Chapter 7
Harley
The oak-lined streets of Lake Forest feel alien as I walk slowly, each deliberate step an act of postponement against returning to Thompson territory.
I had to get out of there after the “charity” meeting.
The mansion looms, not like a house, but like a museum exhibit. A place where I’ll never relax.
Lily’s words tumble in my mind, sharp-edged and deeply uncomfortable. Is she right? Is Skyler repeating a pattern I am too much in love to recognize? I need a second opinion.
I pull out my phone, scrolling past Skyler’s missed texts to find the number I need. Dad answers on the second ring, his familiar, gruff voice instantly grounding me.
“There’s my girl.” His tone, solid and familiar as worn leather, flows through the phone. “Caught you on your dinner break?”
“Sort of.” I move off the sidewalk to let a jogger pass. “I had coffee with Lily earlier.”
“Ah.” That single syllable holds volumes of understanding. “And how is Hurricane Lily today? Still thinking she should dye her hair green to complete her look?”
“It’s purple now. And she’s…” I hesitate, unsure how to describe my sister’s warnings without sounding like I’m complaining about Skyler. “She’s concerned…about me. About us.”
Dad’s silence is comforting. He isn’t waiting for his turn to speak; he’s actively listening.
“The Thompsons are suffocating me,” I admit. “Elaine keeps ‘organizing’ my things without permission. Robert talks around me like I’m invisible. And Skyler…” My voice catches. “Skyler tries to help, but he leaves too soon.”
I wait for his immediate reassurance or defense, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the silence stretches, familiar and patient, giving me the space I desperately need.
“Lily thinks it’s a pattern. That Skyler did the same thing with Amanda. That he let his parents mold her into what they wanted until she wasn’t herself anymore. She thinks I’m headed down the same path.”
“And what do you think?” Dad finally asks.
“I think…” I close my eyes, leaning against the maple’s rough bark. “I think I love him. And I think his parents are making me question whether that’s enough.”
Dad sighs, the sound familiar from a thousand childhood conversations about difficult truths. “Standing your ground doesn’t mean starting a war, sweetheart. Remember, these people will eventually be family.”
It isn’t the blanket validation I expected, but still valuable.
“So I should just let them walk all over me? Let Elaine rearrange my life while Robert pretends I don’t exist?” The edge in my voice is sharp and unconcealed.
“No, not at all.” His tone remains measured, steady. “But there’s a difference between defending your boundaries and turning every interaction into a battlefield. One preserves your dignity; the other just exhausts you.”
I consider this, watching a cardinal land on a nearby fence. Its vivid red feathers stand out starkly against the pristine white paint—a bright disruption in Lake Forest’s carefully controlled color palette. I feel a kinship with its boldness.
“Elaine moved my coffee mug again this morning,” I say, the petty complaint slipping out. “Said it ‘belonged with the everyday set’ and not with the ‘good china.’ Dad, it’s the mug you gave me—the one with my certification logo.”
“Hmm.” I can picture him rubbing his chin, the familiar gesture of deep thought. “And what would happen if you just kept putting it back where you want it? Without comment. Without explanation. Just quietly reclaiming your space.”
The simplicity of the suggestion is startling. Not confrontation, not surrender. Just a silent, unwavering insistence on my right to exist on my own terms.
“It’s not my house. I’m only a guest. And I don’t want to make things harder for Skyler,” I say, the real fear finally emerging.
“Did he try to help when this happened?” Dad asks, the question gentle but direct.
“Yes, he did.” I nod, recalling his quick defense with his hand on my shoulder. “But he leaves too soon. He’ll make a supportive statement, then immediately change the subject or remember a meeting, giving up the fight before it even starts.”
“Only because he’s choosing to stand in the middle, honey.” Dad’s voice softens. “Have you told him exactly how this is affecting you? Not in the heat of the moment, but in a real conversation?”
I think of our whispered exchanges in the hallways, the strained conversations in separate bedrooms. How much have I actually said, and how much have I swallowed to maintain a brittle peace?
“Not clearly enough, I guess.”
“Then start there.” Dad sounds certain, clear on the path forward. “Skyler loves you—I’ve seen it in how he looks at you—but he’s spent thirty years learning how to navigate his parents’ expectations. He might need help to see them through your eyes.”
A young couple walks past, hands intertwined, laughing about something private. I watch them, wondering if they have any idea how complicated love becomes when it collides with family expectations and long-established patterns.
“You’re stronger than you think, Harl,” Dad continues, filling my silence. “That’s always been true. You bend, but you don’t break.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I straighten my shoulders, feeling some of the weight lift. “I needed that perspective.”
“Anytime, kiddo. That’s what dads are for.” His voice shifts slightly. “Maria wants me to remind you about dinner this weekend. Says she’s making your favorite lasagna.”
Right, dinner. The sheer normalcy of the invitation—home-cooked food in a house where no one judges my mug placement—nearly breaks my composure. “Tell her I wouldn’t miss it. We’ll be there.”
We say our goodbyes and promise to talk again soon. As I slip the phone back into my pocket, I realize I’ve walked all the way to the corner of the Thompsons’ street. The mansion looms in the near distance, less intimidating now that I’ve armed myself with Dad’s steady wisdom.
I watch the young couple cross the street, still hand-in-hand, completely absorbed in each other. They make it look so simple. Maybe it never is, but maybe it doesn’t have to be as difficult as I am currently allowing.
I square my shoulders and resume walking, my steps purposeful now. I won’t declare war on the Thompsons, but I won’t surrender my identity to keep the peace, either. I will find the middle path—maintaining my boundaries with quiet determination while helping Skyler find his voice with his family.
And maybe we will emerge from these two months stronger than before. A team, not despite the Thompson influence, but because we learned how to withstand it together.
I reach the wrought-iron gates that mark Thompson territory and punch in the code Skyler gave me. As they swing open, I make a promise to myself: This house will not define me. This family will not diminish me. And the man I love will either stand with me or watch me stand alone.
Either way, I’ll remain Harley Matthews—coffee mug and all.