Chapter 26
Skyler
I pick it up on the fourth ring.
“Skyler,” Mr. Simpson says, and I can hear the nervous sweat in his tone.
“I apologize for calling. I know it’s late.
But we have a significant clerical issue with the final billing and the insurance indemnity from…
the event last September. There are four documents that require an original signature to close the file.
The board is quite insistent on having this finalized before the fiscal quarter ends on Monday. ”
That’s what they’re calling it now: the event. Not the disaster; not the day I lost my future, but finally grew a spine. Just the event, like it was a particularly rainy Tuesday or a charity auction that failed to meet its goal.
“I’m not going there,” I say. “Mail them.”
He clears his throat, a tiny and pathetic sound. “I’m afraid these are sensitive internal documents, so they cannot leave the premises. If you could just spare twenty minutes? I’ve stayed late specifically to accommodate you. I’m in the main administrative office.”
I want to hang up, but I also want every bridge between me and that club burned to the ground, and if it takes a signature to provide the match, I’ll do it.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll be there in thirty.”
I call Steven. He’s the only person I trust not to judge me for going back into the belly of the beast. Twenty minutes later, he’s climbing into the passenger seat of my Ford F-150. He looks at the dashboard, then at me, then at the half-empty bag of fast food on the floor.
“I still can’t believe you bought a truck.” He shakes his head, though there’s a flicker of a grin under his cynical mask. “You’re really leaning into the salt-of-the-earth thing. What’s next? A denim jacket and a sudden interest in country music?”
“It’s functional,” I say, shifting into gear. The engine rumbles, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my seat. “And not about the image.”
He leans back. “No, of course not. It’s about the soul. But listen to me. If we get there and Simpson starts talking about ‘family obligations’ or ‘long-term investments,’ we’re leaving. I’m your get-out-of-jail-free card. Use me.”
My knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel, the skin stretched tight over bones that feel fragile.
My hands are shaking, a fine tremor I can’t stop.
The road to Lake Forest is a winding ribbon of darkness and perfect hedges.
As we pass the stone pillars marking the entrance to the community, I feel the weight of it.
The social gravity. It’s a pressure that pushes against my lungs, telling me to straighten my back, to check my hair, to be the man they expect.
I fight it by slouching in my seat.
We reach the country club. The white colonial architecture looms out of the darkness, lit by spotlights that make it look like a stage set. Parking the Ford right out front, I tuck it between a Porsche and a Bentley. It looks like an ugly, dented bruise on a perfect body.
“I like that it’s here,” Steven says, opening his door. “It ruins the aesthetic.”
We walk toward the entrance, my boots clunking against the stone steps.
At the door, the valet starts to move toward me, his hand reflexively going for his cap, but he freezes when he sees the truck.
He glances at me, then at the Ford, and his eyes go wide.
He recognizes the face, but the context has changed.
I don’t give him the keys. I just walk past.
Inside the lobby, I call out, “Mr. Simpson?”
A door near the back office opens. Mr. Simpson steps out, but he isn’t alone. He looks sheepish, his eyes darting to the floor, his hands twisting a set of keys.
“I’m so sorry, Skyler,” he whispers. “I really am.”
And then she steps out from behind him.
My mother.
She looks perfect, as always. A charcoal silk dress that moves like water, a single strand of pearls, and a posture that suggests she’s the one holding up the ceiling. She doesn’t look like she’s been waiting in a back office for an hour.
Honestly, it’s pathetic, especially for her.
“Elaine,” I say.
The word is cold. I use her name as if she’s a stranger I’ve met at a business meeting I didn’t want to attend.
Her eyes flicker, a brief flash of hurt that she immediately suppresses behind a mask of regal disappointment.
“Skyler,” she says, her voice like honey poured over glass. “You’ve been ignoring my calls and your father’s texts. You’ve left us with no choice but to take matters into our own hands.”
I turn to Mr. Simpson, my jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. “A trap? You called me here for a clerical issue so she could ambush me?”
The manager looks as if he wants to melt into the marble. “Mr. Thompson…your mother was very insistent. She felt it was a family emergency.”
“Everything is a family emergency with you, Elaine,” I say, turning back to her.
Steven steps up beside me, his hands in his pockets, his face a mask of bored amusement. “Hello, Elaine. Still playing the basic, boring puppet master, I see.”
She doesn’t even look at him. To her, Steven is a malfunctioning appliance—annoying, but ultimately irrelevant. She focuses entirely on me, her gaze tracing the lines of my face, the rough texture of my shirt, the dirt under my fingernails.
