Chapter 23
Skyler
Ishouldn’t have worn the tie.
It’s pale blue St. George from Walmart. I keep adjusting the knot, my fingers twitching against the silk. It’s a reflex. A crooked tie is a sign of a crooked mind. Here, it feels like a neon sign flashing the word ‘invader.’
The waiting room of the Habitat for Humanity office doesn’t have a chandelier.
The light comes from long, buzzing tubes that make my skin look gray and my borrowed button-down look like a Halloween costume.
The chairs are molded plastic, reminding me of my elementary school days.
Except they’re adult-sized. And thank fuck for that.
I’m the only one here. On the wall, photos of families—real families, messy and beaming—stand in front of houses with simple gables and fresh paint. They look happy. Not ‘Christmas-card-at-the-marina’ happy, but a visceral, bone-deep relief.
Thinking about my resume, I wish I had more than one entry under ‘Professional Experience’. As of right now, I only have Thompson Architectural Group listed.
Everything on this page was handed to me. Every project was a gift from Robert. Every promotion was a reward for being a dutiful shadow. I realize, with a sudden, sick lurch in my gut, that if you remove the Thompson name, this paper is just a collection of white space.
“Skyler Thompson?”
I startle, my heart hammering against my ribs. A man stands in the doorway. He’s in his fifties, wearing a polo shirt with a frayed collar and cargo pants that have actual dirt on the knees. He has the kind of hands I’ve only seen on Jake Matthews—thick, calloused, and honest.
“I’m Mike Donnelly,” he says. He doesn’t offer a hand yet.
“Yes. Hi. Nice to meet you,” I say, scrambling to my feet. I move too fast. My elbow catches a revolving rack of pamphlets, and suddenly, the room is raining brochures. ‘Building Strength.’ ‘Building Stability.’ ‘How to Volunteer.’ They carpet the linoleum in a flurry of glossy paper.
“God, I’m sorry,” I mutter, dropping to my knees. I’m a thirty-year-old man crawling on the floor of a nonprofit office to pick up pamphlets. Sweat prickles at my hairline. “I’m usually more . . . I’m sorry.”
Mike watches me for a beat, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t help me pick them up. He just waits until I’ve shoved the pile back into the rack—crookedly, of course—and then gestures toward his office.
“In here,” he says.
Mike sits behind a metal desk and takes my resume.
He reads it slowly. Much too slow, given the lack of content.
Meanwhile, I sit on the edge of the chair, my hands clasped tightly between my knees.
I try to remember the interview tips Steven gave me before I left.
Maintain eye contact. Lead with your strengths. Be humble, confident, and relatable.
“Tell me about yourself, Skyler,” Mike says, leaning back.
“I graduated Magna Cum Laude from the University of Illinois with a master’s in architecture.
I was immediately recruited by Thompson Architectural Group, where I’ve spent the last seven years specializing in luxury residential developments.
I’ve overseen projects with budgets exceeding twenty million dollars, focusing on sustainable materials and high-end aesthetic integration.
My father—Robert Thompson—founded the firm. ”
I stop. It sounds like a press release. Like nepotism times ten.
Mike stares at the resume again. “Twenty-million-dollar budgets,” he repeats. He sounds like he’s quoting a foreign language. “That’s a lot of Italian marble.”
“It is,” I say, trying for a confident smile. “I’m very comfortable managing complex resources and demanding timelines.”
“There’s no Italian marble here. We use donated lumber and volunteer labor. We have a budget where we have to choose between a better HVAC system or a porch. Why do you want to work for us? You’re clearly overqualified for a site supervisor position.”
I feel the scripted answer rise to my lips. It’s the one I rehearsed in Steven’s bathroom mirror. “I want to give back to the community. Everyone deserves a home, and I want to use my talents for a greater cause. I’m at a point in my life where I want to focus on philanthropy over profit.”
It sounds like something a Thompson would say before they write a tax-deductible check and go to a gala. Mike winces. It’s a small movement, but it feels like a slap. Because if I heard it, then he definitely heard it.
“Give back,” he says, his voice flat. “That’s a nice phrase. Tell me, what’s your experience working with diverse populations? People who aren’t on a board of directors? People who might be one paycheck away from being on the street?”
