Chapter 11
Harley
The drive from Lake Forest to my parents’ house feels like an ascent from a pressurized cabin. As we pull into the gravel driveway of the small, cedar-shingled ranch, the air in the car finally tastes like freedom.
I don’t wait for Skyler to come around and open my door—not that I ever did. I hop out, the gravel crunching under my boots, and take a deep breath of air that smells of damp earth and the neighbor’s woodstove. It’s glorious.
“You okay?” Skyler asks, stepping out more slowly. He’s still wearing his blazer, his posture as straight as a structural column. What has happened to him? I’ve watched my fiancé transform into someone I don’t know before my very eyes. Old Skyler would never wear a blazer as casual wear.
“Better than okay, Sky. I’m home.”
Before we can even reach the porch, the front door flies open.
My stepmom, Maria, doesn’t do “air kisses;” she does impact.
She hits me like a wave, her arms wrapping around me, smelling of flour and the vanilla musk of her bookstore.
She’s wearing a sweater that has a small coffee stain near the hem, and her hair is held up by a pencil.
She is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in weeks.
“My girl,” she murmurs into my hair, squeezing me until I actually have to laugh. “You’re too thin. I can feel your ribs. Is that woman feeding you nothing but lettuce and judgment?”
“Mostly judgment,” I whisper back, pulling away to see her eyes. They’re warm, intuitive, and currently narrowing as they drift toward Skyler.
Skyler offers a polite, stiff smile. “Mrs. Matthews. It’s good to see you again.”
“Skyler,” she says, her tone welcoming but layered with a scrutiny that he probably doesn’t even recognize.
She pulls him into a hug, which clearly startles him.
He stays rigid for a second before his arms awkwardly find her back.
“Welcome. Come in, both of you. Jake is just pulling the lasagna out.”
As we step into the foyer, the house wraps around me in comfort. It’s real. Stacks of books on the side table, my dad’s boots kicked off near the rug, a stray knitting needle peeking out from underneath a newspaper on the coffee table. It’s the antithesis of the Thompson museum.
My father, Jake, emerges from the kitchen, a potholder in each hand and a smear of tomato sauce on his cheek.
His face crinkles into that familiar, weathered map of laugh lines.
“Harley! There’s my favorite social worker.
” He sets the pans down on the trivets and gathers me in.
“Good to have you back, kiddo. And you, too, Skyler. Hope you’re hungry. ”
“Always, Mr. Matthews,” Skyler says. A short, sharp vibration buzzes from his phone in his pocket. And while I’m surprised when he doesn’t pull it out, his jaw does tighten.
I head straight for the kitchen cupboard, needing my favorite cup.
It’s silly, but I have several versions of the same cup, each purchased from Etsy—one here, one at Skyler’s parents’, and one back in our apartment.
I reach past the mismatched plates and pull out a chipped ceramic mug with the same “World’s Most Adequate Social Worker” printed in fading letters.
I clench it in my hand, the weight of it grounding me.
At the Thompson estate, since Skyler’s mom keeps hiding my cup, I drink from bone china that feels like it will shatter if I think a loud thought.
But this mug has survived three moves and a break-up. It’s mine.
God, I hope it doesn’t have to witness another break-up. I love Skyler.
“I’ve got your room ready,” Maria says, wiping her hands on her apron.
She looks directly at Skyler, then back to me, a glint of defiance in her eyes.
“It’s the guest room down the hall. I put fresh linen on the queen bed for both of you.
No need to wander across wings just to say goodnight in this house. ”
I snort, but Skyler’s ears turn a light shade of pink. He knows exactly what she’s referencing.
“Thank you, Maria,” Skyler says. “That’s…very thoughtful.”
“It’s normal,” she corrects gently, patting his arm. “I’m sorry my bookstore apartment is still not finished, else you could stay there. But if you ever don’t mind the commute to and from work, you’re always more than welcome to stay here.”
Honestly, if I had more energy to drive four hours round trip every day, I’d do it. But my job is mentally draining as it is, and some days I can hardly stand driving the twenty minutes to the Thompson house. “Thank you, but the commute would just be too much for both Skyler and me.”
“Understandable,” Maria says with a compassionate frown. “Go ahead and take your bags back and then get to the table. The lasagna waits for no man…not even a Thompson.”
The guest room is small, cluttered with Maria’s sewing projects in the corner, but it’s home.
I toss my duffel onto the bed and watch Skyler set his expensive leather suitcase down with exaggerated care. He looks at the single bed, the shared space, and I can see the gears turning. He’s trying to figure out the protocol.
