Epilogue
HAYES
I still can’t believe this is my life sometimes.
Watching August skip ahead of us toward Scoops ‘n Stories, his favorite ice cream shop in Atlanta, I feel that familiar catch in my throat—the one that comes when happiness ambushes you in ordinary moments. In one hand, I have Onion’s leash, as Brielle ended up adopting the dog after the show finished filming.
In the other, Brielle’s hand fits in mine as we follow my son, her engagement ring catching the late afternoon sunlight.
One year ago, I was trapped in a reality TV nightmare of my own making.
Now I’m just a guy taking his fiancée, son, and sweet dog out for ice cream on a perfect spring day.
The most unreal thing about reality, it turns out, is how good it can be when you get it right.
“Dad! Brielle! Onion! Hurry up!” August calls over his shoulder, his glasses sliding down his nose in his excitement.
At ten-and-a-half—the half is crucial, as he frequently reminds us—he’s still young enough to be thrilled about ice cream, but old enough to pretend he’s too mature for it sometimes.
Today, thank God, is a no-pretending day.
“We’re coming, buddy,” I call back. “The ice cream isn’t going anywhere.”
“But the Bronte’s Chocolate Heights flavor might run out,” he says with the graveness only a child can muster when discussing frozen dairy products. “It happened last time.”
“He has my anxiety,” I whisper to Brielle, who squeezes my hand in response.
“And your memory for dessert-related trauma,” she whispers back, her eyes crinkling at the corners the way they do when she’s holding back laughter.
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 of Groomsman to Groom with 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 Bronte’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.
We get our ice creams—including the special doggie one—Pooch Creamery Peanut Butter—that the owner keeps in the freezer for us and other dog-loving families.
We settle into our usual booth by the window, sunlight streaming across the checked tablecloth.
August dives into his ice cream with focused enthusiasm, already developing a chocolate mustache that he’s blissfully unaware of.
Brielle catches my eye and swipes at her own upper lip.
Our silent code for “your kid has food on his face.” I shake my head—let him enjoy it a bit longer.
“So,” I say, taking a small, civilized bite of my supposedly boring vanilla, “how was chess club yesterday?”
August’s eyes light up behind his glasses. “Amazing! I beat Mr. Gonzalez.”
“Your teacher?” Brielle says, impressed. “The one who was the state champion?” She leans down and gives Onion her special container.
August nods vigorously. “He said I have ‘remarkable spatial reasoning’ and ‘unexpected strategic depth.’” He pronounces the phrases carefully, clearly quoting verbatim.
“But then Ethan said it was just beginner’s luck, which is illogical because I’ve been playing chess since I was four, which is definitely not a beginner. ”
“Ethan sounds jealous,” Brielle says matter-of-factly. “In the writers’ room, we call that ‘projecting insecurities onto others’ success.’”
August considers this, taking a thoughtful lick of his ice cream. “Is that like when villains in Marvel movies always think the heroes are just like them, but really they’re not?”
“Exactly like that.” Brielle nods. “Great parallel.”
I watch the exchange with a familiar sense of awe. Brielle never talks down to August, never simplifies concepts for him. She treats his ten-year-old thoughts with the same respect she’d give an adult, and he flourishes under that respect. It’s one of the million reasons I love her.
“Dad, did you know Brielle’s show might win an Emmy?” August pivots topics with characteristic abruptness. “She told me this morning when you were in the shower.”
“Is that right?” I turn to Brielle, eyebrows raised. This is news to me.
She blushes, focusing intently on separating her two ice cream flavors with her spoon. “It’s not official yet. Just industry chatter.”
I smile “Well, then I won’t jinx it with a congratulations—yet.”
“Thank you. No jinxes allowed.”
“Can we watch a movie tonight?” August cuts in. “The one about robots taking over the world but then learning to love?”
“You’ve seen The Wild Robot seventeen times,” I point out.
“Eighteen would be an even number,” he counters with flawless kid logic. “And Onion loves that movie. She always sits right in front of the TV when it’s on.”
“You make excellent points,” Brielle says. “Robot movie it is.”
August whoops and resumes his forward trajectory, narrowly avoiding a collision with a lamppost.
“He’s right, you know,” I say quietly to Brielle. “You do fit right in.”
She squeezes my hand three times in quick succession—our shorthand for “I love you.”
I squeeze back four times—our addition to the code. “I love you more.”
With my son’s excited chatter leading the way and Brielle’s hand warm in mine, we head home through the golden Atlanta evening, ready for robots, bedtime stories, doggie bedtime routines, and whatever adventures tomorrow brings—one scoop, one day at a time.