Page 93 of Groomsman to Groom

“I know.” And I do. I’m prepared for that possibility. I deserve it, even.

“But she might not,” Skye adds, her eyes softening. “That woman loved you. Still does, if my Bingeflix source is to be believed. Apparently, she’s writing a screenplay about a reality show contestant whose heart gets broken on national television. Very therapeutic, I’m told.”

Hope blooms in my chest, fragile but persistent. I turn to face the setting sun, now painting the St. Sebastian sky in shades of pink and gold. In twenty-four hours, I’ll be as far from this tropical paradise as geographically possible, trading white sand beaches for snow-covered mountains, manufactured romance for the real thing.

If she’ll still have me.

This chapter of myGroomsman to Groomjourney is ending. But my real journey—the one that matters—is just beginning.

I just hope I’m not too late.

34

Off The Grid

BRIELLE

There’s something magical about being unreachable. Three weeks in this remote Alaskan cabin, and I’ve written more than I did in the three months before theGroomsman to Groomdisaster. No cell service. No Wi-Fi. No reality TV cameras documenting my every facial twitch. Just me, my laptop, and the kind of silence that feels like you could scoop it up in your hands and mold it into something tangible. The isolation should be terrifying, but instead, it’s been the balm my reality-TV-wounded soul needed.

I stretch my arms overhead, feeling the satisfying pop of my spine realigning after hours hunched over my keyboard. Episode 2 ofHallucination AI, season three, is officially done—a week ahead of schedule. The finale is already taking shape in my mind, the characters moving through my consciousness with more autonomy than the actual humans I spent four weeks with in that mansion.

“Cheers to you, Brielle.” I toast myself with a mug of lukewarm coffee, the dregs of this morning’s pot. “Nothing heals heartbreak like creating an artificial intelligence that hallucinates people’s darkest desires.”

The cabin owner, a septuagenarian named Lloyd who lives at the base of the mountain, warned me that talking to myself would be the first sign I’d been alone too long. But I’ve always talked to myself—it’s part of my process, the auditory testing ground for dialogue before it hits the page.

I glance around my temporary kingdom—six-hundred square feet of rustic solitude. The stone fireplace that warms the entire space. The lofted bedroom accessible by a ladder I’m still not convinced won’t collapse under me one night. The kitchenette with its tiny propane stove where I’ve become surprisingly adept at one-pot meals. The questionable plumbing that gives me approximately four minutes of lukewarm shower water every day.

It’s paradise.

The food supplies I brought during my three-mile cross-country trip are dwindling—another few days and I’ll have to make the hike down to Lloyd’s for more provisions—but I’ve rationed carefully. One more week here should be enough to finish the season outline and start the final episode. Then back to Atlanta, back to production meetings and studio notes and the inevitable awkwardness of facing my team after they see my reality TV fiasco.

I close my laptop with a satisfying click. The weather report Lloyd gave me yesterday—delivered along with a freshly caught trout I didn’t request—promised clear skies, perfect for watchingthe sunset from the tiny deck. I pour the last of my boxed wine into a chipped mug and step outside.

The view never gets old—pine-covered mountains stretching to the horizon, the dizzying drop of the slope beneath the cabin, a slice of crystalline lake visible in the distance. The April air is crisp but not bitter, carrying the scent of pine and the promise of spring. I breathe it in, feeling my lungs expand with something that, if not happiness, is at least contentment.

This is moving on. This is healing. This is—

A sound breaks the silence. Not a natural sound—not wind through pine needles or a bird call or the occasional distant howl that Lloyd insists is just a neighbor’s husky—that I’m convinced is a mountain lion. No, this is the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on the trail leading to my cabin.

My pulse quickens. Lloyd isn’t due to check on me for two more days. The cleaning service that preps the cabin between guests isn’t expected until next week when I leave. No one else should know I’m here—I specifically chose this spot for its obscurity and inaccessibility.

The footsteps grow louder, accompanied now by the sound of labored breathing. More than one person. My imagination, honed by years of writing thriller storylines for streaming networks, immediately conjures images of axe murderers, escaped convicts, bear poachers who won’t appreciate a witness.

I retreat inside, quietly sliding the glass door shut behind me. The cabin has a landline for emergencies, but who would I call? The local sheriff is an hour away, according to Lloyd. My eyes dart around for potential weapons—a cast-iron skillet, a heavy flashlight, the emergency axe by the fireplace.

A knock on the door makes me jump, sloshing wine onto my sweater.

“Hello?” a male voice calls, followed by a wheezing cough from someone else. “Is anyone home?”

The voice sounds strangely familiar, but fear distorts my ability to place it. I grab the flashlight—heavy, metal, capable of inflicting serious damage—and approach the door cautiously.

“Who is it?” I call, trying to sound confident, authoritative. The way the woman in a horror movie never does.

“Brielle? Is that you?”

My heart stops. Literally stops. I’m clinically dead for a solid three seconds before it restarts with a painful kick against my ribs. I know that voice. I’ve replayed it in my head for weeks, analyzing every word, every inflection, searching for clues I might have missed.

“Hayes?” My own voice emerges as a squeak.

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