29. Sailing On
Sailing On
HAYES
I ’m back in St. Sebastian, as it’s a paradise constructed for romance—crystal waters so clear you can count grains of sand twenty feet down and sunsets that bleed pink and gold across the horizon.
It should be perfect. I should be happy.
Like the day I took the moonlight walk with Brielle when we were both here months ago.
Instead, I’m a ghost, going through the motions while my mind keeps replaying one moment on an endless loop: Brielle’s face as I handed the final key to Luna.
The betrayal in her eyes. The tear I couldn’t stop from escaping.
The words I wasn’t supposed to say. I love you, but there were just too many things working against us.
Four days. It’s been four days since I sent Brielle home, and the wound somehow feels fresher.
The production team whisked us from Atlanta to this island paradise with barely time to breathe, let alone process.
It’s time for the fantasy suite dates with Serena, Annabelle, and Luna.
The overnight intimacy that makes viewers’ imaginations run wild while contestants dance around the did-they-or-didn’t-they speculation for years to come.
I adjust my linen shirt in the mirror of my beachfront villa. The producers have me in blue today “to match the ocean and your eyes,” the stylist said.
A knock at the door signals it’s time. I open it to find Tanya with a clipboard and an eager smile.
“Ready for your big date with Serena?” she chirps, checking something off her list.
“As I’ll ever be.” The enthusiasm in my voice non-existent.
“Great! Darren wants to remind you this is your first one-on-one with Serena, so really lean into the ‘why now’ conversation. It’s good tension.”
Good tension. Right. Because what makes great television is explaining to a beautiful woman why I’ve ignored her until there were only three contestants left.
The truth is that I was always compelled—or required—to pick someone else.
But at least I respect Serena—she’s smart and beautiful, and from what I’ve seen, loyal to a fault.
Even after the truth came out about Brielle and my prior meeting, Serena stepped forward with quiet support and a complete lack of drama that felt like oxygen in a room full of smoke.
But I can’t say that on camera. I can’t say anything real anymore.
“I’ve got some talking points prepared,” I assure Tanya, who nods and leads me toward the waiting golf cart.
The ride to the marina is brief, the island small enough that nothing is more than fifteen minutes away.
As we pull up to the dock, I spot Serena already waiting.
She’s stunning in a sundress the color of sunset, her brown skin glowing in the morning light, her hair wrapped up elegantly.
She smiles when she sees me, a genuine expression that reaches her eyes.
“Hayes,” she says warmly as I approach. No squeal, no running leap into my arms. Just my name.
“Serena.” I embrace her, allowing myself to enjoy the simple human connection. She smells like coconut oil and something floral—jasmine, maybe. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you. So do you. The blue brings out your eyes.”
We both laugh at the fact that I know she knows that was done on purpose. Being with her is nice. Comfortable, even. And that’s the problem. I’m supposed to be on fire, consumed with passion, unable to imagine my life without this woman.
I’m supposed to be with Brielle.
A producer signals us to move toward the yacht. It’s obscenely huge for just two people—a gleaming white monstrosity that probably burns enough fuel in an hour to power a small village for a week. A perfect Groomsman to Groom fantasy prop.
“Our chariot awaits.” I offer my arm.
Serena takes it, her touch light. “I’ve never been on a yacht before,” she says. “I’m a little nervous.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” The words come automatically, the practiced reassurance of a man who’s supposed to be in control. “It’ll be amazing.”
The yacht crew welcomes us aboard with champagne and platters of tropical fruit. Cameras swarm around us, capturing every moment, every expression. We toast to “new beginnings” and “taking chances,” the script so predictable I could recite it in my sleep.
As we set sail, the island grows smaller behind us, and an expanse of turquoise stretches before us.
It’s objectively breathtaking. Yet all I can think is how Brielle would’ve made some joke about feeling like we’re in a Caribbean tourism commercial, complete with fake accents and steel drum music.
Serena’s hand touching my arm pulls me back to the present.
“It’s stunning, isn’t it?” she says, her eyes on the horizon.
“It really is.”
We settle into cushioned seating at the bow, the wind tousling our hair as the yacht cuts through the water.
The first hour passes pleasantly enough.
