety that could power a small city.

I spot an empty corner near the windows and start toward it, already mentally rehearsing my fingering for the more challenging passages. That’s when I notice the shift in the room’s atmosphere—conversations dropping to whispers, heads turning in my direction, with expressions ranging from pity to barely concealed schadenfreude.

Luna stands frozen near the costume rack, her face drained of color, eyes wide with what I assume is stage fright. But then I see Gabby beside her—a suppressed smirk playing at the corners of her mouth—sends warning bells clanging in my brain.

Wringing her hands, Luna looks at me and stammers, “I’m so sorry,” her voice high and shaky. “It was an accident.”

That’s when I see it. My perfect emerald gown that should be pristine and ready, is a crime scene of red wine and ruined silk.

“I was changing and bumped her.” Gabby’s voice dripping with false sympathy. “The wine just flew out of her hand.”

I drop my cello case and rush to the dress, my hands shaking as I examine the damage. The wine covers most of the bodice and one entire side, now soaked through the delicate fabric.

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