Page 80 of Groomsman to Groom

The ride to the marina is brief, the island small enough that nothing is more than fifteen minutes away. As we pull up to the dock, I spot Serena already waiting. She’s stunning in a sundress the color of sunset, her brown skin glowing in the morning light, her hair wrapped up elegantly. She smiles when she sees me, a genuine expression that reaches her eyes.

“Hayes,” she says warmly as I approach. No squeal, no running leap into my arms. Just my name.

“Serena.” I embrace her, allowing myself to enjoy the simple human connection. She smells like coconut oil and something floral—jasmine, maybe. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. So do you. The blue brings out your eyes.”

We both laugh at the fact that I know she knows that was done on purpose. Being with her is nice. Comfortable, even. And that’s the problem. I’m supposed to be on fire, consumed with passion, unable to imagine my life without this woman.

I’m supposed to be with Brielle.

A producer signals us to move toward the yacht. It’s obscenely huge for just two people—a gleaming white monstrosity that probably burns enough fuel in an hour to power a small village for a week. A perfectGroomsman to Groomfantasy prop.

“Our chariot awaits.” I offer my arm.

Serena takes it, her touch light. “I’ve never been on a yacht before,” she says. “I’m a little nervous.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” The words come automatically, the practiced reassurance of a man who’s supposed to be in control. “It’ll be amazing.”

The yacht crew welcomes us aboard with champagne and platters of tropical fruit. Cameras swarm around us, capturing every moment, every expression. We toast to “new beginnings” and “taking chances,” the script so predictable I could recite it in my sleep.

As we set sail, the island grows smaller behind us, and an expanse of turquoise stretches before us. It’s objectively breathtaking. Yet all I can think is how Brielle would’ve made some joke about feeling like we’re in a Caribbean tourism commercial, complete with fake accents and steel drum music. Serena’s hand touching my arm pulls me back to the present.

“It’s stunning, isn’t it?” she says, her eyes on the horizon.

“It really is.”

We settle into cushioned seating at the bow, the wind tousling our hair as the yacht cuts through the water. The first hour passes pleasantly enough. We chat about her work as a chemist, her passion for space exploration, her close-knit family in Boston. She’s intelligent, articulate, with a dry sense of humor that surfaces in unexpected moments. In an alternate universe, I think we could have been great friends.

But then comes the inevitable question, right on cue.

“I’ve been wondering something,” Serena says, setting down her champagne flute. “Why now, Hayes?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, though I know exactly what she’s asking.

“This is our first one-on-one date, and we’re already at fantasy suites.” She doesn’t sound angry, just curious, analytical. “We’re down to the final three, and I’ve barely had any individual time with you. Yet here I am.”

The cameras zoom in, capturing what Darren will surely edit into a dramatic confrontation. But Serena’s tone remains even, her expression open. She’s not attacking, just seeking clarity.

“I think...” I pause, searching for words I prepared that won’t reveal too much. “I think sometimes the quieter connections take longer to recognize. You were always there, always steady, while others were...” I wave my hand vaguely, “...more dramatic.” I sigh. “But I’m here with you now, Serena. And I’m glad it’s you.”

The words feel hollow even as I say them. Not because they’re untrue—I am glad for Serena’s company, her calm presence a balm to my guilt-ridden conscience—but because I’m not glad she’s here in the way I should be.

Serena accepts my response with a slight nod. “I’m glad too.”

The sun begins its descent, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Right on cue, a crew member approaches to inform us that dinner is being set up in the yacht’s dining room. This is it—the transition to the evening portion of our date, the prelude to the fantasy suite invitation.

The dining room is absurdly elegant, with crisp white linens, candles, and enough flowers to stock a small florist. Serena looks lovely in the soft lighting, her features refined and thoughtful. As required, we eat our food quickly and without conversation while we’re not being filmed. Then, with the cameras rolling, she sips wine as he talks about her research, the breakthrough her team is working on in sustainable plastics. I tell her about August, about his latest obsession with building working robots from recycled electronics. “He liked you,” I say, and at least, this is honest. August appreciated Serena’s intelligence, straightforward nature, and her lack of pretense.

But then I make the mistake of letting my gaze drift toward the shoreline in the distance. Suddenly, I’m transported back to that moment—Brielle walking with me on that beach. Her laughter, and how our conversation, easy, fun, natural. Like we’d known each other our whole lives. The connection that sparked instantly, undeniably, between us.

“Hayes?” Serena’s voice pulls me back. “Where did you go?”

“Sorry,” I shake my head. “Just thinking about August. Missing him.”

Another lie in a growing collection.

Tanya appears with the now-familiar envelope. I open it, pretending to read the card inside as if I don’t already knowexactly what it says. “Serena,” I recite, looking up to meet her eyes. “Should you choose to forgo your individual rooms, please use this opportunity to spend time together in our fantasy suite. With love, Skye.”

---