Chapter 24
Skyler
Rehearsing the words, I grip the steering wheel, my fingers locking around the worn plastic. I’ve changed, Harley. I’m not that man anymore.
But even now, with sawdust in my hair and a tan that comes from fourteen-hour days under a relentless Illinois sun, I still sound like a man trying to manage a merger.
I hate it.
I want to reach inside my throat and tear the Thompson out of my voice.
I park at the curb and sit for a moment.
My truck is a used thing, dented and unpretentious, but as I look at my reflection in the rearview mirror, I barely recognize the person staring back.
The polished, architectural brilliance is gone.
My face is leaner, the jawline sharper from skipping lunches to finish a framing job.
I’m wearing a simple navy button-down—cotton, not silk—and a pair of jeans that have seen their fair share of mud.
The only thing that doesn’t fit is the watch. The Patek Philippe sits on my wrist like a heavy, golden manacle. The only reason why I didn’t donate it or sell it like I did the Audi was because it was my grandfather’s.
When I step out, gravel crunches under my boots. I walk up the path to the Matthews’ door, my heart a frantic, uneven beat against my ribs. I don’t ring the bell. I knock. Three solid thuds.
The door opens, and Jake Matthews stands there.
He doesn’t look like a man who wants to hear a speech. His face is a landscape of lines and weathered pride, his eyes two hard flints that see right through my new clothes and into the Thompson-shaped hole in my soul.
“Skyler,” he says.
“Jake. I…I hope I’m not interrupting.”
He studies me for a long time. He looks at my boots, the sawdust on my shoulders, the way I’m standing—not with the practiced posture of an heir, but with the slight slouch of a man who spent all day on his feet.
“You look different,” he says. It’s not a compliment.
“I am different. Or I’m trying to be.”
He lets out a slow breath and steps back, gesturing me into the house. “Come in. But keep it quiet. We’re about to have dinner.”
Walking into the living room, I’m suddenly aware that Harley’s things don’t appear to be here. I expect a book, or two sets of shoes, or a spare cardigan hanging over a chair. But all I see are items that clearly belong to Jake and Maria.
I sit on the edge of the couch, my hands clasped tightly between my knees. My calluses feel rough against my skin. Jake stays in the doorway, his presence a silent guard.
“She’s in the kitchen,” Jake says. “I’ll get her. But Skyler? One wrong word and you’re out the door. I don’t care what kind of truck you’re driving now.”
“I know. Thank you.”
A few minutes pass.
Harley appears in the archway, and the air leaves the room.
She’s more vibrant than I remembered, no longer the shell of a woman I left drowning in white silk and Thompson expectations.
She’s wearing a simple green sweater and leggings, her hair loose and messy around her shoulders. Her face is clear, her eyes sharp.
She stops a few feet away, hands tucked into her pockets.
“Skyler,” she says.
I stand, my limbs feeling heavy and uncoordinated. “Harley. You look incredible.”
“I look like myself,” she counters, her voice flat. “What are you doing here?”
“I moved out.” The words tumble out, clumsy. “I left the firm. The mansion. I’m in a studio in the city now.”
She doesn’t blink. “Okay.”
“I’m working for a housing charity,” I press on, needing to fill the silence. “Design-build. But mostly build.”
She tilts her head, confused. “You’re building?”
“They don’t have the budget for a full crew, so we all put in the sweat equity. If I draw the wall, I have to help frame it.”
I run a hand through my hair, realizing too late how rough my palm feels against my scalp. I drop my hands, letting them hang by my sides. They are tanned, scarred, and calloused—a violent contrast to the Patek Philippe that still glints on my wrist with sterile perfection.
Harley’s gaze drops to my hands. She stares at the fresh nick on my knuckle.
“I’m learning how to build things that actually stand up,” I say, my voice quieter. “I’m not trying to manage the ‘optics’ anymore, Harley. I’m not trying to fix anything but myself. I just wanted you to know.”
She studies me, searching for the lie. “You’re actually doing the labor?”
“Mud, drywall, zoning arguments. All of it.” I take a step closer, then stop when she tenses. “I’m doing the work. Every day. I’m trying to be the man I should have been.”
I wait. I want her to tell me that the nightmare is over. I want her to forgive the coward I was.
“I believe you,” she breathes.
The relief hits me hard enough to make my knees weak. “You do?”
“The tan. The hands.” She offers a small, sad smile—the kind you give a child who finally learned a hard lesson. “I believe you’ve broken away from them. I used to lie awake in that house, wondering if you’d ever find the exit. I’m genuinely happy you did.”
“Then can we try?” The desperation claws at my throat. “I know I can’t erase the wedding. I can’t erase the texts. But we could go slow. Just coffee. In a place that doesn’t serve it on silver.”
