23. Heartbreak Home
Heartbreak Home
HAYES
T he Atlanta suburbs blur past the tinted windows of the production SUV—manicured lawns, cookie-cutter houses with individual touches, street signs pointing to lives I’ll never know.
I’d usually be cataloging these details with my photographer’s eye, but all I can focus on is the knot in my stomach that’s been growing since we left Pamplona.
Hometown visits. The phrase alone makes my palms sweat.
I’ve been on here before—Sarah’s parents sizing me up over dinner, questions about my career prospects, my five-year plan—but never with cameras documenting every flinch, never with three other women still in the running, never after the spectacular implosion of trust that happened in Spain.
“Five minutes to location.” The driver’s tone is professionally detached.
I nod though he can’t see me through the privacy partition.
Five minutes until I see Brielle again. Five minutes until I have to face the woman I’ve been avoiding since Luna’s revelation, the woman who somehow still managed to earn a key at the ceremony—partly because I couldn’t imagine going to Gabby’s hometown and trying to pretend we had a future, and partly because despite everything, I couldn’t imagine continuing this journey without her.
Serena’s hometown was yesterday in Boston, which went well with her family who hosted me for dinner and a Red Sox game.
Luna’s was the day before in Miami where we all had a great day on the beach.
Annabelle’s was two days before that in Greenville, and her family’s pecan farm was incredible.
They were all so warm and kind, just like Annabelle.
The final women, all with their own unique connection to me, all deserving of my full attention and consideration.
And yet, it’s this visit—this woman—who has my heart racing like I’m back on that Spanish balcony, preparing to leap.
The SUV slows as we turn onto a tree-lined street. Through the windows, I catch glimpses of a modest, well-kept neighborhood—not flashy, but comfortable. The kind of place where people know their neighbors’ names and borrow cups of sugar. It fits what I know of Brielle, somehow.
“We’re here.” The driver pulls up to a small park near her sister’s house. That was the arrangement—meet at the park first, private conversation before the family introduction, then the main event at her sister Paisley’s home.
And there she is.
Brielle sits on a bench beneath a sprawling oak tree.
She’s still got the bandage on, and she’s wearing jeans and a simple emerald blouse that brings out hints of green in her dark eyes.
Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the Georgia sunlight.
She looks up as the SUV approaches and stands.
Even from this distance, I can see the tension in her posture, the careful construction of her expression.
The cameras are already in position—one crew with her, another with me. The artifice of this moment strikes me anew: our “reunion” carefully staged for maximum emotional impact, our private conversation to be witnessed by millions.
I step out of the vehicle, adjusting my light jacket. The Georgia heat is substantial, but bearable. Like everything else about this situation, I suppose.
“Hayes,” she says as I approach, her voice not cold, not warm. Waiting to take her cue from me.
“Brielle,” I reply, leaning in for the obligatory greeting hug, careful not to touch her arm. She smells something floral and mango—familiar, yet somehow new again after these days of distance.
We make our way to a more secluded part of the park, a small gazebo that production has scouted as appropriately photogenic. The camera crew follows at a practiced distance—close enough to capture everything, far enough to maintain the illusion of privacy.
“So,” I begin once we’re seated, “Atlanta. Your hometown.”
“Not exactly,” she says. “I grew up everywhere. Nine schools, remember? But Paisley settled here after college, and since our mom died, she’s my only real family. This is home base now.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I can’t believe I’d slipped and said that. Things have gotten so confusing with the different women. I can feel the camera operators leaning in slightly, sensing the tension, hoping for the breakthrough moment their editors will splice into dramatic promos.
“Brielle,” I finally say, deciding to address the elephant in the gazebo, “I need to ask you something.”
She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “Okay.”
“Is it true? About you and Seth?” The question comes out more bluntly than I intended, my carefully rehearsed phrasing abandoned in the face of her nearness. I hate that the cameras are recording this.
Her expression shifts from tension to genuine confusion, then to something approaching anger. “Seth? The assistant producer? What?”
“Luna told me she saw you with him.” I watch her reaction carefully. “She said you were meeting him about his screenplay, but that she caught you kissing in the garden the morning of the third key ceremony.”
