12. August Comes Early
August Comes Early
HAYES
T he Lock & Key ceremony a week ago was tough.
I had to send home five more contestants, and Brielle seemed particularly sad when Taylor went home.
I can imagine they were close as roommates.
Taylor’s an exceptional woman, but she’s not creating enough drama to stay on the show and there wasn’t a big connection between her and me.
Then, the wedding photography challenge ended up with the women in another power play, and I selected Gabby as the winner because she did a decent job and I just wanted the date with her to be over with.
Now, tonight’s the next Lock & Key ceremony, then I get to spend the weekend with August. I check my watch for the tenth time in as many minutes, pacing the length of the mansion’s back patio.
The production van should be here any minute, delivering August—my brilliant, sweet, sensitive son whom I’ve abandoned to chase this bizarre televised fantasy.
Not that I’d phrase it that way to him. “Daddy’s working” sounds better than “Daddy’s trying to boost his photography career while dating multiple women on national television three years after your mom died. ”
A knot of guilt tightens in my chest as I scan the driveway again.
Darren’s approval came so fast, I figured my suggestion must be “ratings gold” as Brielle would say.
The cynical part of me knows why: nothing boosts viewership like an adorable child grieving his mother while his father shops for her replacement.
The very thought makes me want to hurl into a bush.
But the alternative was worse. August alone with my mother, hurting over Sarah’s death, clutching that jar of seashells.
The sound of tires crunching on gravel snaps me to attention. A black SUV with tinted windows rolls to a stop at the bottom of the steps. My heart hammers against my ribs as the back door swings open.
August jumps out, his small frame dwarfed by the oversized Doctor Strange backpack hanging from his shoulders.
His blond hair sticks up in the back, exactly the way it always does when he’s been reading in the car.
His glasses slip down his nose as he looks up, scanning the unfamiliar environment until his eyes lock on mine. My heart explodes.
“Dad!”
The backpack bounces as he sprints up the steps, and I drop to one knee, holding off tears as I brace for impact.
He crashes into me, thin arms locking around my neck with some serious momentum.
I close my eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of his shampoo mixed with the faint, reassuring smell of those weird cheese crackers he’s obsessed with.
“Hey buddy,” I manage, my voice embarrassingly thick. “I missed you so much.”
“I missed you too,” he says into my shoulder. “Grandma let me bring all my books. And Sehlat. And my chess computer. And I brought the shell jar too because—” He stops abruptly, pulling back to look at me, suddenly serious. “You remember what I said, right?”
The question hits me like a blow. “Of course I remember, August. That’s why you’re here. So we can be together.”
He nods, seeming satisfied, though his eyes—Sarah’s eyes, the exact same shade of amber—hold a wariness that no nine-year-old should know.
My mother appears from the SUV, exchanging a few words with the driver before heading our way, wheeling August’s small suitcase. She looks exhausted, the kind of bone-deep tired that comes from shouldering a burden that should be mine.
“Hayes,” she says, giving me a quick, tight hug. Over August’s head, she mouths, “We need to talk.”
Great. Another lecture about my parental shortcomings, as if the one playing on repeat in my head isn’t enough.
“Grandma let me stay up until ten-thirty last night.” August adjusts his glasses with that precise gesture that always makes him look like a miniature professor.
“We watched the original Star Trek episode The City on the Edge of Forever because it’s about time travel and choices that affect the future, which felt thematically appropriate. ”
“Thematically appropriate,” I echo, ruffling his hair. “You’re still using vocabulary that makes my head spin, huh?”
“Precise vocabulary is important, Dad.” He looks past me to the mansion, eyes widening. “Is this where all the women live? It’s very large. Inefficient design for a family dwelling, though.”
I can’t help but smile. Three minutes back with my son and I’m already remembering why no woman I’ve met on this show— Brielle possibly excepted—can match the intellectual gymnastics of conversing with August Burke.
“Let’s get you settled.” I take his backpack with one hand and his small hand in my other. “You’ve in my room with me, and grandma is in a room right next to ours.”
As we walk through the mansion’s cavernous hallways, August firing questions about square footage and architectural decisions, I study him more carefully.
There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there two weeks ago.
He’s chewing on his lower lip, a nervous habit he develops when anxious.
And though he’s talking a mile a minute, there’s a forced quality to his enthusiasm, as if he’s working overtime to convince me—or himself—that everything’s fine.