She looks down, shaking her head slightly.
I play the only card I have left. The one I’ve been saving.
“I’m still paying for the apartment,” I blurt out.
Her head snaps up.
“The one in the city,” I say, talking fast now. “I never let it go. I kept it exactly the way you liked it. Your books are still on the shelves. I go there sometimes and just sit. I wanted it to be ready. Just in case you wanted to come home.”
Harley’s expression doesn’t brighten. It softens, but not with love. It looks painfully like pity.
“Oh, Skyler.” She sighs. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why? I wanted you to know I was waiting.”
“Because you can’t go back to a place that only exists in your memory,” she says, her voice steady and clear. “The apartment isn’t a home anymore; it’s a version of us that died a long time ago.”
“I can change it! We can find a new place. A house. I’ll build it myself, Harley. With these hands.”
“It’s not about the house. I’m glad you’ve found purpose, and I’m proud of you for standing up to Robert, but you don’t come back from failed engagements. What happened at that country club…that wasn’t just a misunderstanding. It wasn’t ‘cold feet.’”
Her piercing blue eyes stare into mine. “It was three years of patterns. Three years of you choosing their approval over my dignity. It was a thousand small concessions that led to one massive, public humiliation. That moment at the altar? It changed the chemical makeup of who I am. I can’t look at you and not see the man who let his mother throw my father’s work into a dumpster. ”
“I told you, I’m not that man!”
“I know you aren’t,” she says gently. “But I’m not that woman, either.
I’m on a different path now. A path where I don’t have to fight for space.
A path where I don’t have to wonder if my partner is going to ‘manage’ my feelings into a boardroom compromise.
I’ve built a life here, Skyler. It’s small, and it’s messy, but it’s entirely mine. ”
I look past her to the doorway where Jake is still standing. He hasn’t moved an inch. His arms are crossed, a silent, gray-bearded sentry. He isn’t angry anymore. He’s just there, reinforcing the boundaries I’m trying to smash through.
“So that’s it?” I ask, my voice sounding small in the quiet room.
“The answer is that I forgive you,” Harley says.
“Truly. I want you to be the man you’re becoming.
I want you to build those houses and stay close to Steven and never wear that watch again if it feels like a shackle.
But I can’t be your reward for being a decent human being.
I’m not a trophy for your redemption arc. ”
She walks over to me and, for a fleeting, agonizing second, she touches my arm. Her hand is warm, but it doesn’t linger. It’s a goodbye touch.
“We can’t rewind, Sky. We’re two souls living different lives. Separately.”
I feel the tears threatening to spill, a hot, shameful stinging behind my eyes.
I want to beg. I want to fall to my knees like I did on that red carpet and promise her the moon.
But I look at her face—so calm, so sure, so vibrant—and I realize that begging would just be another form of manipulation.
I take a breath, my chest aching. As much as I don’t want to, I nod.
“I understand.” Pulling my shoulders back, I try to find some shred of dignity. “I’m…I’m sorry I kept the apartment. I’ll call the landlord tomorrow.”
“Good.”
I turn and walk toward the door. Every step feels like I’m moving through wet cement. I reach the threshold and stop in front of Jake. I look him in the eye—one builder to another.
“Thanks for letting me in, Jake,” I say.
“Good luck with the site, Thompson,” Jake says. “Watch out for the zoning boards. They’re bastards.”
“I will.”
After I leave and am about to start my truck, my phone buzzes in the cup holder. I don’t have to check to know who it is. Steven. He’s been checking on me every hour since I told him I was going to the Matthews’ house.
How’d it go, Sky? You still breathing?
I stare at the screen, wanting to tell him that I failed. He was right—you don’t come back from the altar. But I can’t find the words. I can’t even find the motivation to unlock the phone. Instead, I let it go dark.
I reach for my left wrist.
The Patek Philippe feels heavier than a lead pipe. I unbuckle the leather strap, the gold buckle glinting one last time under the streetlamp. This watch was a reward for being a good son. It was a graduation gift from a man who only loved the versions of me that won trophies.
I open the glove compartment. It’s filled with receipts for lumber, a spare set of work gloves, and a half-eaten bag of beef jerky. I place the watch inside, right on top of a crumpled invoice for two-by-fours. I shut the door. Clack.
The sound is final.
I sit there for a long time, my forehead resting against the steering wheel. The grief is there, sharp and ripped at the edges, but underneath it, something else is stirring. It’s a lightness. A strange, terrifying freedom.
For the first time in my life, nobody is waiting for me to be perfect. Robert isn’t waiting for a report. Elaine isn’t waiting for me to pick a navy napkin. Even Harley isn’t waiting for me to fix myself anymore.
I’m nobody.