14. In the Air
In the Air
HAYES
T he airplane hums around me like a lullaby, but sleep remains an impossibility.
I stare out the window at clouds that look like cotton candy mountains—the kind August would analyze for their cumulus classification before tentatively asking if we could get real cotton candy later.
God, I miss him already. He got to stay from Friday to Sunday, and now it’s been less than twenty-four hours since I hugged him goodbye, since I watched him walk through security with my mother, his Star Trek backpack bouncing slightly with each step, and already, there’s an August-shaped hole in my chest.
I’m flying to Spain. Pamplona. The production team chose the city for its “romantic architecture” and “passionate cultural heritage,” according to Skye’s briefing.
What she didn’t say, but what we all know, is that they’re hoping the city famous for the running of the bulls will provide a dangerous and heart-stopping backdrop for the escalating drama among the remaining contestants.
Friday’s ceremony was rougher than the other two. Seven women left now. Seven women I’m supposed to date simultaneously while cameras document every glance, touch, and conversation. The artifice of it all feels even more stark after August’s visit.
“Water, Mr. Burke?” The flight attendant materializes beside me, her smile professional but tired. It’s the fourth time she’s offered me refreshments during this transatlantic journey.
“No, thank you. I’m good.” I’m not good. Not even close. But explaining that I’m a widowed single father flying to Spain to date multiple women on camera while my vulnerable son returns to being bullied at school feels like over sharing for flight-attendant-passenger relations.
She moves on, and I return to my window vigil. Somewhere over the Atlantic, flying away from my responsibilities as a father toward my contractual obligations as reality TV’s most reluctant bachelor. The cognitive dissonance is enough to give me altitude sickness, even in business class.
My camera holds approximately seventy-eight new photos of August from our three days together. I scroll through them again, lingering on one of him on his chess throne, his face lit with concentration as he plotted his next move against Brielle.
August, animated and engaged in a way I rarely see him with adults.
Brielle, listening—really listening—as he explained the Sicilian Defense, not with the patronizing patience adults often show children, but with genuine intellectual interest. The moment when she deliberately overlooked an obvious capture of his queen, and the look they exchanged afterward—a silent communication that acknowledged both her choice and his recognition of it.
“They’re speaking the same language,” my mother had observed, watching from beside me. “I haven’t seen him connect with anyone like that since Sarah.”
The comparison to his mother had knocked the wind out of me.
Not because it felt disloyal—Sarah would have wanted August to forge new connections, to find people who understand him—but because it highlighted the rarity of such a connection.
How many people truly see my son for who he is, rather than who they expect a nine-year-old to be?
Brielle saw him. Not as a prop in a reality TV skit, not as an obstacle to overcome to get to me, but as a complete person with his own brilliant mind and tender heart.
“Dad, did you know Brielle writes a show about supernatural detectives? And she consulted a real quantum physicist about parallel dimensions!” August had bubbled over with excitement after their chess match, his words tumbling out faster than usual.
“And she suggested I join an advanced chess club instead of just doing math tutorial, which is actually really logical because I’d meet other kids who think like me. ”
In the space of fifteen minutes, Brielle had managed what months of my careful parental guidance hadn’t—she’d given August a framework to understand his social difficulties and a practical solution that centered his strengths rather than his differences.
“She let me win at chess,” he’d confided later, as I tucked him into bed. “Not in an obvious way. She made a suboptimal move that created a long-term vulnerability. Most people wouldn’t notice, but I did.”
“And that bothered you?” I’d asked, smoothing his forever-unruly hair.
“No.” He’d considered this, furrowing his brows deeply like he does. “It felt like... respect. Like she knew I’d notice, and she trusted me to understand why she did it.”
Respect. Such a simple concept, yet so often denied to children, especially those who don’t fit neatly into expected patterns of behavior. Brielle had given my son the rare gift of being taken seriously.
The plane hits a pocket of turbulence, jostling me back to the present. The seatbelt sign dings on, followed by the captain’s voice announcing our initial descent into Spanish airspace. I straighten my seat, mentally preparing for the transition from grieving father to charming bachelor.
“Dad,” August had said during our final night together, his voice small in the darkness of his temporary bedroom. “Are you going to pick Brielle?”
The directness of the question had caught me off guard. “I... don’t know yet, buddy. That’s why I’m on this show—to figure that out.”
“But you like her.” Not a question, but a statement of observed fact. “She makes you laugh like Mom did. I saw it.”
Leave it to my perceptive son to cut straight to the heart of the matter.
Yes, Brielle makes me laugh. She challenges me intellectually, surprises me constantly, and seems genuinely interested in my photography beyond its connection to my bachelor status.
But most importantly, she sees August—really sees him.
“I do like her.” I’d sat on the edge of his bed. “But I need to be sure. This isn’t just about who I like. It’s about who fits into our life—yours and mine. If I choose someone, she becomes part of our family.”
