Page 59 of Groomsman to Groom

I leave the sun-drenched courtyard behind, but my contradictory feelings follow me like a shadow.

Evening in Pamplona feels like a painting—colors bleeding into one another as streetlamps flicker. The murmur of dinner conversations spills from open doorways as Luna and I navigate cobblestone streets that have witnessed centuries of couples, families, and friendships. I say, “This city is incredible.”

“It really is.” Luna’s smile glows.

Guitar music drifts from an open window above us. The scent of garlic and saffron hangs in the air. Locals and tourists fill outdoor tables, their laughter a soundtrack.

“Look.” She points ahead, where the cathedral’s towers rise above surrounding buildings, illuminated against the indigo sky. “That’s our destination.”

It looms larger as we approach, its stone glowing in the strategic lighting. Centuries of faith and history capturedin soaring arches and intricate carvings that make my photographer’s eye itch for my camera.

“Beautiful,” I murmur, genuinely moved.

“The Catedral de Santa María la Real,” Luna says, surprising me with her knowledge. “Built over several centuries. They say the stones remember every prayer whispered inside.”

“You’ve done your research.”

“I always learn about the places I visit.” She shrugs. “It’s respectful, don’t you think? To understand the history you’re walking through?”

“An excellent point.” Another layer of Luna revealed—the thoughtful traveler beneath the confident dancer. It’s cool and unique, although I do find myself comparing her appreciation to how Brielle would respond—probably with some obscure historical fact that would make us both laugh, or a reference to how the cathedral would make the perfect setting for a supernatural detective show.

We stroll the perimeter, Luna pointing out architectural details, and the cameras capture our silhouettes against the illuminated façade, no doubt framing the perfect romantic moment—widower finding new love in the shadow of ancient beauty.

“Hungry?” I say as we complete our circuit of the cathedral square.

“Starving.”

We weave through narrow streets where tapas bars’ patrons spill onto the sidewalks. The production team has arranged for us to sample various establishments, creating a progressive dinner that feels spontaneous despite being meticulously planned. At each stop, we taste something new—crispy croquetas oozing with béchamel, patatas bravas glistening with spicy oil, tender octopus dusted with paprika.

With our mics removed since TV viewers will only see shots of us without sound right now, Luna eats with unself-conscious pleasure, closing her eyes to savor particularly delicious bites. “This,” she declares after tasting a perfect tortilla española.

“August would love it,” I say without thinking. “He goes through phases where he’ll only eat one specific food, but the Spanish omelet was actually one of them for about three months.”

“He’s an extraordinary kid.” Her expression softens.

“He liked you,” I tell her honestly.

Luna laughs, the sound genuine and warm. “High praise from the junior chess master.”

We continue our culinary tour, eventually arriving at a moonlit plaza where musicians play for couples dancing beneath strung lights. It’s the kind of romantic setting production dreams of, which is why a producer prompts me to take her hand. On TV, it looks like we’re alone, but in real life, the cameras are moving and angling around us, which is far from the environment that’s portrayed.

As we keep walking, we have to redo things to get a better shot, which dampens the mood. But Luna laughs, saying, “I’ve never thought I could be with someone who makes reshooting magical.” Her voice shifts into a husky melody. “Like you.”

“Same.” I smile, meaning my words because I’m enjoying this time with her.

We reach the plaza, its grandeur muted but undeniable. The statues seem to watch us, silent sentinels of history and countless tales. We’re seated at a table, our mics being put back on as we watch the dancers while sipping the amazing local wine.

She turns to face me, and there’s something in her gaze that pins me to the spot. “Hayes. Can I be honest?”

“Isn’t directness your trademark?” I squeeze her hand, the electricity humming between us.

“I care about you. More than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

I smile, my heart picking up speed. I remember her saying that she’s had several boyfriends, but none of them serious.

Her eyes don’t leave mine. “You’re like, my dream guy. You’rereal, and you’re here, right in front of me.”

“Me, a dream guy, huh?” I scoff, masking the swell of emotions. I don’t deserve the accolade, but it feels nice.

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