Chapter 6
Harley
Freedom tastes like coffee and smells like cinnamon rolls.
The moment I push through the door of Brewed Awakening, the weight of the Thompson mansion slides off my shoulders like water.
Three days of perfect posture, perfect smiles, perfectly arranged fruit plates for breakfast. Three days of Elaine’s subtle corrections and Robert’s dismissive glances.
Three days of watching the man I love dissolve into the obedient son I barely recognize.
But here, surrounded by eclectic furniture and the hiss of espresso machines, I can breathe again.
Lily spots me before I see her, her arm waving wildly from the corner table she’s claimed. My sister, with her purple-streaked hair and excessive jewelry, stands out in this crowd of morning commuters like a peacock. I love her for it.
“Over here!” she calls, loud enough to turn heads. Lily’s never understood the concept of an indoor voice, and right now, her shameless volume is exactly what I need after a week of whispered conversations and awkward silences.
I order my usual—double shot vanilla latte with an extra espresso shot—and make my way through the maze of tables.
This place couldn’t be more different from the Thompson dining room if it tried.
Bright colored mugs instead of bone china.
Dog-eared books on shelves instead of first-edition classics no one reads.
People who laugh without covering their mouths.
It reminds me of a sitcom coffee shop—like in Boy Meets World or Sabrina.
“You look like hell,” Lily says by way of greeting. “Tell me everything.”
I collapse into the chair across from her, clutching my mug like it’s a life preserver. “Where do I even start?”
“With whatever made those circles under your eyes.” Lily leans forward, elbows on the table—a posture that would give Mrs. Thompson heart palpitations.
“His mom reorganized my clothes.” The words tumble out before I can arrange them into something that sounds less petty. “Twice.”
“She what?”
“I came back from work on Tuesday, and all my sweaters—the same ones I’d already organized—had been refolded and arranged by color and occasion. In the dresser drawers. In the guest room. Where I’m staying.” Each fragment punctuates my mounting frustration.
Lily’s eyes widen. “She went through your things?”
“Oh, it gets better.” I take a scalding sip of coffee, welcoming the burn. “Yesterday, I discovered she’d ‘tidied’ my toiletries in the bathroom. Apparently, my face wash was ‘cluttering’ the counter. It’s now hidden behind a decorative seashell display in the cabinet.”
“That’s a violation of—”
“And this morning? My favorite mug—the one Dad got me when I passed my certification—was pushed to the back of the highest shelf. When I asked about it, Elaine said, ‘Oh, I thought that was part of the everyday set. The good mugs are in the front.’”
Lily’s expression darkens. “The good mugs. As if anything you own isn’t good enough for their precious lips.”
“It’s not just the stuff.” I lean closer, lowering my voice, even though there’s no one from Lake Forest within miles.
“It’s how Robert talks around me, like I’m not even there.
Last night at dinner, he asked Skyler—and I quote—‘Is Harley planning to use the kitchen tomorrow? Marta needs to know if she should prepare all meals or leave ingredients for . . . whatever it is she makes.’”
“Whatever it is she makes?” Lily repeats, incredulous. “Like you’re some kind of feral creature who might whip up roadkill stew?”
“Exactly.” The validation feels good, even if it solves nothing. “And when I answered, because I was sitting right there, he just nodded at Skyler, as if waiting for the official translation. Like I don’t have the ability to speak proper English.”
Lily’s face contorts through several emotions—outrage, disbelief, anger—before settling on concern. “What does Skyler do when this happens?”
The question I’ve been dreading. The real reason my eyes have dark circles and my jaw aches from clenching at night.
I stare into my coffee, searching for an answer that won’t sound as pathetic as the truth. “He tries to smooth things over by trying, but he gives up so easily.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he nods along. Changes the subject. Suggests we move on to dessert.” The words taste bitter. “Yesterday, when Elaine commented that my skirt was ‘brave for a professional environment,’ he complimented her new kitchen flooring.”
Lily’s silence speaks volumes.
“It’s not entirely his fault,” I hear myself say, the defense automatic, even as part of me resents needing to make it. “He’s trying to keep the peace until we can move back home. Two months isn’t that long.”
“Two months is forever when you’re being treated like an unwelcome interloper.” Lily tears her napkin into methodical strips. “And Skyler’s supposed to be your partner, not a UN peacekeeper.”
