6. Wheel in the Sky
Wheel in the Sky
brIELLE
T he fairgrounds loom ahead of us, a neon-lit fantasy against the afternoon sky.
I glance at Hayes, who’s staring up at the roller coaster with boyish excitement as the cameras trail behind us, a constant reminder that this isn’t just a date—it’s a production.
Still, when Hayes turns and catches me watching him, it’s just us, surrounded by the sweet scent of funnel cakes and the melody of carousel music.
“Ready?” he says.
“As I’ll ever be.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, a nervous tic I’ve had since childhood.
Hayes is wearing a vintage Game of Thrones T-shirt that’s faded just enough to look authentically loved rather than artificially distressed.
It’s the Stark direwolf sigil, which feels like a silent acknowledgment of our trivia connection.
I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt that features Captain Marvel—powerful, but still feminine enough for television.
The stylist back at the mansion spent forty-five minutes on my hair to make it look “neatly windswept,” which seems like a contradiction.
Hayes offers his hand as we approach the entrance, and I take it, trying to ignore the jolt of electricity that shoots up my arm.
His fingers entwine with mine naturally, as if they’ve done it a thousand times, though technically it’s our first touch since.
.. well, since St. Sebastian. Since the beach. Since we almost—
“I’ve been looking forward to this.” He interrupts my wandering thoughts. “A day away from the mansion sounds like heaven right now.”
“You have no idea.” I don’t have to tell him that Kavita and Gabby are clearly cooking up something to end me after I won the trivia challenge.
Hayes laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “I was impressed by you yesterday, you know. Not many people can name all three Mountain actors in order.”
“It’s useless knowledge, really. Does it say something concerning about me that I store actor names from decade-old shows instead of—I don’t know, how to change a tire?”
“It says you’re passionate about stories.” He squeezes my hand. “I love that.”
The carnival spreads before us in all its noisy, colorful glory. Children dart between legs like hyperactive fish, teenagers cluster in groups, and couples walk hand-in-hand, just like us. Except we’re trailed by a camera crew trying to be inconspicuous and failing miserably.
“What first?” Hayes’s eyes scan the array of rides and games.
I point to the bumper cars. “There. I can channel my competitive nature in a socially acceptable way.”
“You think you can take me?”
“I know I can.” I tug him toward the line, already feeling lighter than I have in days.
We climb into separate cars—his blue, mine red—and grip the steering wheels. Hayes makes a show of cracking his knuckles and giving me an intimidating stare that’s ruined by the smile he can’t quite suppress. The bell rings, and we’re off, electricity crackling above us as our cars jerk to life.
I immediately aim for him, but he’s quick, spinning his car away and circling back to tap my bumper from behind. I yelp in surprise, twisting to see him grinning wickedly as he speeds away.
When I ram his car from the side, the impact sends a satisfying jolt through me. Hayes throws his head back and laughs, full-bodied. “Not bad, Wilson!” he calls out, already planning his counterattack.
We spend the entire ride hunting each other, and by the end, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and a pleasant flush has settled over Hayes’s face. “I’m pretty sure I hit you more times.”
“Quality over quantity.” I tap his chest. “My hits were strategically superior.”
“Oh, were they now?” He catches my hand before I can pull it away, and suddenly we’re standing very close, the playful argument forgotten as awareness crackles between us.
His eyes drop to my lips for a fraction of a second before he seems to remember the cameras.
He clears his throat. “How about the ring toss next?”
“Game on.” The booth is festooned with prizes—giant stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling, smaller ones lining the shelves. A bored teenager hands Hayes three rings in exchange for a ticket.
“I should warn you—” he weighs the rings in his palm, “I have excellent hand-eye coordination. Part of being a photographer.”
“Is that right?” I fold my arms, enjoying his confidence. “Prove it, Burke.”
He lines up his shot, one eye closed in exaggerated concentration, and tosses the first ring. It bounces off the top of a bottle and clatters to the ground.
“Excellent coordination.”
“I’m just warming up.” He rolls his shoulders dramatically.
