Page 43 of Groomsman to Groom

“Oh, boy.”

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of preparation—hair, makeup, careful selection of outfits that walk the line between elegant and approachable. But beneath the familiar rituals of reality TV pageantry, my thoughts keep circling back to August’s serious face, to the connection we forged over chess and shared experiences of being different.

I make my way outside where I play with Onion for a while, falling for this adorable dog with the sweetest eyes that I swear sees into my soul. I’m so glad Skye brought her to the mansion because she’s become my favorite being to hang out with. Right now, she’s chasing a ball I throw, and when she brings it back, she doesn’t want to let it go so I can throw it again. But then she finally gives up, dropping it, dying for another toss as she jumps straight into the air. I can’t help but laugh.

As I make my way to tonight’s Lock & Key ceremony, my mind won’t stop. Whatever comes next, one thing is clear: the chess match with August has changed everything. I’m no longer just playing for a potential relationship with Hayes. I’m playingfor a nine-year-old boy who trusted me with his insecurities and hopes. A boy who said, with disarming directness, that he wants me in his life. And I want him in mine.

I’m reeling over the fact this has become infinitely more complex, the stakes exponentially higher. Do I forgive Hayes for being intimate with other women on a show where that’s basically the point? And aside from that, HayesandAugust are my people, and my heart wants me to win.

14

In the Air

HAYES

The airplane hums around me like a lullaby, but sleep remains an impossibility. I stare out the window at clouds that look like cotton candy mountains—the kind August would analyze for their cumulus classification before tentatively asking if we could get real cotton candy later. God, I miss him already. He got to stay from Friday to Sunday, and now it’s been less than twenty-four hours since I hugged him goodbye, since I watched him walk through security with my mother, hisStar Trekbackpack bouncing slightly with each step, and already, there’s an August-shaped hole in my chest.

I’m flying to Spain. Pamplona. The production team chose the city for its “romantic architecture” and “passionate culturalheritage,” according to Skye’s briefing. What she didn’t say, but what we all know, is that they’re hoping the city famous for the running of the bulls will provide a dangerous and heart-stopping backdrop for the escalating drama among the remaining contestants.

Friday’s ceremony was rougher than the other two. Seven women left now. Seven women I’m supposed to date simultaneously while cameras document every glance, touch, and conversation. The artifice of it all feels even more stark after August’s visit.

“Water, Mr. Burke?” The flight attendant materializes beside me, her smile professional but tired. It’s the fourth time she’s offered me refreshments during this transatlantic journey.

“No, thank you. I’m good.” I’m not good. Not even close. But explaining that I’m a widowed single father flying to Spain to date multiple women on camera while my vulnerable son returns to being bullied at school feels like over sharing for flight-attendant-passenger relations.

She moves on, and I return to my window vigil. Somewhere over the Atlantic, flying away from my responsibilities as a father toward my contractual obligations as reality TV’s most reluctant bachelor. The cognitive dissonance is enough to give me altitude sickness, even in business class.

My camera holds approximately seventy-eight new photos of August from our three days together. I scroll through them again, lingering on one of him on his chess throne, his face lit with concentration as he plotted his next move against Brielle.

August, animated and engaged in a way I rarely see him with adults. Brielle, listening—really listening—as he explained the Sicilian Defense, not with the patronizing patience adults often show children, but with genuine intellectual interest. The moment when she deliberately overlooked an obvious capture of his queen, and the look they exchanged afterward—a silentcommunication that acknowledged both her choice and his recognition of it.

“They’re speaking the same language,” my mother had observed, watching from beside me. “I haven’t seen him connect with anyone like that since Sarah.”

The comparison to his mother had knocked the wind out of me. Not because it felt disloyal—Sarah would have wanted August to forge new connections, to find people who understand him—but because it highlighted the rarity of such a connection. How many people truly see my son for who he is, rather than who they expect a nine-year-old to be?

Brielle saw him. Not as a prop in a reality TV skit, not as an obstacle to overcome to get to me, but as a complete person with his own brilliant mind and tender heart.

“Dad, did you know Brielle writes a show about supernatural detectives? And she consulted a real quantum physicist about parallel dimensions!” August had bubbled over with excitement after their chess match, his words tumbling out faster than usual. “And she suggested I join an advanced chess club instead of just doing math tutorial, which is actually really logical because I’d meet other kids who think like me.”

In the space of fifteen minutes, Brielle had managed what months of my careful parental guidance hadn’t—she’d given August a framework to understand his social difficulties and a practical solution that centered his strengths rather than his differences.

“She let me win at chess,” he’d confided later, as I tucked him into bed. “Not in an obvious way. She made a suboptimal move that created a long-term vulnerability. Most people wouldn’t notice, but I did.”

“And that bothered you?” I’d asked, smoothing his forever-unruly hair.

“No.” He’d considered this, furrowing his brows deeply like he does. “It felt like... respect. Like she knew I’d notice, and she trusted me to understand why she did it.”

Respect. Such a simple concept, yet so often denied to children, especially those who don’t fit neatly into expected patterns of behavior. Brielle had given my son the rare gift of being taken seriously.

The plane hits a pocket of turbulence, jostling me back to the present. The seatbelt sign dings on, followed by the captain’s voice announcing our initial descent into Spanish airspace. I straighten my seat, mentally preparing for the transition from grieving father to charming bachelor.

“Dad,” August had said during our final night together, his voice small in the darkness of his temporary bedroom. “Are you going to pick Brielle?”

The directness of the question had caught me off guard. “I... don’t know yet, buddy. That’s why I’m on this show—to figure that out.”

“But you like her.” Not a question, but a statement of observed fact. “She makes you laugh like Mom did. I saw it.”

Leave it to my perceptive son to cut straight to the heart of the matter. Yes, Brielle makes me laugh. She challenges me intellectually, surprises me constantly, and seems genuinely interested in my photography beyond its connection to my bachelor status. But most importantly, she sees August—really sees him.

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