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But I barely register any of it. All I can see is the memory of the blankness in his eyes, the deliberate distance in his expression. I have my key—I’m still in the competition, still theoretically in the running for his heart. But standing here on that beautiful rooftop, with Pamplona glittering below us and the night sky vast above, I’ve never felt more certain that I’ve already lost.
23
Heartbreak Home
HAYES
The Atlanta suburbs blur past the tinted windows of the production SUV—manicured lawns, cookie-cutter houses with individual touches, street signs pointing to lives I’ll never know. I’d usually be cataloging these details with my photographer’s eye, but all I can focus on is the knot in my stomach that’s been growing since we left Pamplona.
Hometown visits. The phrase alone makes my palms sweat. I’ve been on here before—Sarah’s parents sizing me up over dinner, questions about my career prospects, my five-year plan—but never with cameras documenting every flinch, never with three other women still in the running, never after the spectacular implosion of trust that happened in Spain.
“Five minutes to location.” The driver’s tone is professionally detached.
I nod though he can’t see me through the privacy partition. Five minutes until I see Brielle again. Five minutes until I have to face the woman I’ve been avoiding since Luna’s revelation, the woman who somehow still managed to earn a key at the ceremony—partly because I couldn’t imagine going to Gabby’s hometown and trying to pretend we had a future, and partly because despite everything, I couldn’t imagine continuing this journey without her.
Serena’s hometown was yesterday in Boston, which went well with her family who hosted me for dinner and a Red Sox game. Luna’s was the day before in Miami where we all had a great day on the beach. Annabelle’s was two days before that in Greenville, and her family’s pecan farm was incredible. They were all so warm and kind, just like Annabelle. The final women, all with their own unique connection to me, all deserving of my full attention and consideration. And yet, it’s this visit—this woman—who has my heart racing like I’m back on that Spanish balcony, preparing to leap.
The SUV slows as we turn onto a tree-lined street. Through the windows, I catch glimpses of a modest, well-kept neighborhood—not flashy, but comfortable. The kind of place where people know their neighbors’ names and borrow cups of sugar. It fits what I know of Brielle, somehow.
“We’re here.” The driver pulls up to a small park near her sister’s house. That was the arrangement—meet at the park first, private conversation before the family introduction, then the main event at her sister Paisley’s home.
And there she is.
Brielle sits on a bench beneath a sprawling oak tree. She’s still got the bandage on, and she’s wearing jeans and a simple emerald blouse that brings out hints of green in her dark eyes.Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the Georgia sunlight. She looks up as the SUV approaches and stands. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in her posture, the careful construction of her expression.
The cameras are already in position—one crew with her, another with me. The artifice of this moment strikes me anew: our “reunion” carefully staged for maximum emotional impact, our private conversation to be witnessed by millions.
I step out of the vehicle, adjusting my light jacket. The Georgia heat is substantial, but bearable. Like everything else about this situation, I suppose.
“Hayes,” she says as I approach, her voice not cold, not warm. Waiting to take her cue from me.
“Brielle,” I reply, leaning in for the obligatory greeting hug, careful not to touch her arm. She smells something floral and mango—familiar, yet somehow new again after these days of distance.
We make our way to a more secluded part of the park, a small gazebo that production has scouted as appropriately photogenic. The camera crew follows at a practiced distance—close enough to capture everything, far enough to maintain the illusion of privacy.
“So,” I begin once we’re seated, “Atlanta. Your hometown.”
“Not exactly,” she says. “I grew up everywhere. Nine schools, remember? But Paisley settled here after college, and since our mom died, she’s my only real family. This is home base now.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I can’t believe I’d slipped and said that. Things have gotten so confusing with the different women. I can feel the camera operators leaning in slightly, sensing the tension, hoping for the breakthrough moment their editors will splice into dramatic promos.
“Brielle,” I finally say, deciding to address the elephant in the gazebo, “I need to ask you something.”
She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “Okay.”
“Is it true? About you and Seth?” The question comes out more bluntly than I intended, my carefully rehearsed phrasing abandoned in the face of her nearness. I hate that the cameras are recording this.
Her expression shifts from tension to genuine confusion, then to something approaching anger. “Seth? The assistant producer? What?”
“Luna told me she saw you with him.” I watch her reaction carefully. “She said you were meeting him about his screenplay, but that she caught you kissing in the garden the morning of the third key ceremony.”
Brielle’s laugh is short and incredulous. “Wow. Just... wow. That’s what you’ve been believing all since your date with Luna? That’s why you’ve been treating me like I’m radioactive?”
“Is it true?” I repeat, needing to hear it directly from her.
“No,” she says harshly, meeting my eyes with unflinching directness. “Absolutely not. I had exactly three conversations with Seth during this entire process, and it was about his screenplay. When I gave him my edits, he was so happy he hugged me. He felt like I gave his career a real chance.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your meetings with him?”