We chat about her work as a chemist, her passion for space exploration, her close-knit family in Boston.
She’s intelligent, articulate, with a dry sense of humor that surfaces in unexpected moments.
In an alternate universe, I think we could have been great friends.
But then comes the inevitable question, right on cue.
“I’ve been wondering something,” Serena says, setting down her champagne flute. “Why now, Hayes?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, though I know exactly what she’s asking.
“This is our first one-on-one date, and we’re already at fantasy suites.” She doesn’t sound angry, just curious, analytical. “We’re down to the final three, and I’ve barely had any individual time with you. Yet here I am.”
The cameras zoom in, capturing what Darren will surely edit into a dramatic confrontation. But Serena’s tone remains even, her expression open. She’s not attacking, just seeking clarity.
“I think...” I pause, searching for words I prepared that won’t reveal too much.
“I think sometimes the quieter connections take longer to recognize. You were always there, always steady, while others were...” I wave my hand vaguely, “...more dramatic.” I sigh.
“But I’m here with you now, Serena. And I’m glad it’s you. ”
The words feel hollow even as I say them. Not because they’re untrue—I am glad for Serena’s company, her calm presence a balm to my guilt-ridden conscience—but because I’m not glad she’s here in the way I should be.
Serena accepts my response with a slight nod. “I’m glad too.”
The sun begins its descent, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Right on cue, a crew member approaches to inform us that dinner is being set up in the yacht’s dining room. This is it—the transition to the evening portion of our date, the prelude to the fantasy suite invitation.
The dining room is absurdly elegant, with crisp white linens, candles, and enough flowers to stock a small florist. Serena looks lovely in the soft lighting, her features refined and thoughtful.
As required, we eat our food quickly and without conversation while we’re not being filmed.
Then, with the cameras rolling, she sips wine as he talks about her research, the breakthrough her team is working on in sustainable plastics.
I tell her about August, about his latest obsession with building working robots from recycled electronics.
“He liked you,” I say, and at least, this is honest. August appreciated Serena’s intelligence, straightforward nature, and her lack of pretense.
But then I make the mistake of letting my gaze drift toward the shoreline in the distance.
Suddenly, I’m transported back to that moment—Brielle walking with me on that beach.
Her laughter, and how our conversation, easy, fun, natural.
Like we’d known each other our whole lives.
The connection that sparked instantly, undeniably, between us.
“Hayes?” Serena’s voice pulls me back. “Where did you go?”
“Sorry,” I shake my head. “Just thinking about August. Missing him.”
Another lie in a growing collection.
Tanya appears with the now-familiar envelope.
I open it, pretending to read the card inside as if I don’t already know exactly what it says.
“Serena,” I recite, looking up to meet her eyes.
“Should you choose to forgo your individual rooms, please use this opportunity to spend time together in our fantasy suite. With love, Skye.”
Skye, with her eccentric hair accessories and flowing caftans, would deliver this line with much more flair.
Serena’s expression remains composed, though I detect a flicker of something—nervousness? anticipation?—in her eyes. “I’d like that,” she says. “I think we have a lot to talk about. Without cameras.”
Relief floods me at her emphasis on talking. Not that Serena isn’t attractive—she absolutely is—but the thought of physical intimacy with anyone right now feels wrong.
We’re escorted to the yacht’s master suite, a space dominated by an enormous bed with what must be thousand-thread-count sheets.
Rose petals are scattered across the duvet, champagne chills in an ice bucket, and strategic lighting creates an atmosphere that screams “have sex here for America’s entertainment. ”
The cameras follow us in for the obligatory shots of us sitting on the bed, awkwardly aware of what the audience will assume happens next.
Serena and I exchange a few more platitudes about connections and being excited for uninterrupted time together.
I lean in for a kiss—gentle, respectful, utterly devoid of the fire I felt kissing Brielle.
Finally, the crew backs out, the producer giving us a wink and a thumbs-up before closing the door. And then, blissfully, we’re alone.
Serena immediately rises from the bed, kicking off her heels with a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. Those were killing me.”
“Goodbye mic packs.”
She reaches behind her to unhook the small device attached to her dress. “So,” she says, setting it on a side table. “Shall we talk honestly now?”