“You don’t have to worry about ‘certain standards’ here, Sky,” I say, leaning against the wall. “My parents actually believe that people who are getting married might want to sleep in the same room. Radical, I know.”
“Harley.” He sighs, his phone vibrating again. This time it’s three times in a row. He pulls it out, his thumb scrolling through notifications. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“Then turn it off,” I say, nodding at the device. “Steven is back at the house. He’s running interference. You’re off the clock.”
“I can’t just turn it off. The Henderson revisions—”
“The Henderson revisions aren’t going to collapse if you don’t look at them for three hours while you eat my dad’s lasagna. Please. Just be here with me.” I can’t help but remember the charity committee where he neglected me for his phone, and then his mother and Amanda.
He looks at me, and for a second, I see the man I fell in love with. The one who used to look at me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered. He silences the phone and slides it into his pocket. “Okay. No work.”
But “no work” doesn’t mean “no Thompson.”
Loud and lively, dinner begins. Between the cacophony of passing dishes and my dad’s stories of botched plumbing, Maria asks about my caseload. For a fleeting moment, the oppressive chill of the Lake Forest mansion fades from memory.
“So, Skyler,” my dad says, pointing a chunk of garlic bread his way. “Harley says you’re working on that big atrium design. Dealing with those high-end clients must be a lot of pressure.”
“It has its challenges, sir,” Skyler replies. While he maintains his polite veneer, I notice his eyes darting to his wrist. Again, he checks the time. “But I enjoy the architectural complexity.”
“Complexity is fine, but does it stand?” Grinning, Dad leans in. “In my time, I’ve seen plenty of million-dollar designs that look great on blueprints but leak the second it rains. To make it last, you’ve got to pay attention to the materials.”
“Agreed,” Skyler says. His hand goes to his pocket. He doesn’t pull the phone out, but he’s touching it. Fidgeting. Like a smoker trying to quit.
I watch him. The tension in his shoulders hasn’t dissipated. He may be physically in our dining room, surrounded by my family’s warmth, but his mind is elsewhere.
“Skyler, honey, you haven’t touched your food,” Maria notes, her voice soft but observant. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, sorry,” he says, quickly retrieving his fork. After taking a bite, he glances at me. The expression he wears is a specific grimace I’ve learned to associate with him delivering bad news.
Silence stretches. My parents are quiet, sensing the shift.
“Something on your mind, Sky?” I ask, my voice losing its warmth.
“Mother expects us at her country club brunch tomorrow,” he says, his voice taking on that measured, professional quality he uses when he’s placating a client. Or me.
My heart sinks. “You didn’t mention it.”
“I didn’t want to ruin our visit with your dad and Maria today,” he says.
“But she was quite insistent. The Davises are going to be there. It’s a strategic thing, Harley.
Mr. Davis is a silent partner in the Henderson development, and Father wants me there to walk him through the east-wing projections.
We’d need to head back Sunday morning to get ready. ”
“Sunday morning,” I repeat, the words flat. “Sunday is tomorrow. Skyler, we’re supposed to spend the entire weekend here. Maria and I are going to look at the florist’s portfolio in the morning. Dad is going to help us look at the catering menu. We planned this. Two weeks ago. You agreed.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” The word feels like a lead weight. “But this is the Hendersons. If I’m not there, then it looks like I’m not taking the project seriously. And with Amanda’s firm being involved in the legal side now—”
“Amanda,” I breathe. Of course. It always circles back to the perfect ghost in Valentino red. “So, your mother snaps her fingers, and we’re supposed to just cut our trip short? Is that how it works now?”
I glance at my parents. My dad is staring at his plate, his jaw set in a way that tells me he’s biting back a very pointed opinion. Maria is looking at Skyler with quiet disappointment.
“We’re here for forty-eight hours, Skyler,” I say, my voice trembling. “That’s all I asked for. Forty-eight hours where I don’t have to be ‘Ms. Matthews’ and you don’t have to be a Thompson. Can’t you just tell them no for once?”
“It’s not just about telling them no, Harley. It’s about being professional.” His voice takes on that smooth, modulated tone he uses for difficult clients. “We can come back in the afternoon.”
“No, we can’t. Because you’ll have a ‘briefing’ for Monday morning. There is no end.”
“That’s unfair,” he snaps. As his phone buzzes again, he pulls it out. Without even looking at us, his thumb flies across the screen.