Page 42 of Groomsman to Groom

August contemplates this, his next chess move temporarily forgotten. “Liam calls me Robot Boy,” he says. “Because I correct factual inaccuracies and don’t understand their jokes about bodily functions.”

“Liam sounds deeply insecure about his own intelligence. People who feel threatened by your brilliance will try to make it seem like a flaw.”

“Dad says the same thing.” August has a hint of pride in his voice. “He says Liam probably wishes his brain worked like mine.”

“Your dad’s a smart guy,” I tell him, warmth spreading through my chest at the thought of Hayes defending his son’s intelligence. “Though between you and me, I think you got all the chess talent in the family.”

This earns me another genuine laugh. “Dad tries, but he still falls for the Scholar’s Mate sometimes. Mom was better—she could beat me when I was five, but not after I turned six.”

We continue our game, but the competition seems secondary now to the conversation flowing between us. When I see an opening to capture his queen, I deliberately overlook it, makinga slightly suboptimal move instead. August’s eyes narrow behind his glasses, and I know he’s spotted what I’ve done.

“You could have taken my queen,” he points out.

“I’m playing the long game,” I say with a wink. “Sometimes the obvious move isn’t the best one.”

He studies me, then nods, a silent acknowledgment of my choice. Three moves later, he has me in checkmate, and I hope he doesn’t see through me letting him win.

“You’re really good,” I tell him sincerely. “State champion material for sure.”

“Thank you,” he says. “You were a challenging adversary.”

Our time is almost up, but I feel a reluctance to end this connection. On impulse, I offer him another piece of advice—not as a contestant trying to impress his father, but as someone who recognizes the struggles of a kindred spirit.

“August, you should consider joining an advanced chess club. You’ll be challenged intellectually, and you’d meet other kids who think like you do.”

He considers this, head tilted in that way that reminds me so much of Hayes. “That’s... logical,” he admits. “I’ll discuss it with Dad and Grandma.”

Skye appears at the edge of the chessboard, signaling our time is nearly up. August stands from his throne-like chair, looking suddenly smaller, less certain.

“I know you let me win,” he whispers, his eyes meeting mine. “But I really hope my dad picks you.”

The simple statement hits me with unexpected force, sending a rush of emotion through my chest that threatens to overflow into embarrassing tears. Before I can formulate a response, he turns and walks back to Hayes, who’s waiting with open arms. I watch them embrace, August’s small form fitting perfectly against his father’s chest, and something breaks open inside me—some long-sealed chamber where I’ve kept dreams I never acknowledged even to myself.

“Time for the next contestant.” Skye steers me back toward the board as a piece.

Luna raises an eyebrow as I return, her expression questioning. “How’d it go with the mini-genius?”

“He’s amazing,” I say. “Absolutely brilliant, but still a nine-year-old who needs connection.”

“You two looked pretty deep in conversation,” Serena jumps in. “What were you discussing so intently?”

“Chess strategy,Star Trek, and the social dynamics of elementary school. You know, the usual light topics.”

As the remaining women take their turns with August, I find my attention divided between watching their interactions and processing my own experience. There’s something profoundly disorienting about genuinely connecting with Hayes’s son while participating in a competition for his father’s affection. The artificial constructs of reality TV seem increasingly at odds with the very real emotions taking root inside me.

By the time the last contestant finishes her chess match, August looks tired but pleased with himself. Hayes wraps an arm around his shoulders, drawing him close. “I want to thank you all for making this day special for August.” His voice is warm. “Seeing you interact with my son means more to me than I can express.”

August leans against his father, suddenly looking every bit his nine years as fatigue catches up with him. “It was statistically improbable that there would be multiple adequate chess opponents in a random sample of reality television contestants,” he says. “The experience exceeded expectations.”

Several of the women laugh, charmed by his formal assessment. I catch his eye and give him a small thumbs up, which he returns with the ghost of a smile.

As we disperse back toward the mansion, I find myself walking beside Serena and Luna, our steps synchronized in companionable silence. My mind keeps returning to August’s parting words: I really hope my dad picks you. Such a simple statement, yet so loaded with implications about futures I’ve barely allowed myself to imagine. And now, I’m not sure I want to.

“You okay?” Serena asks, nudging me. “You look like you’re a million miles away.”

“Just processing,” I tell her, not ready to articulate the tangle of emotions that’s been stirred up.

“Well, process quickly,” Luna says. “We’ve got three hours to get ready for tonight’s ceremony, and rumor has it someone leaked to Hayes about Gabby’s missing bracelet drama.”

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