“Look at you,” she whispers. “You’re a mess, Skyler. Living in a hovel for a girl who doesn’t even want you?”
A year ago, her words would have gotten under my skin enough that I’d spring into action if it gave me a chance of never hearing them again. But now, I only roll the word hovel underneath my tongue.
“I’m done,” I say.
But I’m not fast enough. Elaine moves with a sudden, sharp speed I didn’t know she possessed. The click of her designer heels maneuvers between me and the exit. She blocks the path, her small frame suddenly imposing like a mountain. Because I can’t shove her out of the way, now can I?
“You will not walk away from me,” she says, her voice rising just enough to carry through the lobby. Staff members pause in the shadows. A waiter freezes with a tray of champagne.
“Get out of my way,” I say. I can feel the Thompson pressure building in my chest, that old urge to apologize, to smooth things over, to make her happy so I can have some peace. But I fight it.
“We have things to discuss, Skyler,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “And you are going to listen.”
“I’m not listening to anything, Elaine. Not anymore.”
I take a step toward her, and for the first time in my life, she’s the one who flinches. Still, she doesn’t move.
I can see Steven out the corner of my eye. He’s watching the staff, a small, dark smile on his face. He’s enjoying the spectacle. For once, it’s Elaine causing a scene, not him.
“Really hope that paperwork doesn’t exist, Simpson,” I say, my voice sounding like the rumble of my truck. “Because this? This is the last time any of you see me in this building.”
Her face undergoes a transformation. The regal mask shatters into ugly fury. No longer the mother you’d find on Christmas cards, she’s the woman who threw away the handmade cedar boxes.
“She is trash, Skyler,” Elaine spits. The word is foul, sounding like it belongs in the gutter she thinks Harley came from.
“A common girl from a common background who thought she could climb a ladder that wasn’t meant for her.
Do you know what she’s doing now? She’s sitting in a dilapidated office with peeling wallpaper, holding hands with grandmothers who can’t pay their rent.
That is her world. That is where she belongs. ”
I stand tall. For years, I would have hunched my shoulders under this kind of heat. I would have looked at the floor and apologized for my choice. But the boots I’m wearing today feel heavy and solid.
“I know exactly what she’s doing, Elaine,” I say. “She’s changing lives.”
“I went to see her,” Elaine says, a triumphant little glint returning to her eyes. “I went to that shack she calls an office to see if there was any shred of decency left in her, any understanding of the damage she’s done to this family. And do you know what she told me?”
My heart skips a beat. The image of Elaine in Harley’s office—the Chanel No. 5 invading the space where Mrs. Delgado felt safe—makes my blood boil.
“And what’s that?”
“She made it perfectly clear she has zero interest in dating you again. She laughed at the idea of you. Content in her squalor like a cockroach, she’s moved on. So there is no reason for you to continue this ridiculous rebellion. It’s over. You’ve lost the girl.”
The words are designed to gut me. They are meant to make me feel foolish, to make me realize the pointlessness of my manual labor and my clanking radiator. She thinks my transformation was a performance for an audience of one.
“I don’t care if Harley never takes me back. I love her, and I will continue to love her for all my days. And if that means I pine for her for the rest of my life, if I spend every day building houses for people I’ll never know just to feel closer to the world she inhabits, then so be it.”
“You have lost your way.”
Steven steps forward. He’s been quiet, but he places a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder. It’s the first time he’s touched me like that in years—not a shove or a mocking pat, but a gesture of absolute, unshakeable support.
“He’s already more of a man than Robert ever was,” Steven says quietly.
My eyes narrow. “Listen to me very carefully. Do not contact me again. Not through Simpson, not through the board, not through anyone. Do not visit my workplace. Do not ambush me in public venues. Our relationship is over until you can respect the boundaries I’ve set.”
“You can’t do this. We are your family.”
“No,” I say. “You gave birth to me. There’s a difference.”
Turning my back on her is a physical wrenching of my entire history. Still, I walk to the exit with Steven beside me.
I don’t look back when she calls my name. I don’t look back when the sound of her heels follow us, then stop, as she realizes it’s no use.
We push through the heavy glass doors and step out onto the stone terrace. The night air hits me—cool, damp, smelling of Lake Michigan and asphalt. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever tasted.
We reach the Ford F-150. Steven waits for me to get in, then climbs into the passenger seat. He looks at me for a long beat, his expression finally stripping away the cynicism.
“I’ve never been prouder to be your brother, Sky,” he says.
“Thanks. Proud of you, too.”