Page 83 of Groomsman to Groom

“This is about Brielle,” he says finally.

“This is about my son,” I counter, though we both know it’s about everything—Brielle, August, my integrity, my heart. “Twenty-four hours. That’s all I’m asking.”

Another long pause. Then, “Fine. One day. We’ll reschedule Luna for the day after tomorrow. But Hayes—” his voicehardens, “—when you come back, you need to be all in. No more seasickness, no more hesitation. You understand me?”

“I understand,” I say to Darren, though what I understand is far different from what he thinks.

I end the call and lie back on the bathroom floor, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, I’ll see August. I’ll hold my son, remind myself what matters. And then I’ll return to this island paradise to continue the charade, to play the role of someone searching for love among women who aren’t Brielle.

30

A Little Advice

HAYES

The Chicago skyline materializes through the airplane window, stark and familiar against the morning sky. Home. I’ve been gone for what feels like years instead of weeks, living in a bubble while my son has been growing, learning, evolving without me. My stomach twists with the plane’s banking turn—nervous excitement for the genuine love waiting for me in my modest two-story in Lincoln Park. For the next twenty-four hours, I’m not Bachelor Hayes. I’m just Dad. Son. A man trying to figure out how he managed to fall in love with a woman he sent home in tears.

Darren’s warning echoes in my head as the plane touches down with a jolt. “When you come back, you need to be all in.No more seasickness, no more hesitation.” The ultimatum hangs over me, but for now, I push it aside. Twenty-four hours. Just twenty-four hours to be real again.

The rideshare driver makes small talk about the Cubs’ prospects this season. I respond on autopilot, my mind already racing ahead to August. My mother sends me updates and video calls daily, but it’s not the same as seeing my son’s face light up in person, as feeling his small arms wrap around my waist with the absolute certainty that Dad is the strongest, smartest, best person in the entire universe. An image of Brielle flashes unexpectedly—her smile as she sat cross-legged with August during that group date, listening with genuine interest as he explained the intricacies of his favorite Marvel characters.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory. It doesn’t matter now. I made my choice—or rather, had it made for me. Brielle is gone, and I’m trapped in St. Sebastian with three women I respect but don’t love, facing an engagement I have no intention of following through on.

The car pulls up to my house, a brick two-story with a wraparound porch. Before I can even grab my overnight bag, the front door flies open, and a human missile launches itself down the steps.

“Dad!”

August barrels into me, nearly knocking me over. I drop my bag and scoop him up, marveling at how he seems to have grown two inches in the weeks I’ve been gone. His glasses are slightly askew from the impact, his blond hair sticking up in the back as usual.

“Hey, buddy,” I manage, my voice thick with emotion. I bury my face in his hair, breathing in the scent of Ninja Turtle shampoo. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too.” He pulls back, examining my face. “You look tired. And sad. Are you sad, Dad?”

Before I can answer, my mother appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her blond hair—the same shade as mine, though now helped along by her monthly salon visits—is pulled back in a loose bun, and her eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles.

“Let your father at least get in the door before you start the interrogation, August,” she chides gently. Then to me, “Welcome home, honey.”

I set August down and climb the steps to embrace my mother. She feels smaller than I remember, more fragile, though I know she’d scoff at that observation. Since Sarah died, she’s been my rock, moving just down the street to help with August, keeping our little family afloat when I thought we might drown in grief.

“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume mixed with... “Is that apple pie?”

She laughs, the sound warm and normal and exactly what I need. “Your favorite. I figured you might need a taste of home after all that exotic food they’ve been feeding you.” She steps back, surveying me with the same critical eye as August. “You’ve lost weight. And you’re pale. Aren’t you supposed to be in St. Sebastian?”

“It’s complicated,” I say, a phrase that’s become my mantra these last few weeks. “Can we go inside? I could use that food.”

August grabs my hand, tugging me through the door. “Dad, I have so much to tell you! I won the Mathnasium Championship. Ms. Peterson says I’m reading at a high school level now and I built a robot that can sort M&Ms by color and—”

“Slow down, buddy,” I laugh, allowing myself to be pulled into the familiar warmth of my mother’s house. The scent of baking apples and cinnamon envelops me, and for a moment, the weight on my shoulders lightens. “We’ve got all day. Let me at least take off my jacket.”

The kitchen is exactly as it’s always been—worn countertops, mismatched magnets on the fridge, the ancient wooden table where I sit and work. A piece of paper adorns the refrigerator door, covered in August’s precise handwriting: “Questions for Dad.” I swallow hard at the sight.

“He’s been adding to that list for weeks,” my mother explains, following my gaze as she pulls the pie from the oven. “I told him you might not be able to answer everything, but...”

“But I want to knoweverything.” August climbs onto his usual chair. “About the show and the mansion and the women, and especially about Brielle.”

My heart stutters at her name.

August pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger. “I liked her the best. She knew all about the Avengers and she was smart. Really smart.”

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