Chapter 4
Skyler
My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel, the leather warm beneath my fingers.
Rain taps against the windshield, a steady rhythm matching the pounding in my chest. Beside me, Harley stares out the passenger window, her reflection ghostlike against the darkening landscape.
I’ve driven this route to my parents’ place countless times, but never with this weight pressing down on my shoulders.
Two months. We just need to survive two months in my childhood home, with my parents, with their expectations and judgments and subtle disapproval of the woman I love.
I can protect her this time. I will protect her.
I’m not the boy who let my father talk me out of my own dreams anymore.
I’m a man who chose his wife, a man with a ring on his finger and a life built on his own terms. That has to count for something.
Before, I was just a son seeking approval; now, I’ve got my own life and ambitions.
I’ll be the buffer. I’ll filter my mother’s barbs and manage my father’s silence before it ever reaches Harley.
As long as I stay between them—as long as I’m the one navigating the conversation—the poison won’t touch her.
I only have to be the diplomat we need to keep the peace.
I rehearse the words in my head again, the speech I’ve been crafting since we packed our bags. Mother, Father, I need to make something clear. Harley is going to be my wife. Your comments and insinuations stop now. We’re grateful for your hospitality, but not at the expense of our dignity.
Strong words. Clear boundaries. The kind of statement a man makes when defending the woman he loves.
But will they actually leave my mouth when the moment comes?
I reach over, covering her hand with mine. “You okay?”
Harley turns to me, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Tired. It’s been a day.”
A day. Such a simple word.
The windshield wipers squeak across the glass, dragging me back to a memory I’ve tried to forget. Eleven years old, standing in my father’s study with my report card clutched in trembling hands. Five A’s and one B+. Just one grade short of pure perfection.
“A B+ in algebra?” My father’s voice wasn’t raised, but then, Robert Thompson never shouted. His disappointment came in tones that cut deeper than any shout. He said it in that condescending way of his. “Thompson men excel, Skyler. We don’t accept mediocrity.”
“I tried my best,” I whispered.
He set the report card on his mahogany desk. “Clearly not.”
My mother stood beside him, her pearl necklace catching the light. “Perhaps we should hire a tutor. The Peterson boy has one, and he’s at the top of his class.”
I nodded, eager for any solution that would soften the disappointment in their eyes.
The next term I brought home straight A’s. Only then did I receive what I craved—my father’s hand on my shoulder, my mother’s warm smile, the rare words of praise that I collected like precious stones. Steven was never like that. If he disappointed our parents, it only made him pull away harder.
“Sky?” Harley’s voice pulls me back. Her hand rests gently on my arm.
I force my fingers to relax, flex them against the leather. “Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About your parents?”
“No, about us.” I reach for her hand, entwining our fingers. Her skin is warm, anchoring me to the present. “I’m sorry. This isn’t how I wanted to bring you into my family home.”
Harley deserves better than being dependent on people who’ve made their disapproval clear from day one. Obviously, she’s met them before, but she never spent a lot of time with them.
“It’s just temporary,” she says.
Her optimism is enduring. A few months ago, I tried to stand up to my parents at Sunday dinner. Their comments about our “modest” wedding plans had finally pushed me too far.
“Actually, we’re quite happy with our venue choice.” My voice had been firm, surprising even myself. “Not everything needs to be at the Drake Hotel.”
My mother’s face fell instantly, her hand fluttering to her throat, where those ever-present pearls rested.
“I see. I’m only trying to help, Skyler.
I thought with your position at the firm, you’d want something more befitting of your status.
” Her eyes had grown shiny with unshed tears.
“But if you’d rather I stay out of it entirely . . .”
“That’s not what I meant,” I’d backpedaled immediately, the sight of her hurt expression unraveling my resolve. “Your input is valuable. We’re just trying to stay within our budget.”
“Budget.” My father had practically spat the word. “Thompson weddings aren’t constrained by budgets. Budgets are for half-done jobs.”
By dessert, I’d apologized three times and agreed to consider their suggestions. Harley had been silent the entire ride home.
The memory twists in my stomach. Another failure to stand my ground.
The landscape transforms as we approach Lake Forest, urban sprawl giving way to carefully manicured estates hidden behind wrought-iron gates and privacy hedges.