The second ring sails through the air and circles the neck of a bottle before settling around it. Hayes pumps his fist, turning to me with such pride you’d think he’d just won Olympic gold.
“Don’t get cocky,” I warn him. “You still need one more for a prize.”
His third toss is perfect—a clean arc that drops the ring directly onto a bottle. The teenager unenthusiastically asks which prize Hayes wants, gesturing to the middle shelf.
“What do you think?” Hayes scans the options.
“The penguin.” I point to it, no hesitation.
When he hands me the flightless bird, I clutch it to my chest. “Thank you. I’ll name him Balerion, after the Black Dread.”
“A fearsome name for such a cuddly creature.”
“Penguins are fierce. Some can deep dive over fifteen hundred feet,” I say, and he laughs again—that genuine laugh that makes my insides feel like cotton candy.
Speaking of, the scent of sugar and fried dough is becoming impossible to ignore.
“Hungry?” Hayes asks, noticing my distracted sniffing.
“Starving.”
We wander through the food stalls until we share a funnel cake dusted with so much powdered sugar we both end up with white smudges on our clothes. Then, a giant cloud of pink cotton candy to share. Hayes tears off a piece and offers it to me. I take it, our fingers brushing again.
“So,” he says as we find a bench, “tell me an interesting fact about you.”
I consider this, feeling the cotton candy dissolve on my tongue. “I can recite the periodic table backwards while standing on my hands.”
His eyes go wide. “Seriously?”
“No,” I laugh. “But the fact that you believed it means I’ve successfully cultivated my nerd brand.”
He shakes his head, grinning. “Okay, for real though.”
I hesitate, deciding how personal to get. “I write all my first drafts on notebook paper, like I’m from the 1800s.”
“That’s—surprisingly analog for someone who writes about AI.”
“I know. But there’s something about being on real paper that helps me think. Plus, no notifications, no distractions. Just me and the story.”
Hayes nods thoughtfully. “I get that. I have my best photo ideas at three a.m. when I can’t sleep. There’s clarity in isolation sometimes.”
We fall into a comfortable silence, watching the people and the moving rides. As the sun begins its descent, the carnival lights grow brighter, giving everything a dreamlike quality.
“Want to try the shooting gallery?” Hayes asks.
“Lead the way.” I tuck Balerion into my purse so that only his head peeks out.
Hayes picks up a cork gun and hands me one, our shoulders brushing as we position ourselves in front of the moving targets. He hits three ducks in a row with impressive precision.
“Wow.” I’m genuinely impressed. “Have you done this before?”
Something shifts in his expression—a shadow crossing his face. “I actually took up target shooting after my wife died. Needed something to focus on, something that required complete concentration so I couldn’t think about...” he trails off, then shrugs. “It sounds strange, but it helped.”
I lower my gun, the game forgotten. “It doesn’t sound strange at all.”
He stares at the moving targets, not really seeing them anymore. “I worry sometimes that I’m not enough for August. That I’m failing him by being both parents but doing neither job well.” He glances at me quickly, like he’s surprised by his own honesty. “Sorry, that got heavy fast.”
“Don’t apologize.” I consider mentioning that he seems like an amazing kid from what he’s told me, but I’m not supposed to know that. “Tell me about August.”
Hayes’s smile returns, though tempered now. “He’s amazing, too smart for his own good. The other day he corrected my explanation of black holes. Apparently, I wasn’t being ‘scientifically accurate’ enough in my bedtime story about space bunnies.”
That sounds like him, and the mental image makes me laugh. “A nine-year-old astrophysics expert. I love it.”
“I was worried, you know, after Sarah died, that he’d withdraw. Become bitter. But kids are resilient in ways adults aren’t.” His voice drops lower. “I wasn’t half as strong.”
Without thinking, I reach for his hand. “Grief isn’t linear. And there’s no failing at it, just surviving it.”
His eyes meet mine, searching, like he’s wondering if he should bring this up on camera. “You sound like you know.”
