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I love those crinkles. I’ve cataloged them all—the ones from genuine joy, the ones from trying not to roll her eyes at my dad jokes, the ones that appear when she’s concentrating on a difficult scene in her screenplay. A photographer notices these things. Or maybe it’s just that I notice everything about Brielle, still, after a year together. The novelty hasn’t worn off.
August reaches the door first and holds it open with exaggerated chivalry, a habit he’s picked up from me. “Women first,” he says to Brielle with a slight bow.
“Why thank you, sir,” she replies with equal formality, then leans down to whisper something in his ear that makes him giggle.
Their conspiratorial closeness makes my chest feel too small for my heart. It wasn’t always this easy. Those first few months after the show, after I’d cross-country skied up that mountain to find Brielle in her remote cabin, after we’d started trying to build something real away from cameras—those were complicated times. August was wary at first, not of Brielle specifically, but of change, of letting someone new into our carefully balanced lives.And Brielle, for all her confidence in her writing, had moments of real doubt about stepping into our ready-made family.
“What if I’m terrible at it?” she’d asked one night, three months in of us doing long-distance. “What if I can’t be what he needs?”
“No one’s asking you to be Sarah,” I’d told her, the words easier to say than I’d expected. “August and I just need you to be Brielle. That’s more than enough.”
And somehow, day by day, piece by piece, we’d created something new—not replacing what was lost, but building something different, something equally valuable. The day August asked if Brielle could come to his school science fair instead of just me was the day I knew we were going to be okay.
And when August, my mom, and I all wanted to move to Atlanta for varying reasons—my mom, the weather, me, Brielle and some good photography opportunities, and August, to attend the International School with many kids like him, a gifted program, and a place where he can learn seven languages if he wants to—I knew it was meant to be.
The bell over the door jingles as we enter Scoops ‘n Stories, a place that’s become our Sunday tradition. It’s a quirky spot where every flavor has a literary name—Hemingway’s Vanilla, Austen’s Raspberry & Prejudice, Tolkien’s Middle-Earth Mint. The owner, a former English professor with a fondness for puns and premium ingredients, greets us with a wave from behind the counter.
“The Burke-Wilson party!” she calls. “Right on schedule!”
The Burke-Wilson party. I still get a little thrill hearing us described as a unit. We’re not married yet—the wedding is set for fall, in St. Sebastian, and it’ll be televised as a part ofGroomsman to Groomwith Skye as justice of the peace—but in all the ways that matter, we’ve been a family since the day we moved to Atlanta.
“I’m going first today.” August presses his face against the glass display case with such intensity I worry about smudges. “I’ve been thinking about my combination all week.”
“All week, huh?” Brielle kneels beside him, her own face serious as she studies the colorful tubs. “That’s some dedicated ice cream contemplation.”
“It’s important. Ice cream reflects your personality.”
“It really does.” She raises an eyebrow. “So what does that say about your dad and his boring vanilla?”
“Hey,” I protest, trying to sound offended but failing miserably. “Vanilla is classic. Timeless. Sophisticated.”
“Predictable.” Brielle shoots me a look of mock disapproval. “Safe.”
“Vanilla actually contains over a hundred flavor compounds.” August’s little professor voice emerges. “It’s one of the most complex flavors in the world.”
Brielle and I exchange a glance over his head. Neither of us is surprised by this random fact, but the way he comes to my defense warms me.
“See?” I say smugly. “Complex. Sophisticated. Timeless.”
“Still boring,” Brielle sing-songs, then turns to the owner. “I’ll have my usual, please. One scoop of Brontë’s Chocolate Heights, one scoop of Oreo ice cream, extra chocolate sprinkles.”
“Coming right up,” the owner says, already reaching for a waffle cone. She knows our orders by heart at this point.
“Me too!” August says. “Exactly the same. With the same sprinkles.”
And there it is—the thing that still catches me off guard sometimes. The little ways August mirrors Brielle, adopts her preferences, seeks to align himself with her. With Brielle, he gravitates toward her orbit naturally, like she’s generating her own gravitational pull.
“And for dad—” August starts.
“Let me guess,” the owner interrupts with a smile. “One scoop of Hemingway’s Vanilla in a cup, no toppings.”
“He’s living on the edge today,” Brielle stage-whispers. “He might even use a plastic spoon instead of his usual biodegradable one.”
“You two are hilarious,” I deadpan, accepting my vanilla with dignity. “Regular comedians. You should take your act on the road.”
“We couldn’t leave you behind.” August’s face is suddenly serious in that way kids have of switching emotional lanes without signaling. “You’d get lost without us.”
It’s a joke, but it’s also not. Before Brielle, before the show even, I was lost in many ways—going through the motions, building a career I loved but keeping my heart on lockdown. August was the only one who got past my defenses, and even with him, I was careful, controlled, afraid of failing him the way I’d failed Sarah.