Chapter 2 #2
I could zoom in, examine their faces for signs of how they really feel about her now.
I could check who else liked these photos, map the social connections that once defined my world.
I could even—if I were feeling particularly masochistic—click on Amanda’s profile to see what else she’s been doing since we ended our engagement and I disappointed both sets of parents by failing to cement the merger of our family empires.
Instead, I deliberately scroll past. Three photos down is a post from a college classmate’s architecture firm in Seattle.
I like it without reading the caption. Five photos after that is someone’s new baby.
I type “Congratulations” and move on. All are normal, bland social interactions to cleanse the palette.
My phone buzzes with a text from Harley.
Contemplating faking my own death to avoid paperwork. Pros: no more forms to fill out. Cons: would miss you and Thai food. The verdict is still out.
I smile, feeling my shoulders relax.
If you fake your death, who will help me hide from my mother’s wedding planning calls? Selfish move, Matthews.
This is real and not at all the carefully posed photos from a life I never actually wanted. Not the path laid out for me by parents, who saw marriage as a business strategy. Just Harley, making me laugh between client meetings and case files.
I finish my sandwich, close the social media apps, and walk back to the office with determined steps. The Thompson Building looms ahead, glass and steel reaching toward the clouds like my father’s ambitions. I straighten my tie before entering, building my guard back up.
Angela intercepts me at the elevator. “He’s been looking for you,” she murmurs, falling into step beside me. “Three times in the last hour.”
“Any idea why?” I keep my voice neutral, though my stomach tightens.
“Something about the Henderson materials. He wasn’t pleased with your email response.”
Of course he wasn’t. Agreement without enthusiasm is still a form of defiance in Robert Thompson’s world.
“I have a client call at one-thirty,” I say, checking my watch. “Should run at least forty-five minutes.”
“I’ll let him know you’re unavailable until after two-fifteen.” Angela nods, already composing the email in her head. “The Walt team requested your input on their presentation draft. Conference Room B if you need somewhere to hide—I mean, work—afterward.”
“You’re getting a raise,” I tell her, only half-joking.
“You said that yesterday.” She adjusts her glasses. “Yet my bank account remains unchanged.”
“I promise you, Angela,” I say as the elevator doors open and I step inside. “A big fat one, just you wait and see.”
Back in my office, I dial into the client call two minutes early before opening the Henderson plans on my second monitor. When the client asks about the material upgrades, I present them as exciting enhancements rather than my father’s demands.
“We believe these alternatives better showcase the building’s architectural significance,” I say, the words smooth. “The additional cost is minimal, considering the dramatic improvement in aesthetic impact.”
They agree, of course—they always do. My father may be impossible, but his instincts for what impresses clients are rarely wrong, and that’s the most frustrating part.
His interference often improves the final product, even as it undermines my authority and vision.
And even if he’s an asshole when doing so.
Angela’s text arrives right on schedule. INCOMING. Elevator. Third floor.
I thank the clients, promise follow-up documents by tomorrow, log off, and grab my portfolio again. This time I make it to Conference Room B moments before I hear my father’s footsteps approach my office door.
Through the glass walls, I watch him pause, speak briefly to Angela, then check his watch with a frown before continuing down the hall toward his corner office.
I exhale slowly, nodding absently at whatever the Walt team is discussing. Another skirmish avoided in the endless war of passive resistance.
The afternoon continues this way. I extend meetings by asking thoughtful questions. I take the service elevator instead of the main one. I time my bathroom breaks for when I know he’s on scheduled calls.
By five o’clock, I’ve navigated the entire day without a single face-to-face interaction with my father, despite working in the same building, on the same projects, for the same company that bears our shared name.
I consider this a victory as I pack my laptop and the Henderson files into my briefcase fifteen minutes earlier than usual.
Angela gives me a knowing look as I pass her desk. “Escaping?”
“Yup. Mission accomplished.”
“Until tomorrow,” she says, her tone somewhere between sympathy and amusement.
“Until tomorrow,” I agree. “Like I said, big fat raise.”
She laughs.
The elevator carries me away from the Thompson legacy, if only temporarily. Outside, Chicago’s early evening light bathes the sidewalks in gold. I loosen my tie slightly, feeling the day’s tension begin to uncoil from my shoulders.
I didn’t argue with my father. I didn’t disappoint him to his face. I didn’t have to hear how my choices never quite measure up to Thompson standards.
Today is a good day.
The apartment door closes behind me, sealing off the rest of the world.
I breathe in the scent of home—Harley’s vanilla candle still lingering from yesterday, the faint trace of coffee from this morning, the absence of my father’s cologne.
Here, I love our mismatched furniture, Harley’s colorful throw pillows, and the wall of photos where we’re actually laughing.
I drop my keys into the ceramic bowl Harley made in that pottery class last winter. It’s lopsided and the glaze is uneven; my mother would call it “charmingly amateur” with that tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, but I call it perfect.
The Thai food I promised will have to wait. After a day of strategic retreats and calculated responses, I need to create something with my own hands.
I roll up my sleeves and open the refrigerator, surveying our options. Chicken breasts, green bell peppers, pre-diced onions, those mushrooms Harley loves. I pull them out, arranging the ingredients on the counter.
The knife feels right in my hand as I slice the chicken into thin strips.
My tie and jacket hang over a kitchen chair, my feet comfortable in worn socks against the hardwood floor.
With each cut, another layer of Thompson Architectural Group falls away.
Slice. There goes the Henderson material upgrades.