I nod, suddenly feeling the pressure of discussing my loss on TV. “My mom. Ten months ago. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and just like the first time he said it, he does it in a way like he truly understands the depth of what it means.
“She was my best friend.” The words feel raw in my throat. “We texted about everything. Books, movies, the weird guy at the grocery store who always wore oven mitts instead of regular gloves. And now whenever something happens—good or bad—she’s still the first person I want to tell.”
Hayes squeezes my hand. “That doesn’t go away,” he says gently. “But eventually it stops feeling like a stab wound every time you reach for your phone.”
“I’m not myself yet.” I’m surprised by my own openness. “I’m still... figuring out who I am without her.”
“You don’t have to be yourself yet,” he says with such understanding that my eyes prickle with unshed tears. “The hurt doesn’t get smaller, but you grow around it. Like a tree encompassing a fence post—the post stands, still solid, but the tree keeps growing, anyway.”
His words give me permission to be exactly where I am in my grief. Not moving on, not getting over it, just growing around it. “That might be the most helpful thing anyone’s said to me since she died.”
The moment stretches between us, intimate and raw despite the noise of the carnival surrounding us.
I’m acutely aware of the cameras, probably capturing every nuance of this exchange, but for once, I don’t care.
This connection feels too real, too important to worry about how it will play on television.
The night air grows cooler, and Hayes drapes his jacket over my shoulders without me having to ask. It smells like him—a mix of cedar and something spicy I can’t name—and I resist the urge to bury my nose in the collar.
After a quick round of Skee-Ball, Hayes nods toward the Ferris wheel that towers over us, its lights reflecting on the pavement. “One last ride?”
My stomach does a nervous flip. “Sure.”
We join the short line, standing close enough that our arms touch. The camera crew hangs back, apparently giving us the illusion of privacy for this final part of our date. Then they signal we can turn our mics off, and I’m thrilled.
We get to have a few moments of speaking privately as we climb into the swinging seat and the safety bar lowers across our laps. All I can think about is how Hayes’s thigh is pressed against mine and how the lights from below cast shadows across his face, highlighting the strong line of his jaw.
The wheel begins to turn, lifting us slowly into the night sky. The sounds of the carnival fade as we ascend, replaced by the gentle creaking of the ride and the distant buzz of the crowd.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, looking out at the distant city lights.
“It is,” he says, but he’s looking at me.
I turn to him, catching him staring, and smile a slow, knowing smile. “The view’s not bad from here either.”
We reach the top, and the ride pauses, leaving us suspended between sky and earth. Stars twinkle above us, impossibly bright despite the city lights below. The moment feels frozen in time, heightened and surreal.
Hayes lifts his hand to my face, his fingers gentle as they brush a strand of hair from my cheek. “I’ve been wanting to do this again since St. Sebastian,” he whispers.
“Me too,” I breathe.
He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to. I don’t. Instead, I meet him halfway, my eyes fluttering closed as our lips touch.
The kiss is gentle at first—a question, an exploration. His hand slides to the nape of my neck, pulling me closer as the kiss deepens. My fingers tangle in his hair, soft and thick between my knuckles. He tastes like sugar and possibility.
This kiss is different from our beach encounter—less frantic, more deliberate. That night was heat and impulse; this is connection and intention. His thumb traces my jawline as his tongue teases mine, and I press closer, wanting to dissolve the space between us.
The Ferris wheel remains paused at the top, as if giving us this moment outside of time. Hayes pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against mine, both of us breathing harder than before.
“I need much more of that,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, unable to form a more coherent response.
He smiles, then kisses me again—a softer, sweeter press of lips. When we separate this time, the wheel jerks back into motion, continuing its circular journey back to earth.
“For the record,” Hayes says as we descend, his hand finding mine in the darkness, “that was even better than I remembered.”
I squeeze his fingers, warmth spreading through me despite the cool night air. “For the record, I agree.”
As we approach the ground, reality begins to seep back in. The cameras are waiting. The other women will be waiting. The competition will continue. But for now, the warmth of Hayes’s hand in mine feels like something true. Something real. Something worth fighting nineteen other women for.