“August,” I interrupt gently as we reach his temporary bedroom, “how are things really going? At school? With Grandma?”
He busies himself with unzipping his backpack, avoiding my eyes. “Fine. School is school. The educational standards remain subpar, but I’ve been supplementing with online quantum physics courses.”
“And the other kids?” I say, remembering his tearful voicemail. “Any more issues with Liam?”
August’s small shoulders stiffen. “Liam has been recalibrated,” he says, a phrase I’ve never heard from him before.
“Recalibrated?”
“I calculated the optimal response to his continuous provocations. When he called me ‘robot boy’ on Tuesday, I informed him that while I merely correct factual inaccuracies, he actively reduces the collective IQ of our class by several points each time he speaks. Then I suggested his developmental delays might be attributable to excessive screen time or possibly lead exposure.” August pushes his glasses up, finally meeting my eyes.
“He cried. The teacher called Grandma. I have detention next Monday.”
I sit heavily on the edge of the bed. “August...”
“I know, I know. ‘Don’t insult everyone else’s IQs, August.’ Except I just stated facts. It’s not my fault facts hurt his feelings.”
The stubborn set of his jaw is pure Sarah, and for a moment, grief hits me so hard I can barely breathe. She would know exactly what to say right now. She always did.
“It’s not just about the facts, buddy. It’s about how we use them.” I pat the space beside me, and he hesitantly sits. “You’ve got an incredible brain—way smarter than mine, that’s for sure. But people aren’t just brains walking around. They’ve got hearts and feelings too.”
“Feelings aren’t efficient,” he mutters, but there’s a quiver in his voice.
“Maybe. But they’re what makes us human.” I wrap an arm around his thin shoulders. “Is this why no one’s sitting with you at lunch?”
A single tear escapes, tracking down his cheek before he roughly wipes it away. “It doesn’t matter. I bring my books. Books don’t call you names or care if you know things they don’t.”
God, I’ve failed him. Two weeks away, and my lonely son has retreated further into his protective shell of facts and figures.
“I’m sorry, August. I should have been there.”
“Why?” he asks, genuine confusion in his voice. “I told you to do this. I want you to find happiness, like Grandma said. That’s logical. Life continues despite death. Entropy is unavoidable.”
“Entropy, huh?” I pull him closer. “You’ve been reading Stephen Hawking again?”
“And watching documentaries.” He leans against me, suddenly looking younger than his nine years.
“Tomorrow is three years and thirty-two days, Dad. I did the math—that’s 1,127 days.
Just more than a quarter of my life without her.
” His voice drops to a whisper. “I’m forgetting what her voice sounded like. ”
My heart shatters. I pull him into a tight hug, feeling his small body shake with the sobs he’s clearly been holding back.
“I’ve got videos,” I tell him, my own voice unsteady.
“Lots of them. We’ll watch them together tomorrow, okay?
And I’ll tell you all the stories again—how she used to sing Yellow Submarine completely off-key when she gave you baths.
How she kept jellybeans in her purse for emergencies, but the emergency was usually that she wanted candy. ”
August nods against my chest, his glasses digging uncomfortably into my sternum. “I told you I put the pictures out yesterday. The beach ones.”
“I know, buddy. That was a good idea.” I stroke his hair, feeling like the world’s worst father. “I’m right here now. I’m not going anywhere.”
Except that’s a lie, isn’t it? In a few days, I’ll be back on this ridiculous show, and he’ll be back with my mother, alone with his grief and his bullies and his too-big brain.
A knock at the door interrupts our moment. Skye pokes her head in, her expression softening when she sees August’s tear-streaked face.
“Sorry to intrude,” she says, uncharacteristically gentle. “But we need to prep for the chess challenge. The women will be arriving in an hour.”
“Chess?” August perks up instantly, wiping his face on his sleeve. “What kind of chess?”
“Life-sized,” Skye says, stepping fully into the room. She’s toned down her usual flamboyance, I notice—wearing a turquoise pantsuit. “You’ll be playing against each of the women, directing them as human chess pieces on a giant board we’ve set up in the garden.”
August’s eyes glow with genuine excitement. “Real people as chess pieces? I love it.”
“He’s unbeatable,” I warn Skye.
“Perfect.” Skye grins. “We’re counting on that. Nothing like a child demolishing grown women at chess to reveal character.”