Chapter 13
Harley
The weeks leading to our wedding should have blurred together in a haze of guest lists and cake tastings, but instead, they’ve been defined by a cold, growing distance.
While I navigate the emotional wreckage of my cases at the county office, the Thompson machine has swallowed Skyler whole.
He pulls late nights in the “war room” or attends mandatory family functions that never seem to include me.
I’m running out of time, and more importantly, I’m running out of reasons to stay. Right now, all that’s left is nostalgic love.
I spent my lunch hour rehearsing the conversation we need to have. The one where I tell him that I can’t breathe in the life his parents have built for us.
When I step out of the building, I find him leaning against his Audi. He looks like the man I fell in love with, the sharp edges of his corporate persona softened by the afternoon sun, but the sight doesn’t bring the relief it used to. It feels like a complication.
“I’m not a complete idiot, Harl,” he says, handing me a black coffee. “We need us time.”
“We need a lot more than that, Skyler,” I reply, my voice flat. Still, I go with him, and here we are.
He kills the engine and studies me. “Well?”
I glance out the window. Across the street, tucked between a bakery and a darkened hardware store, is a red-and-white-checkered awning. A neon sign flickers: Bella Notte. My heart, which has been a clenched fist for days, doesn’t quite loosen. It shifts.
“You remembered,” I say.
“October fourteenth,” Skyler says softly. “You wore a green sweater and spent twenty minutes explaining why the foster care system was a relic of the Victorian era. I think I fell in love somewhere between the antipasto and the second glass of house red.”
I step out of the car, the cool evening air hitting my face.
The scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes is everywhere, a wonderful contrast to the sterile, expensive scent of the Thompson estate.
As we approach the door, a small bell chimes.
The restaurant is exactly as I remember it, with lighting that makes everyone look like they’re in a 1930s film noir.
A woman with hair the color of a thunderstorm looks up from a podium. “Skyler? And the little social worker! You’re alive!”
“Hi, Blanche,” Skyler says, stepping forward for an awkward hug.
She notes his designer bag and the expensive cut of his shirt, then settles on me. “You need a drink. Both of you.”
She then leads us to table four, a small corner squeezed between a radiator and a mural of the Amalfi Coast. As I sit, the heavy silence between us returns.
“I don’t know why I give you these,” Blanche says, dropping menus. “You’re going to order the mushroom ravioli, the chicken parm, and the Chianti that tastes like dirt.”
“She’s not wrong,” I say, though I don’t even so much as glance at him.
“She never is,” he agrees.
When Blanche disappears, Skyler reaches across the table. His fingers twitch toward mine, but I pull back to adjust my napkin. The rejection hangs in the air.
“I realized that every time we talk lately, we’re in their house,” Skyler says. “Using their words. I want to remember what it was like when it was just us. Before I started acting like someone I don’t even like.”
“Then stop acting,” I say, the bitterness leaking through. “It’s a choice, Skyler.”
Blanche returns with the wine, uncorking it with a practiced pop. “Drink,” she commands. “Talk. Don’t leave until you’ve said the things that make you want to cry.”
I take a long sip of the rough, acidic wine. “Five minutes, Skyler. You have five minutes of total honesty. Because I’m at my limit.”
He takes a deep breath. “I’m terrified, Harley. I’m terrified of losing their approval, and I’m terrified that if I keep holding on to it, I’ll lose the only person who actually knows me.”
“You are losing me,” I say. “I’m being emotionally liquidated by your family while you watch from the sidelines.”
“I know. It was a betrayal.” He looks glassy-eyed, more human than he has in weeks. But my empathetic nature is currently at war with my social worker brain. I’ve seen this pattern of recidivism before.
“We were happy in that tiny apartment,” I breathe. “There were no legacies or expectations. We only saw or spoke to your parents once every few months.”
“I remember.” He reaches into his pocket and slides his phone across the table. “But Harl, we’re so close. Once the mold is gone, we’ll move back immediately.”
Staring at the screen, I glimpse a life I thought was gone. For a second, the tension breaks.
“But when?”
“The landlord says by the time we’re back from our honeymoon.”
He takes my hand, and this time, I let him. His skin is warm, but the weight of the upcoming wedding still sits like a stone in my stomach.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to find the door,” he whispers.
Blanche brings our meals. We eat in fragile silence. I want to believe this is a new beginning, but I know the Thompsons don’t let go that easily.
“You’re really going to tell them, Sky?” I ask. “The guest list? The venue?”
His expression darkens. “I’m going to tell them the guest list is closed.”
I want to believe him, I really do. But then he shifts in his seat, his touch becoming a little too insistent.
“But there is something. I’ve been thinking about the wedding, Harl,” he starts, and my spine stiffens. “My parents are desperate for the country club. For the image. But they know you don’t care about that. So, they’re offering something you do care about.”
Air leaves my lungs. “A bribe.”
“The Thompson Foundation has a six-figure grant,” he says quickly. “If we move the ceremony back to the club—just the venue—they will donate the entire fund to a legal aid program of your choice. He specifically mentioned Mrs. Delgado’s case, Harley. It could fund attorneys for dozens of families.”
I stare at him as bile rises in my throat. They’ve mapped my heart and found the one pressure point that would make me fold. They are using the lives of the people I protect to buy my submission.
“They’re using my clients to buy my wedding,” I whisper.
“It’s a trade,” Skyler counters. “One night in a ballroom for years of help for those families. Is it worth your pride if Mrs. Delgado gets her kids back?”
It’s a low blow, and a total Thompson move.
But before I can even attempt to go nuclear, he adds, “Besides, I’m being serious here.
I want the wedding at the country club, too.
I practically grew up there. Made my career at those booths.
That’s why I’m pushing so hard. The gardens are nice, but the club would symbolically be my way of saying goodbye. ”
This entire time he’s made it about his parents, defending them, but he never gave his own opinion.
“Fine,” I say, the word tasting like ash. “For the families. I’ll do it.” I’m still a little hesitant about what Sky actually wants, aside from appeasing his parents, so I’m not letting him off the hook yet.
Skyler sags with relief, but I lean forward, my eyes locking onto his.
“But hear me, Skyler. This is it. This is absolutely the last time I negotiate with your parents. I am taking this deal for the grant, but if there is a single more incident—one more ‘strategic move,’ one more ‘mandatory’ function I’m not invited to, one more person added to that guest list—I am gone.
I will walk away from the club, the apartment, and you. Do you understand?”
Skyler blinks, the weight of my words finally registering. “Harley—”
“Do you understand?” I repeat, my voice trembling with the force of my resolve. “I’m done being leveraged.”
“I understand,” he says, his voice steady. “I promise, this is the last of it.”
But as he leads me back to the car, interlacing our fingers, I notice a flicker in his eyes. A shadow. I’ve made the deal to save my clients, but as the rain taps against the windshield, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not telling me something.