Chapter 9
Skyler
The afternoon drags after Mother’s call. I stare at the same blueprint section for twenty minutes, absorbing nothing. My coffee’s gone cold, a fitting metaphor for my cooling courage. I push back from my desk, mug in hand, needing caffeine like oxygen.
The break room sits at the far end of the floor. A journey past twenty desks of colleagues who have no idea that I just sacrificed my fiancée’s wedding dreams on the altar of maternal approval. Again.
The office hums with productivity about zoning regulations and material costs. I envy their focus, their ability to exist in a world where family names don’t come with century-old expectations.
When I reach the break room, I find James Holloway at the coffee machine, watching the dark stream fill his “World’s Okayest Architect” mug—a gift from his wife that he displays with unself-conscious pride.
The sight of something so personal, so authentic in its humor, makes my chest ache with a feeling I can’t quite name.
“Thompson.” James nods, his casual greeting free of the weight my surname carries. “You look like you need this more than I do.” He steps aside, gesturing to the coffee machine.
“That obvious?” I force a smile, stepping up to rinse my mug.
“You’ve got that ‘just got off the phone with a difficult client’ look,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Henderson giving you trouble about the atrium again?”
If only it were that simple. Client problems have solutions…Mother problems just have surrender.
“Nothing that dramatic,” I lie, filling my mug. “Just wedding details piling up.”
James nods sympathetically. “Oh, the joy of planning. Christine nearly lost it over napkin colors. Who knew there were several shades of ivory?”
I attempt a laugh, but it sounds hollow, even to my ears.
“Speaking of fancy events,” James continues, stirring cream into his coffee. “I saw your ex at the Palmer charity gala this weekend. Amanda, right?”
My hand freezes mid-stir, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Amanda was at the Palmers’ gala?”
“Looking expensively heartbroken,” James confirms with a slight smirk. “That red dress probably cost more than my wedding budget.”
Amanda in red. I can picture the designer silk, the strategic cut that reveals while appearing conservative—Thompson-approved elegance.
“She asked about you,” James continues, oblivious to my discomfort. “Said she saw you at your parents’ house. Seemed pretty pleased about that, actually.”
“Amanda and I haven’t kept in touch,” I say, voice carefully neutral. “Client referrals, industry stuff, but nothing personal.”
“Right.” James’s tone suggests he doesn’t believe me. “How’s Harley handling the move to your parents’ place? Christine said it sounded like her worst nightmare.”
The abrupt subject change feels like whiplash. “She’s adjusting,” I manage, the inadequacy of the description painful. Harley isn’t adjusting; she’s enduring, surviving my parents’ subtle warfare and my own cowardice.
“Must be tough,” James says. “Your parents’ place is pretty intimidating. All those housekeepers and family portraits…”
“Staff,” I correct automatically, the Thompson conditioning impossible to override. “And it’s just temporary. Once the apartment’s remediated, we’ll be back to normal.”
Normal. As if “normal” exists anymore. As if there’s any going back after allowing my parents to systematically dismantle Harley’s wedding dreams while my ex-fiancée, whom they still adore, remains a constant presence.
“Hey, did you see the Richardson proposal went through?” James asks, mercifully changing the subject. “They’re looking for a lead architect. Might be right up your alley.”
We shift to work talk—safer territory, predictable currents I can navigate with professional competence, if not personal courage. But even as I discuss square footage and client expectations, part of my mind remains stuck on Amanda in red.
“Should get back to it,” James says finally, rinsing his mug. “Those models won’t render themselves. Tell Harley I said hey, and good luck with the wedding plans. Christine still has stress dreams about our centerpieces three years later.”
He claps me on the shoulder as he leaves, a casual gesture between colleagues.
Back at my desk, I stare at my phone, thumbs hovering over the screen. I should text Harley, tell her about Mother’s wedding intervention, ask about her day.
But the problem isn’t Harley’s day; the problem is my mother. I need context. I need to know if her behavior has always been this bad, or if my mother is escalating a decades-old campaign of control.
I close Harley’s contact and open a new message thread. Amanda.
