Chapter 3 #2
“Good, actually.” I curl into the corner of our sofa, seeking comfort in its familiar embrace. “But we have a situation.”
I explain the mold, the evacuation, and our desperate need for temporary housing. Maria listens without interrupting, making sympathetic noises in all the right places.
“Oh, honey, that’s awful,” she says when I finish. “Of course you can—” she stops abruptly, and I hear her muffled voice speaking to someone else. My heart sinks before she even returns to the line.
“Harley, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot, we’re in the middle of renovations ourselves. The contractor tore out the guest room walls yesterday. We’re down to one functioning bedroom and a kitchen full of drywall dust.”
I close my eyes. Of course. The renovation she mentioned last month, the one that would finally fix the water damage from last winter’s burst pipe. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
“It’s okay,” I say automatically, though nothing is okay right now. “I forgot about your remodel.”
“If it were just a few days, we could make the living room work, but it’ll take two months.”
“Really, it’s fine.” I force brightness into my tone. “We have other options.” A lie, but I can’t bear her feeling worse.
“What about Carol?” My unreliable mother. “Her place is bigger than the bookstore apartment.”
“Says she needs to cocoon with her new boyfriend.” I laugh, the sound hollow. “Apparently, her daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law are too big of an intrusion.”
“Lily? She has that futon.”
“In her studio apartment? With three roommates?” I shake my head, though she can’t see me. “We’d kill each other within days.”
Maria is quiet for a moment. “Hotel?”
“Looking at probably ten grand for two months, not counting food.” I glance at Skyler, who’s watching me with growing concern. “That’s our entire wedding budget and then some.”
“Oh, honey.” The sympathy in her voice makes my throat tighten. “Something will work out. It always does.”
We say our goodbyes with promises to update each other. When I hang up, the silence in our apartment feels oppressive.
“No luck?” Skyler asks, though the answer is obvious.
“Renovations.” I drop my phone on the coffee table. “The universe is laughing at us right now.”
Skyler sits beside me, his weight dipping the cushion so I lean slightly against him. “We have one option we haven’t discussed…”
I know what he’s going to say before the words leave his mouth. A cold dread settles in my stomach.
“My parents have plenty of room,” he continues, confirming my fear. “The guest wing hasn’t been used since Christmas.”
The guest wing. Not even a guest room. A wing. The Thompsons’ mansion in Lake Forest practically has its own zip code, with more bathrooms than I can count and a kitchen the size of my first apartment.
“Skyler…” I begin, but don’t know how to continue. How do I explain that I’d rather sleep in our mold-infested bathroom than spend two months under Elaine Thompson’s scrutiny?
“I know.” He takes my hand. “I know it’s not ideal.”
Not ideal. Such a polite way to describe two months of psychological warfare.
I remember the first time I met his mother at their annual Christmas party.
I’d spent hours choosing the perfect dress.
It was conservative enough for their crowd, but still flattering.
When Skyler introduced us, Elaine’s eyes traveled from my face to my shoes and back again, a journey of evaluation that left me feeling like a subpar product.
“How…unique,” she’d said about my dress, her smile never reaching her eyes. Then, when she spotted my engagement ring, her mouth puckered. “Oh, is that the ring? It’s quaint. Simple can be so refreshing these days when everyone’s obsessed with extravagance.”
The memory shifts to another—dinner at an upscale restaurant downtown, three months ago. Elaine asked about my career with the practiced interest of someone checking a social obligation box.
“Social work must be so fulfilling,” she’d said, swirling her wine with a curl of her lip.
“Though I imagine the pay is challenging. Robert and I support several charities for underprivileged children. Sometimes giving money is more effective than working it.” Then, like the afterthought it was, she smiled. “No offense, dear.”
The implication was clear: my career is a charity case, not a profession.
Then there was Robert discussing politics, two weeks later at a family dinner. When I offered a perspective on education funding based on my frontline experience with struggling families, he’d smiled thinly.
“That’s a compassionate view, Harley, but lacks economic understanding. These matters require a broader perspective than isolated cases.” He’d turned to Skyler, effectively dismissing me. “Son, the new Henderson project designs look promising. I’ve made some adjustment notes for you to review.”
The rest of the evening, I might as well have been invisible.