My parents’ house—mansion, really—sits at the end of a winding driveway lined with oak trees I used to climb as a child, before I learned that Thompson boys don’t scale trees. Too much sap.
“Almost there,” I say unnecessarily, feeling Harley tense beside me.
The gates swing open automatically—my father’s security system recognizes my car. Fancy stuff. The driveway stretches before us like a judgment.
“It’ll be different this time,” I promise, more to myself than to her. “I won’t let them make you feel unwelcome.”
Harley says nothing, but the implication is there.
The house appears around the final curve, stone and glass and history looming against the bruised sky. Three stories of Thompson legacy, windows glowing with warm light that never quite reached the rooms inside. My chest tightens as I pull up to the circular driveway.
I will not bend this time. I will not retreat into the dutiful son role at the first sign of disapproval.
I can do this.
Before I can put the car into park, the massive front door swings open. My mother emerges, elegant in gray wool and those damn pearls, my father stern behind her.
“Deep breath,” I murmur before turning off the engine.
We step out into the light rain, and I move to Harley’s side of the car, placing my hand protectively at the small of her back. A potent statement. She is with me, and we are a unit.
“Skyler, darling!” My mother’s voice carries across the driveway as she descends the steps, arms outstretched, smile perfectly painted on.
She embraces me, the familiar scent of Chanel No.
5 enveloping me for a moment before she pulls back to examine my face.
“You look tired, dear. This dreadful situation with your apartment must be so stressful.”
“Hello, Mother.” I step back slightly, moving closer to Harley. “Thank you again for letting us stay.”
“Of course.” Her eyes shift to Harley, performing that familiar head-to-toe assessment that never fails to make my stomach clench. “Hello, Harley. I trust packing wasn’t too arduous. I imagine it was difficult deciding what was worth salvaging, given the dampness.” Her upper lip curls.
There it is. The first dig, wrapped in a velvet glove of concern.
Harley’s lips part, but no sound comes out. I step in, cutting off the silence before it can stretch. “We brought everything we need.”
“Regardless, you won’t mind if the staff fumigates the bags. We simply cannot risk spores in the house.”
My father steps forward, extending his hand to me. “Son.” A nod to Harley. “Ms. Matthews.”
“Thank you for having us, Mr. Thompson,” Harley says, her voice steady despite the tension I feel radiating from her body.
“Yes, well,” my mother says with a thin smile, “what an unfortunate circumstance. I always said those older buildings in the city were problematic. Mold in the walls—how distressing. And so close to the wedding.” She clicks her tongue. “One has to wonder if it’s some sort of sign.”
My prepared speech rises in my throat. The words I’ve rehearsed since we left our apartment. My chance to set the tone moving forward.
But my throat tightens. The rain suddenly seems louder. My mother’s expectant gaze holds me in place as surely as if she’d tied me down.
“Let’s get inside,” I say instead, hating myself for the sudden retreat. “It’s starting to rain harder.”
Harley’s eyes meet mine for a brief moment. She understands what just happened, and more importantly, what didn’t happen. One for two.
My father gestures toward the house. “Morris will bring in your bags after fumigation.”
As we walk up the steps, my mother’s arm linked through mine, pulling me slightly ahead of Harley, I make another silent promise to myself.
Tomorrow. I’ll be stronger tomorrow.
But the familiar weight of the Thompson threshold beneath my feet whispers that some promises are made to be broken.
Inside, the Thompson dining room stretches before us like a museum exhibit.
“American wealth, late 20th century.” Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across the twenty-foot mahogany table where my ancestors glare down from gold-framed portraits, judging our posture, our conversation, our worthiness to carry their name.
I pull out Harley’s chair, positioning her between my mother and me, a buffer I already know will prove completely inadequate.
Father takes his usual place at the head of the table, already reaching for the wine decanter—a Bordeaux, no doubt, selected to impress rather than complement the meal.
“Skyler, darling, tell us more about this mold situation.” Mother arranges her napkin on her lap, her movements practiced and elegant. “It sounds absolutely dreadful. How did your building management allow such a thing?”
I clear my throat, reaching for the water glass. “It was a pipe leak in the unit above ours. Went undetected for months.”