“He’s caught in the middle.” The excuse sounds weak even to my ears.
“No, Harley. He’s not in the middle because there is no middle. There’s your side, and there’s theirs, and right now, he’s standing firmly with Team Thompson.” Lily’s bluntness is both her greatest flaw and finest quality. I love her. “Has he even once told them to back off?”
I think of all Skyler’s apologies in the hallway. All his promises to do better tomorrow. All the tomorrows that have come and gone without change.
“He says he will.” It’s not really an answer.
Lily’s eyes soften with pity. “Harley.”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s complicated. You don’t know what it’s like to grow up with parents like that. They’ve spent thirty years training him to avoid conflict.”
“And you’ve spent three years loving him in spite of it. But that doesn’t make it okay.”
She’s right, of course. But admitting it feels like betrayal. Of Skyler. Of us. Of the future I still believe we can have once we’re back in our own space, away from the Thompson influence.
“It’s just temporary,” I insist, though the words sound hollow. “Once we’re married, once we’re back in our own place—”
“You think a wedding ring is going to magically give him a backbone?” Lily’s question isn’t cruel, just painfully direct. “Marriage doesn’t fix these things, Harl. It cements them.”
She’s right, but I keep going back to how things were before, back when we visited his parents sparingly. Skyler is amazing and supportive and exactly who I want to marry.
I watch a barista create a perfect leaf design in someone’s latte. The precision of her movements, the confidence in her craft. I wonder what it feels like to be so certain of your next move.
“He loves me,” I say finally. “I know he does.”
“I don’t doubt that.” Lily reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers. “But sometimes love isn’t enough on its own. It needs other things to survive. Like courage. And boundaries.”
The café around us continues its morning—orders called, drinks made, conversations flowing. Normal life happening all around my frozen moment of clarity.
“What should I do?” I ask, needing support.
Lily’s eyes narrow as she studies my face. Whatever she sees there must concern her, because her expression shifts from frustration to something gentler.
“I don’t know, Harley. But I do know you can’t keep absorbing all this Thompson bullshit while Skyler stands by and watches. That’s not a marriage.”
A sharp laugh. Leave it to Lily to cut through the politeness and name exactly what this feels like.
“This is exactly what happened with Amanda,” she says, each word deliberate, measured, like she’s placing stones in a line I can’t cross. “Exactly, Harley.”
Amanda. Of course. The perfect ex-fiancée whose ghost haunts every corner of the Thompson estate. Whose name drops from Elaine’s lips at least once per meal. Whose framed photo I found tucked in a desk drawer in Skyler’s childhood room.
“That’s not fair,” I say, though part of me wonders if it is. “Our relationship is nothing like theirs.”
“Isn’t it?” Lily’s eyebrows arch. “Let me refresh your memory. Skyler met Amanda through his parents’ country club.
They dated for two years and got engaged.
And throughout all of it, she gradually became the perfect Thompson daughter-in-law.
Started dressing like Elaine. Taking her charity recommendations.
Using ‘summer’ and ‘charity’ as a verb.”
I shift uncomfortably. “So? That was her choice.”
“Was it? Or was it the path of least resistance? The only way to exist in that family without being constantly corrected and criticized?” Lily taps her fingers against the table, a nervous habit from childhood.
“Amanda adapted and became what they wanted. And you know why Skyler finally broke things off?”
I do know. He’s told me the story—how he realized one day that Amanda had become a reflection of his mother rather than the woman he’d initially fallen for. How he couldn’t face a lifetime with someone who’d surrendered her identity so completely.
“He said she changed,” I answer, the irony not lost on me. “That she wasn’t herself anymore.”
“Exactly.” Lily snaps her fingers. “But who allowed that change? Who stood by while his parents shaped her into their ideal? Who never once told them to back off and let her be herself?”
The accusation hangs between us, sharp and undeniable.
“It’s different with me,” I insist, though my voice lacks conviction. “I’m not Amanda; I won’t let them change me. Plus, Skyler actually loves me.”
“That’s not the point, Harley.” Lily’s voice softens, but her eyes remain intense. “The point is that Skyler won’t stop them from trying. He didn’t then, and he isn’t now.”
I think of how Elaine commented that my professional blazer would look “so much more polished with a silk scarf, like Amanda always wears.” How Skyler just nodded, as if that were helpful fashion advice rather than a targeted comparison.
“It’s complicated with his family.”