“Harley?” Skyler’s voice pulls me back to the present. “Where’d you go?”
“Just remembering the greatest hits of Thompson family gatherings.” I try to smile, but it feels brittle.
“It would only be temporary,” he promises, squeezing my hand. “Two months, then we’re back home. And I won’t let them treat you badly.”
The same promise he’s made before every family event, with varying degrees of success.
It’s not that Skyler doesn’t try, because he does.
But standing up to Robert and Elaine Thompson requires a backbone of steel, and with decades of conditioning kicking in, Skyler’s tends to soften in their presence.
“We don’t have much choice, do we?” I ask, though it’s not really a question.
“We could max out our credit cards for a hotel.” His tone tells me what he thinks of this option. “Empty our savings. But with the wedding coming up, it’ll be hard to swing.”
The wedding. Our carefully budgeted, modestly elegant wedding that’s already causing tension with his mother, who wanted something “befitting the Thompson name” at the Drake Hotel.
I look around our apartment. The thought of leaving it for the Thompson mansion makes my chest physically ache.
“It’s just a place to sleep,” I say finally, trying to convince myself. “We’ll both be working during the day. It’s temporary.”
Skyler’s relief is palpable. “I’ll call them right away.”
My fingers grip his a little too tightly, betraying my anxiety. “Maybe we should keep looking for alternatives?”
“Of course,” he says quickly. “But we need a backup plan for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Less than twenty-four hours until we’re homeless. The reality crashes over me again.
“Call them,” I whisper, releasing his hand. “Make the arrangements.”
As Skyler stands to make the call, I wrap my arms around myself, already feeling colder. Two months with Elaine and Robert Thompson. A twisted countdown to our wedding.
I’ve never been less eager to become a Thompson in my life.
Our bedroom is a disaster zone. Open suitcases gape from the floor, half-filled with clothes I’ve deemed “safe” from the bathroom’s toxic reach.
The contractor’s warnings echo in my head with every item I touch.
“Porous materials trap spores. Fabric absorbs them.” I hold up a sweater, trying to remember if it was hanging in the closed bedroom closet or draped over the bathroom door last week.
The line between contaminated and clean blurs with each passing minute.
“What about this one?” I ask, holding up a blue blouse I love but rarely wear. “It’s been in the back of the closet for months.”
Skyler looks up from his methodical packing. Unlike my scattered approach, he’s created a system. Clothes from closed drawers are in one pile, questionable items in another, definite contamination in a garbage bag by the door.
“Should be fine.” He nods, folding a dress shirt with the precision of someone who grew up with staff to do it for him. “Anything in sealed containers or closed closets far from the bathroom should be safe.”
I fold the blouse carefully, trying to imagine wearing it at the Thompson dinner table. Is it too casual? Too bright? Will Elaine make that face—the one where her mouth smiles while her eyes perform a dissection?
I set it aside and reach for something more conservative.
“What are you doing?” Skyler asks, watching me return the blue blouse to our closet.
“It’s not right for your parents’ house.”
His brow furrows. “Harl, you love that blouse.”
“It’s not appropriate.” I don’t meet his eyes. “Your mother would think it’s too informal.”
“You’re not dressing for my mother. Pack what you want to wear.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one who gets evaluated with every appearance. I return to the closet, pulling out neutral cardigans and modest blouses.
My hand brushes against something at the back of our closet.
The photo album my father made for my college graduation.
Leather-bound, filled with snapshots of my childhood, my mother before she left, family camping trips, prom night, college acceptance letter day—a time capsule of the Matthews family.
I pull it out, suddenly fearful. It’s been sitting on the closet floor, near the shared bathroom wall. I flip it open, examining the pages for any signs of mold or moisture.
“What’s that?” Skyler asks, moving beside me.
“My dad’s album.” My voice comes out smaller than intended. “The contractor said anything porous is contaminated.”
Understanding crosses his face. “Let me see?”
I hand it over reluctantly. Skyler examines the binding, the covers, while flipping through several pages.
“Seems dry,” he says finally. “No visible spots. And it was in a closed closet.”
Relief washes through me. “So it’s safe?”
“Should be.” He hesitates. “But maybe we should store it in a sealed plastic container, just to be sure. We can leave it with your dad for safekeeping.”