Page 78 of Groomsman to Groom

And I do. I cry for what feels like hours but is probably only minutes. I cry for the connection I thought was real, for the future I’d begun to imagine, for the humiliation of being sent home after Hayes told me he loved me. Mostly, I cry for the look in his eyes as he eliminated me—regret, pain, and his expression, like something inside him was breaking, even as he was sending me away.

When the sobs finally subside, Paisley helps me to the couch. Her daughter peeks around the kitchen doorway, eyes wide with worry, and Paisley gives her a reassuring smile.

“Auntie Bri is just having a hard day, sweetie. Can you play in your room for a bit?”

The little girl nods solemnly and disappears, leaving us alone in the living room. Paisley returns with a box of tissues and a glass of water, then settles beside me, her hand steady on my back.

“Tell me,” she says.

And I do. Words pour out of me—the connection with Hayes from our first meeting on that beach, the growing bond at the mansion, the way he seemed to see the real me beneath the reality TV veneer. I tell her about our conversation in front of her house, how he’d told me he loved me, and he was ending the show early to choose me. I describe the sudden elimination, the look on his face that didn’t match his actions, the reminder “I love you” that made no sense as he was sending me home.

“It doesn’t make sense, Pais,” I say, voice hoarse from crying. “One minute he’s giving the final key to Luna. And the next, he’stelling me he loves me while putting me in a limo? Who does that?”

Paisley hands me another tissue. “Someone who’s being manipulated,” she says thoughtfully. “Or someone who’s an exceptional actor.”

“He wasn’t acting,” I say with certainty. “I know fake. I write fake for a living. What we had was real. What I saw in his eyes was real.”

Paisley sighs, squeezing my hand. “I’m so sorry, Bri. For all of it. And I’m sorry about what I said during your hometown date. I was too harsh on him. I should have—”

“No,” I cut her off, shaking my head vehemently. “You were right. You were looking out for me. He even told me you were the one who made him realize that yes, he was ready, and he’d chosen me. But if he really couldn’t handle you bringing up if he was ready for someone new...” My voice breaks, unable to finish the thought.

Maybe he really couldn’t handle it, and Paisley struck a nerve.

Fresh tears spring to my eyes.

“Reality TV isn’t reality,” Paisley says gently. “You know that better than anyone. Whatever was happening there—”

“Is still happening,” I finish for her. “The fantasy suite dates are filming starting today. Hayes, Serena, Luna, and Annabelle in some tropical paradise, spending nights together...”

The thought hits me like a blow. Suddenly, I can see it in vivid detail—Hayes leading Serena into a candlelit bedroom, Hayes kissing Annabelle on a moonlit beach, Hayes falling in love with someone else while I sit here, broken and discarded.

My stomach lurches. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

I barely make it to Paisley’s bathroom before dry heaving over the toilet. Nothing comes up—I haven’t eaten properly since the elimination—but my body convulses with the physicalmanifestation of emotional pain. Paisley kneels beside me, rubbing soothing circles on my back, murmuring comforts like she does for her children.

“It’s okay, Bri. Let it out. It’ll pass.”

Eventually, the nausea subsides. I splash cold water on my face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I can’t bear to see what I’ve become—this hollow-eyed, trembling version of myself that I don’t recognize.

When we return to the living room, my gaze falls on my laptop, which I’d apparently grabbed on autopilot when fleeing my apartment. It sits on Paisley’s coffee table, its presence both familiar and a lifeline.

“I need to work.” My voice is hoarse but resolute. “It’s the only way I’ll get through this.”

Paisley nods, understanding immediately. She knows me—knows that stories have always been my refuge, my way of processing, my method of healing.

“That’s not a bad idea,” she agrees. “Don’t you haveHallucination AIepisodes due?”

“Yes! I absolutely do.” The thought of returning to that world, to characters I create and control, sends a small spark of my old self flaring to life.

“I should call the bosses,” I say, more to myself than Paisley. “Get back in the loop. Let them know I’m close to finishing.”

“You should,” Paisley says. “But maybe tomorrow? You look exhausted. Stay here and take a nap. The guest room is made up, and the kids would love to have lunch with their aunt.”

The offer is tempting—the warmth of family, the buffer against facing my empty apartment. But a strange determination is building in me, a need to reclaim something of myself after weeks of being “Brielle the contestant.”

“Thanks, but I need to go home. Face it. Start putting myself back together.” I manage a weak smile. “Besides, your guest room is basically a storage unit with a bed.”

Paisley laughs, and the sound is healing. “Fair enough. But you’ll come for dinner tomorrow? No excuses?”

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