The Thompson blueprints stare up at me accusingly, their clean lines and angles a contrast to the messiness of my personal integrity. I type quickly, a sudden, desperate urge for clarity overriding my usual caution.
Hey. I know this is random, but I need to ask you something. When we were engaged and planning the wedding, was my mother this relentless? Was she always trying to subtly take over every decision, or is this new?
I hit send, then immediately regret it.
The message reads as needy, inappropriate, and a blatant betrayal of Harley. The door I thought I’d shut on my past is now open, and I am the one standing on the threshold. I set my phone down, disgust rising like bile in my throat.
What am I even doing? Seeking comfort from my ex-fiancée because I’m too cowardly to defend my current fiancée.
Needing to absolve my guilty mind, I decide to pick Harls up a gift after work.
The department store’s revolving door spits me into a world of perfection.
Gleaming display cases. Impeccable mannequins.
Salespeople with practiced smiles. Bergdorf’s at five o’clock on a Wednesday is the hunting ground of the privileged seeking last-minute gifts to smooth over transgressions.
I belong here in my Thompson suit with my Thompson credit card, about to engage in the most Thompson behavior possible: throwing money at an emotional problem.
But this will be the one and only time I use my family’s credit card. Harley and I are determined to make it on our own. Just…not today. Today, I need a little help.
“How may I assist you today, sir?” Her voice matches her smooth and professional appearance.
“I need a gift card.” Win-win. My fiancé can pick out whatever she wants, so at least my use of the credit card will not be for nothing.
“Of course.” She reaches beneath the counter, producing a leather-bound portfolio of options. “We offer store gift cards valid for any department, or specific designer cards if you have a particular brand in mind.”
I scan the options without really seeing them. Coach. Prada. Louis Vuitton. Brands that promise status, brands that transform basic functional items into symbols of wealth and taste.
“Five hundred,” I say, answering a question she hasn’t yet asked. “For Coach.”
The amount comes automatically, calibrated through years of experience. Five hundred dollars—the standard Thompson apology sum. Not so much that it seems excessive, not so little that it could be interpreted as insulting. It’s the perfect middle ground of materialism masquerading as sentiment.
The concierge doesn’t blink at the amount, merely nods and begins processing the transaction. “Would you like a gift box with that?”
“Yes.” Of course I want the box. The presentation matters almost more than the gift itself. The elegant packaging, the tissue paper, the small card that will remain blank because I don’t know what to write beyond “I’m sorry,” without saying what I’m sorry for.
As she processes the gift card, I contemplate the mathematics of my cowardice.
Five hundred dollars for letting Mother change Harley’s wedding colors without a fight.
Five hundred dollars for twenty unwanted wedding guests.
Five hundred dollars for maintaining secret contact with Amanda.
The exchange rate of dollars to betrayals seems increasingly inadequate.
“Would you like to add a personal message to the gift card, sir?” the concierge asks.
“No,” I say too quickly.
Better to leave it blank. Let Harley interpret it in whatever way causes her the least pain.
“One moment,” I add, spotting a display of imported chocolates near the register. I grab a small box without checking the price or flavor. An afterthought to accompany the gift card, because even I recognize that just handing over plastic is too transparently transactional.
The concierge places the gift card in a small box, wraps it in tissue, and slides it into a distinct shopping bag with practiced efficiency. “Will there be anything else today?”
“No, that’s all.” I tap my credit card against the reader, the transaction completed in seconds. Money transferred; conscience not assuaged, but temporarily muffled.
I take the bag, mumble my thanks, and leave.
Outside, the early evening air hits my face.
The sky above Chicago has turned that particular shade of blue-gray that signals approaching dusk.
Rush hour traffic creates a soundtrack of honking horns and revving engines.
Normal people heading home to normal lives, unburdened by generations of expectations and their own crippling inability to disappoint their parents.
I clutch the shopping bag like a shield as I walk toward the parking garage.
When I give Harley the gift, she will thank me because she’s gracious, even when I don’t deserve it.
She’ll use the gift card for something practical, something she needs rather than something frivolous.
And we’ll both pretend this transaction resolved something when we both know it resolved nothing.
The perfect Thompson solution to a problem that money can’t actually fix, but it’s all I’ve got.