Page 41 of Groomsman to Groom

“Like puns.” He nods seriously. “Dad makes terrible puns. Mom used to groan, but I could tell she secretly liked them.”

The mention of his mother creates a brief, poignant silence between us. I don’t rush to fill it or offer platitudes. Instead, I just nod, acknowledging the weight of his loss without trying to diminish it.

“Ready to play some chess?” I ask after a moment.

His face brightens again. “Yes. Do you require a training session first, so you understand the basic movements?”

“I actually know how to play.”

August studies me with renewed interest. “What’s your favorite opening?”

“I’m partial to the Sicilian Defense. Though I sometimes go for the Queen’s Gambit when I’m feeling particularly aggressive.”

His smile widens. “Fascinating choices. Statistically sound with well-documented historical success rates.”

When it’s my turn to face him, I step into the role of the white queen, taking my place on the oversized board.

“White moves first,” August announces. “Your move, Brielle.”

The world around us fades as we begin our match, the artifice of reality TV temporarily suspended in favor of the pure logic of the game. August is, unsurprisingly, a formidable opponent.His strategic thinking operates several moves ahead, setting traps I barely see in time to avoid. But I’m no novice either, and I manage to present enough of a challenge to keep things interesting.

“Knight to F3,” I call out, moving Chloe to that square myself since she’s playing the knight role.

“Interesting choice,” August remarks, studying the board. “Most opponents attempt to control the center more aggressively.”

“I’m setting up for a kingside castle. Planning ahead.”

He nods. “Strategic foresight. Essential in chess and life.”

As our game progresses, we fall into a rhythm of moves and countermoves, the competitive tension undercut by bursts of genuine conversation between turns.

“Do you play on a team?” I ask after narrowly escaping a clever attack on my bishop.

August’s expression clouds slightly. “No. The school chess club meets during my advanced math tutorial. And the other members don’t really...” He trails off, adjusting his glasses.

“Don’t really want to play with the kid who always wins?”

He looks up, surprised. “How did you know?”

“Because I was that kid too,” I tell him, moving my rook to capture one of his pawns. “Not with chess specifically, but with pretty much everything academic. Being the smartest person in the room can be...” I search for the right word.

“Isolating,” he says quietly.

I nod, recognizing the loneliness in his voice. “Exactly. I was always the new kid AND the smart kid. Double outsider status.”

“So you moved a lot?” August directs his bishop to a threatening position.

“Nine schools. Nine different chances to be the weird girl who read physics books at recess.” I smile. “Check, by the way.”

August moves his king out of danger. “Did it ever get better? Not feeling different all the time?”

The vulnerability in his question hits me somewhere deep and tender. I step out of character—both as the chess piece and as the reality TV contestant—and answer with honesty.

“Yes and no. The feeling different part never completely goes away. But I eventually realized that different isn’t the same as wrong. And more importantly, I found my people—other creative weirdos who got excited about the same things I did.”

“Like a tribe.”

“Exactly like a tribe. And once I found them, being different didn’t feel like a burden anymore. It felt like a superpower.”

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