Brielle’s laugh is short and incredulous. “Wow. Just... wow. That’s what you’ve been believing all since your date with Luna? That’s why you’ve been treating me like I’m radioactive?”
“Is it true?” I repeat, needing to hear it directly from her.
“No,” she says harshly, meeting my eyes with unflinching directness. “Absolutely not. I had exactly three conversations with Seth during this entire process, and it was about his screenplay. When I gave him my edits, he was so happy he hugged me. He felt like I gave his career a real chance.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your meetings with him?”
“Because it was so meaningless, I didn’t want to take up precious conversation time with you discussing it. I was helping out someone who desperately needed it, something I’ve made a vow to do since I’ve been lucky enough to have some success.”
Relief floods through me, though I’m careful not to show it too plainly. “Why would Luna say that?”
“Because she saw the hug and mistook it for more? But bigger than that, you should be asking yourself why she was following me around.” Brielle’s tone makes it clear she thinks the answer should be obvious.
“Who does that? Not someone I’d want to be with.
But she knew there was something real between us, so she had to go out of her way to make you doubt my integrity. ”
Put that way, it makes perfect sense. The timing, the specific details designed to hit my insecurities about being used for career advancement, the way it played into existing tensions about our Spain connection—Luna engineered the perfect storm of doubt.
“I’m so sorry, Brielle,” I tell her, the weight of a week’s worth of confusion finally lifting. “I tried to talk to you at the cocktail party about it, but Luna interrupted.”
“I get that. She’s not been honest about other things.
” She raises a brow, and I get the message loud and clear.
Luna was the one who lied about sleeping with me.
Before I can say anything, she continues, “I know she interrupted for a reason, and your hands were tied,” she says, letting me off easily.
Or so I think. She continues, “But that’s not the part that bothers me. ”
I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
“The double standard.” Her eyes flash with anger.
“Let’s say, hypothetically, that I had kissed Seth.
Why would that be such a betrayal? You’ve been kissing multiple women for weeks—that’s literally the premise of the show.
But I’m supposed to exist in some kind of romantic vacuum when the cameras aren’t rolling? ”
Her point hits me like a bucket of ice water.
She’s absolutely right. The entire construct of the show creates a fundamental imbalance—I’m encouraged to explore connections with multiple women simultaneously, while they’re expected to focus exclusively on me, despite having no guarantee of reciprocation.
“You’re right,” I say, humbled. “It’s completely hypocritical. The whole setup is.”
“It is,” she says, her expression softening. “Though for what it’s worth, I didn’t think about or kiss Seth. Or anyone else.”
Something in my chest unfurls at her words, a tension I didn’t realize I was carrying.
“I’m truly sorry. I let my insecurities get the best of me.
I let all this mess with my head, and I got scared.
So damn scared,” I blurt, the words slipping out.
“This past week, I’ve missed talking to you. Being with you.”
“I’ve missed you too,” she says, the admission clearly costing her something. “Even while I was reeling from the fact that you wouldn’t even look at me.”
“I was a bonehead.” And I should’ve never listened to Luna the Liar.
“Yes,” she agrees with a small smile, “you were. But I understand why. Trust doesn’t come easily when you’ve lost what you lost.”
Her insight, her empathy even in the face of my failure, reminds me why she’s captivated me from the beginning. This is what August saw during their chess match—her ability to see beyond surface behaviors to the deeper currents beneath.
“So, where does that leave us?” I say, aware of the cameras drinking in our reconciliation. “With Paisley waiting to meet me?”
“Exactly where we’ve been all along,” Brielle says pragmatically. “In the middle of a reality show competition that pretends to compress something as complex as finding love into a few weeks of orchestrated dates. The only difference is, now we’re both being honest about what we’re feeling.”
“And what are you feeling?” I need to hear it explicitly.
She considers the question, her writer’s precision with words evident in her careful response.
“I’m feeling like, despite all the absurdity of this situation, despite the cameras and the competition and the contractual obligations, I’ve found someone who sees me.
Really sees me. And I can’t walk away from that. Not yet, anyway.”