I think of Harley’s clients. Ones like Mrs. Delgado. It’s then that I realize I’ve never actually talked to a client who worried about anything more than the shade of their kitchen tile. I’ve lived in a bubble made of bulletproof glass and silken manners.
“I’m . . . I’m a quick learner,” I stumble. “I’ve worked with contractors of all backgrounds. I understand the importance of clear communication.”
“Contractors aren’t families,” Mike says.
He’s not being mean. He’s doing a structural assessment, and I’m failing the load-bearing test. “Our site supervisors have to manage people who’ve never held a hammer.
They have to explain building codes to grandmothers.
And they have to do it on a salary that doesn’t leave room for the kind of car you have parked outside. ”
I glance at my hands. They’re too clean. I’m a fraud in a blue tie.
“Speaking of which,” Mike says, “what are your salary expectations? We have it listed in the posting, but I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
I haven’t looked at the posting. Not really. I just saw the name ‘Habitat’ and the word ‘Supervisor.’ I think of my salary at the firm. One hundred fifty thousand. Plus bonuses. Plus the trust dividends.
“Well,” I say, trying to sound reasonable, “given my experience and my master’s degree, I was thinking maybe one hundred and ten? I’m willing to take a significant cut for the cause.”
The silence that follows is so loud it feels like a physical weight. Mike just stares at me. A slow, incredulous look dawns on his face. He doesn’t laugh, which is almost worse.
“One hundred and ten thousand dollars,” he says.
“Is that too high? I could go to ninety. I’m really more focused on the work.”
“Skyler,” Mike says, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of pity in his eyes. “This position pays fifty. Fifty thousand. Total. That’s for forty-plus hours a week, usually in the mud, usually on weekends. We’re a charity.”
Heat burns my face at a rate that likely clashes with my tie. Fifty thousand. I spent more than that on the catering for a wedding that didn’t happen. Yup. Definitely should have listened to Harley on that.
I’ve never lived on fifty thousand in my life. I don’t even know if I can pay for my Audi on fifty thousand.
“Right,” I whisper. “Fifty. Of course. Fifty. I knew that. I was just…I was thinking of a different metric.”
Mike gives me a look like he’s heard enough. “There is no metric here but the houses.”
Realizing I’m losing it, I’m about to miss out on the only real thing I’ve reached for since I walked out of the mansion. I’m about to go back to Steven’s couch as a man who can’t even get a job building ranch houses for people who need them. I’m a Thompson who can’t even sell himself.
“I can do it!” I say, my voice cracking. “I don’t care about the money. I just need…I need to build something that isn’t for a billionaire. Please. Just let me explain.”
As I look at Mike’s skeptical face, I realize I’ve already failed the first impression.
“Okay. Tell me about a challenging situation you’ve overcome. A time you had to pivot under pressure.”
I sit up straighter. This is my territory. I’ve faced high-stakes deadlines and irate clients. I can do this.
“Last year,” I start, leaning into my ‘associate’ voice, “we were working on a coastal villa project for a client in Lake Geneva. There was a major supply chain disruption with the imported Italian marble for the kitchen. My father, Robert Thompson”—Stop saying his name, idiot!
—“insisted we wait for the original supplier, but the client was demanding we finish on time. I negotiated with a small supplier in Spain, leveraging our firm’s prestige to prioritize our crate.
It was a high-pressure situation, requiring significant logistical synergy and a commitment to aesthetic integrity.
In the end, we delivered the marble three days early, and the project stayed under the thirty-five-million-dollar cap. ”
I finish with a small, self-satisfied nod. Great story. It shows initiative and resourcefulness.
But Mike stares at me. He blinks slowly. “Marble,” he says. “You pivoted…for marble.”
“It was a critical component of the design,” I say, though my heart is sinking. “The synergy between the stone and the natural light was—”
“Skyler, stop,” Mike says, sounding exhausted.
“Listen to yourself. ‘Synergy.’ ‘Aesthetic integrity.’ ‘My father’s firm.’ You’ve mentioned your father or the firm in every other sentence.