He’d considered this with characteristic seriousness. “Statistically speaking, given your current age and life expectancy, you could have approximately forty more years with your chosen partner. That’s a significant percentage of your remaining lifespan. Logical decision-making is appropriate.”
I’d laughed, my heart breaking a little at his adult understanding wrapped in elementary statistics. Saying goodbye to him this morning had been excruciating. We’d stood at the security checkpoint, my mother hovering nearby with their boarding passes.
“Three more weeks,” I’d promised, kneeling to look him directly in the eyes. “Then I’m done with the show, and it’s just you and me again. Movie marathons, ice cream Sundays, all of it.”
“With or without a new stepmom?” he’d asked, his voice wobbling.
“Either way, you’re still my number one priority,” I’d assured him. “No matter what happens on this show.”
He’d nodded, trying to be brave. “I calculated that if you chose Brielle, our family’s collective IQ would increase by approximately forty-three points. Plus, she already knows about my peanut allergy and she likes ice cream and Star Trek , which are key compatibility factors.”
“Noted,” I’d said, pulling him into a fierce hug. “I love you, buddy. More than anything or anyone.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
The plane touches down with a series of jolts that mirror the disruption in my chest. Spain. New country, new phase of the competition, new opportunities to explore connections with seven women who’ve uprooted their lives for a chance at love. Or fame. Or both.
As we taxi toward the terminal, I gaze out at the landscape—a golden-hued tableau of ancient and modern architecture under a cerulean sky. The city where Hemingway found inspiration for his tales of masculinity and meaning.
“Welcome to Pamplona, baby!” Skye chirps as I approach baggage claim. She’s wearing a flowing red dress that I suspect is meant to evoke the festival of San Fermín, though we’re months away from the actual running of the bulls. “How was your flight?”
“Fine,” I answer automatically. “Are the women here already?”
“Landed an hour ago. They’re being taken to the hotel now.” She links her arm through mine, guiding me toward the exit. “We’ve got a stunning villa just outside the city. Private pool, vineyard views, the works. Very romantic.”
“Sounds great,” I say, mostly meaning it.
“There’s a buzz in the air, Hayes.” She squeezes my arm. “Europe always amplifies the romance factor. Something about being away from home, surrounded by history and beauty... it changes people.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the change of scenery will help clarify my feelings, bring new dimensions to connections that haven’t fully formed. Maybe in this city known for dangerous pursuits and passionate traditions, I’ll discover something unexpected about myself or one of the contestants.
“Darren wants me to go over the plan for the week,” Skye continues, oblivious to my internal monologue. “We’ve got some incredible dates lined up—authentic Spanish cooking classes, flamenco lessons, and a surprise.”
“Sounds great,” I repeat, trying to inject more enthusiasm. “And the key ceremony?”
“On the roof of your villa this week. Prepare for the eliminations to get more dramatic.”
Outside, a sleek black SUV waits to whisk us to the villa.
As we drive through Pamplona’s streets, I appreciate the beauty around me—the warm-hued buildings with wrought-iron balconies, the narrow cobblestone streets opening onto sunlit plazas, the blend of medieval architecture and modern life.
It’s undeniably romantic, exactly the backdrop a dating show would want.
It’s the Groomsman to Groom version of romance, artificial, yet here I am, seeking something real. To say I’m doubting the process is a massive understatement.
As we ride, Skye gives me that look. “Remember why you’re here. All this is for you to find love. It’s that simple. But make sure you explore all possibilities—don’t close the book before you’ve read all the chapters.”
“Right. Except Chapter One keeps pulling me back in.”
Skye’s nod is sympathetic. “You have to get to the end before you know what the whole story is. And really, it’s what the book teaches us about ourselves.”
“Wise.” I mull over her words, feeling the weight of expectations lift a hair. “So, I have to finish this for me.” And I have to be sure.
“Go on these dates, kiss the girls, laugh, and live. You’re in Spain, for God’s sake.” Skye nudges me. “Who knows? You might end up a better lover.”
I chuckle, resolve building within me. “I dunno, I’m pretty exceptional already.”
Skye’s lip curls. “Okay, cowboy.”
“Thanks, Obi Wan.”
“That’s me. Now, tomorrow, half the women will be with you and half will go out for dinner,” she says as we pull up to a stunning stone villa nestled among vineyards.
The interior is a beautiful blend of traditional Spanish elements and modern luxury—exposed wooden beams overhead, terracotta tiles underfoot, with plush furnishings and state-of-the-art amenities.
Production assistants scurry about, setting up lighting and camera positions for tomorrow’s festivities.
After talking to Skye, I renew my vow.
I’ll be present. I’ll be open. I’ll give each woman the chance to show me who she really is and how she might fit into my life—my real life, not this bizarre television approximation. I owe them that honesty. I owe myself that exploration.