Page 29

“School was hard today. Liam said I was a robot again because I corrected Ms. Hanson about black holes. And I tried not to, Dad, I really did, but she was teaching it wrong, and now nobody will sit with me at lunch again.”
My stomach clenches, and I close my eyes, picturing him—glasses slipping down his nose, blond hair sticking up in the back where he never remembers to brush it, shoulders hunched under the weight of being different.
“And Grandma’s trying, but she doesn’t understand about Mom. Sometimes, I just miss her more than others.”
Yes. Sometimes it’s worse than others, and I bet it’s heightened now because I’m not there with him. When life gets stressful, it makes her death feel like yesterday. Just yesterday that Sarah got into her car to pick up August from T-ball. Just yesterday since the drunk driver ran the red light. But then, simultaneously, it also feels like eons of being both mother and father to our son.
August continues, “I put the pictures out, the ones from our beach trip we’d just had. Remember how Mom collected all those shells? I still have them in the blue jar.”
His voice cracks along with my heart, silently, deep in my chest.
“I think I want to go to the cemetery. Grandma says we should wait for you, but... but you’re not here.” Those four words stab like an ice pick. “You’re finding a new mom, which I told you to do, so it’s fine, but I just... I miss her, Dad. And I miss you. That’s all.”
I grip the phone so tightly my knuckles turn white. The room around me—the professionally decorated bachelor pad they’ve set up for filming my “candid” moments—seems to dissolve, replaced by the image of my son, alone in his room, trying to be brave while his world crumbles.
“Anyway, I should go. Grandma made lasagna. Which, sorry, but it’s better than yours.” There’s the ghost of a smile in his voice now, a brave attempt. “Love you, Dad. Hope you’re having fun with all the pretty women.”
The message ends. I stand frozen, phone in hand, as Darren’s voice echoes through the door. “Sorry, Hayes, but you need to be in hair and makeup in two minutes.”
I swallow hard. “I’m heading out now.”
The mansion, my date with Annabelle, where I have to spend two hours making small talk with a woman I barely know while my son sits alone with his grief and a jar of seashells.
I’m dying to call him, but I have to go, and when we wrap up shooting tonight, he’ll be in bed, even though Chicago is an hour behind.Dammit.
Darren opens my door. “Annabelle will be waiting by the firepit.” He approaches and takes the phone from my numb fingers. “She’s excited.”
“Okay.” I nod mechanically, bile rising in my throat. What kind of father am I, putting a TV show above my son’s emotional needs?
“Let’s go.” Darren taps his watch. “You’ll have to eat your dinner while you’re in makeup. Sorry but we’re running behind.”
“Sure, that’s fine.” We have to eat our meals before filming, even when it’s a dinner date and there’s food set out. It’s just for show—we’re not allowed to eat on camera because it sounds gross in the microphones, so all we can do is drink, usually champagne or wine.
I go through the motions. Let the makeup artist dab my face with powder. Let the stylist adjust my collar. Eat my chicken wrap at record speed, then down the breath mints. Let myself be led toward the firepit where Annabelle waits, her red hair gleaming in the flickering light, her face open and eager.
She’s wearing a simple sundress, her freckled shoulders bare under the evening sky. Any other time, I’d find her adorable and charming, with her Southern twang and surprising hidden talents. Now, she’s just an obstacle between me and my son.
“Hayes!” She jumps up, her smile wide. “I’m so happy you picked me.”
I force my mouth into a smile, hoping it reaches my eyes. “Your performance had heart.”
“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” She gestures to the picnic spread out on a blanket beside the fire. “They’ve set us up real nice here.”
I sit beside her, going through the rehearsed motions of a reality TV date while my mind races frantically. August alone in his room. August at school, being called a robot. August at the cemetery, standing before his mother’s grave without me beside him.
“Hayes? You with me?” Annabelle’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
For a moment, I consider telling her the truth, but I don’t want to have August’s problems aired. Plus, she can’t help. None of these women can. They’re as trapped in this artificial scenario as I am.
“Sorry.” I reach for a glass of champagne I don’t want. “Just... looking at this amazing setup.” I take a sip of champagne that tastes strong. “Tell me more about your family. You mentioned siblings?”
Relief floods her face—an easy question, familiar territory. “Oh, honey, where do I even start? I’m the middle child of seven.”
“Seven?” I echo.
“Mm-hmm. Four brothers, two sisters, and me in the middle, trying to be heard over the chaos.” Annabelle laughs, the sound tinkling like wind chimes. “Growing up in that farmhouse was like livin’ in a hurricane. Never a quiet moment.”
As she talks, painting pictures of Southern family life—fishing trips and holiday dinners, pranks and squabbles—I nod and smile in all the right places. But all I can think about is the quiet of our house when it’s just August and me. The way he arranges his cereal by color before eating it. How he still sleeps with the star projector I bought him after Sarah died, finding comfort in the constancy of constellations when everything else fell apart.