You’re telling me about a challenge involving a luxury villa while our waiting room is full of people who haven’t had a functioning bathroom in three weeks.
Do you see the disconnect here? Do you understand why this isn’t working? Why this won’t work?”
The sweat is a cold river down my spine now. I’m a joke. The punchline to a story people like Mike tell over beers and peanuts. Did I tell you about the Thompson kid who wanted to build ranch houses? He talked about marble.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and for the first time, it’s not a polite reflex. It’s a confession. “I’m just used to a certain language. I didn’t mean to be tone-deaf.”
“It’s not just the language,” Mike says.
He stands up and walks to the small window behind him.
He looks out at the parking lot, where my Audi R8 is gleaming like a middle finger in a gravel lot.
“You have every advantage. You’ve got the degree, the name, the bank account.
You could walk into any high-end firm in Chicago and be a partner by forty.
So why are you here, sweating, trying to get a job that involves cleaning port-a-potties and arguing with zoning boards? ”
He turns back, his eyes boring into mine. “Why do you want this job? Give me the truth, not the essay.”
The room is silent. Just the hum of the light and the ghost of the Thompson mansion. I can still feel the weight of the gallery portraits watching me, their eyes heavy with judgment. The silver-and-white ballroom. The crash of my knees against the red carpet.
And then, there’s Harley.
That grainy newspaper photo. The way she looked at Mrs. Delgado—with respect, power, and a fierce, quiet love.
But looking at her forces me to look at myself: at the mold in our apartment, at the way she suffered because I was too afraid to tell my parents the foundation was rotten.
I remember the cedar boxes Jake built, the ones Elaine threw away because they weren’t ‘appropriate.’
“I’m a thirty-year-old man who doesn’t know who he is without a brand name on his business card,” I say.
Mike doesn’t interrupt.
“I’ve spent my life building things for people who don’t need them, using money I didn’t earn, to please a man who doesn’t love me,” I continue.
“I’ve let the most important person in my life walk away because I couldn’t choose between a mansion and a human being.
I’ve lived in two worlds, Mike, and I destroyed both of them.
“I looked at myself in the mirror and realized I’m just an empty frame.
I don’t want to design villas anymore; I want to build something real.
I want to learn how to swing a hammer. I want to be someone who creates rather than inherits.
I want to be the man worthy of her respect, even if I never see her again.
Even if I’m just a guy in the mud, making fifty thousand a year.
I need to know that I can stand on my own two feet without a trust fund holding me up. ”
I stop. I’m out of words.
Mike studies me for several beats. Then my tie. Then my hands.
“You’re completely unqualified on paper,” he says.
“I know.”
“You use corporate jargon, and you’re clearly an entitled brat who has no idea how hard this work actually is.”
“I am,” I say. “But I’m willing to get my hands dirty.”
Mike lets out a short, dry chuckle. He sits back down, the metal chair creaking.
“I like your grit, Thompson. It’s buried deep, but it’s there. You’ve got the kind of desperation that either builds a house or burns it down. I’m betting on the building.”
“Wait.” My heart stops. “You’re hiring me?”
“Assuming your background check clears—and I’m assuming it will, since you’re too much of a Boy Scout to have a record—you can start Monday. Eight a.m. sharp at the site on 4th and Maple.”
Standing, a surge of adrenaline hits me like a physical blow. “Thank you. Mike, thank you. You won’t regret this.”
“One condition,” Mike says, pointing at my chest. “Leave the tie at home. Leave the Audi, too, if you can. You’ll be swinging a hammer, not attending a board meeting. If I see you in silk on my site, you’re fired before you hit the mud.”
“I understand,” I say, a grin breaking across my face.
When I walk out of the office, I don’t feel like an invader anymore.
The air is crisp, smelling of rain and asphalt. I look at my Audi R8. It’s a beautiful car, but it’s a Thompson car. And I realize I’m going to sell it. I’m going to buy a truck that can hold a toolbox. I’m going to get some more jeans and an actual flannel shirt.
I’m still miles away from being the man Harley deserves, and I know I might never get back to her. She might marry someone else, someone who never had to learn how to be a person at thirty.
But as I stand in the parking lot, I realize I’m not breathing for anyone else but me.