Chop. Avoiding my father. Mince. My mother’s unanswered calls.
I’m halfway through dicing onions when the knocking starts. I freeze, knife suspended over the cutting board. Only one person knocks that way, like they’re announcing themselves rather than requesting entry.
Through the peephole, I see exactly what I feared.
It’s Elaine Thompson, wearing a tailored navy suit, Hermès scarf draped just so, blonde hair not daring to move out of place, even in the hallway draft.
Her Chanel handbag hangs from the crook of her elbow as she checks her diamond-studded watch—a gift from my father on their thirtieth anniversary.
I step back from the door silently, holding my breath as though she might hear me through the solid wood. The knocking comes again, more insistent this time.
“Skyler? I know you’re in there. Your car is parked outside.” Her voice carries that particular blend of authority and disappointment that defined my childhood. “We need to discuss the guest list. Amanda’s parents are expecting an invitation.”
My jaw tightens. Amanda’s parents happen to be from the Davis family, whose commercial real estate holdings would complement the Thompson portfolio so nicely.
Plus, with Amanda’s law degree, the Davis’ and Thompsons’ would be unstoppable.
It was the merger that didn’t happen when I watched Amanda transform into everything I never wanted.
I reach for the stereo remote, turning up the volume on the jazz playlist Harley created for evenings like this. The music swells subtly, just enough to make it plausible that I can’t hear the knocking.
“Skyler Thompson. This is absolutely childish.” Another series of knocks, harder now. “The wedding is in four months. These decisions can’t wait because you’re being stubborn.”
Oh, decisions are being made, Mother. Just not with you.
I resume chopping, perhaps with more force than the onions deserve. Chop. Amanda’s parents aren’t coming to my wedding. Slice. The guest list isn’t a business opportunity. Dice. This is my life, not a Thompson Enterprises networking event.
After five more minutes of intermittent knocking and increasingly clipped statements, Elaine’s heels click down the hallway toward the elevator. Only then do I fully exhale, shoulders dropping from their defensive position.
I know I’ll pay for this avoidance tomorrow with an early morning call, perhaps an “accidental” run-in at my favorite coffee shop, or worse, an appearance at the office, where I can’t escape without creating a scene. Angela, give me a Hail Mary. But tonight, in this apartment, I get to be Skyler.
The chicken sizzles when it hits the hot pan, filling the kitchen with the scent of olive oil and herbs.
I add vegetables in stages. Red peppers.
Onions. Mushrooms. A splash of white wine from the bottle Harley and I opened yesterday.
The sauce reduces and thickens as jazz piano fills the apartment.
I’m plating the food when I hear Harley’s key in the lock. My body relaxes at the sound, tension I didn’t realize I was carrying melting away as Harley steps through the door, her arms full of case files and her hair escaping from what was probably a neat bun this morning.
“Something smells amazing,” she says, dropping her bag and files on the entry table. “Please tell me that’s not the Thai food, because it smells way too good to be takeout.”
Beaming at her compliment, I cross to her, taking the files from her arms and setting them aside before pulling her into a kiss. She tastes like coffee and smells like courthouse paper and that vanilla lotion she keeps in her desk drawer.
“Hey, babe,” I say, giving her a squeeze. “It’s chicken with mushrooms and white wine sauce. I figured we had all the ingredients, and I needed to cook something.”
She pulls back slightly, studying my face with those perceptive eyes that see more than I sometimes want them to. “Rough day with the dragon?”
“The usual. Plus, my mom tried to stop in.” I guide her to the kitchen table where our dinner waits. “Nothing a good meal and better company can’t fix.”
We settle into our chairs, knees touching beneath the small table. Harley takes a bite and closes her eyes in appreciation.
“God, this is good. When did you learn to cook like this?”
“My survival skills developed in college. Turns out ramen gets old fast.” I pour us each a glass of wine. “How was the rest of your day?”
And just like that, we slip into the comfortable rhythm that makes this apartment feel so loving.
Harley tells me about the judge who fell asleep during the opposing counsel’s argument, about her client’s tearful gratitude when custody was granted, about the mountain of paperwork still waiting.
I listen, asking questions, offering the occasional comment, but mostly just absorbing the animated way she talks with her hands when she’s passionate about something.
This is what conversations should feel like. There should be no hidden agendas. No careful monitoring of every word for potential weaknesses. No Thompson chess game, where each statement is a move toward some strategic advantage.
“Oh,” Harley says, reaching for her wineglass, “I noticed the tiles in the shower are starting to come loose. That one in the corner is definitely going to fall out soon.”
“I can fix that this weekend,” I offer, refilling her glass. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”
She laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “You’re an architect, not a construction worker. We can call someone.”
“Hey, I know my way around a tile saw.” I feign offense, hand over my heart.
“My grandfather taught me basic repairs before I could drive. He said, even if I was going to design buildings, I should know how they’re actually put together.
” I smile, feeling lighter than I have all day.
“Gotta hold a bit of blue-collar in my white-collar heritage.”
Here, with Harley, I’m allowed to be the person who exists between worlds—the architect who knows how to sweat over manual labor, the Thompson heir who values a lopsided pottery bowl, the man who chose love over family expectations.
Harley reaches across the table, her fingers intertwining with mine. “I like that about you, you know. That you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty.”
If only she knew how careful I am to keep my hands clean at work, how I avoid conflict rather than standing firm. But tonight isn’t for those truths. Tonight is for the home we’ve built, and this small space where Thompson expectations can’t reach us.
At least until tomorrow, when the dance begins all over again.