Chapter 27
Skyler
I like the grime.
I’m standing in the almost completed structure of what will soon be a home.
This isn’t the imported Italian cedar from the mansion; this is reclaimed lumber, rescued from a warehouse on the south side and planted down to its core.
It’s sturdy, resilient, and carries the history of a city that doesn’t mind scraping its hands.
Diego, the foreman, is leaning over the makeshift table we’ve built out of two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood.
“The joists are solid, Skyler,” Diego says, his voice a low rumble that carries over the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of hammers from the back of the house. “But we need to check the clearance for the bathroom again. If the chair can’t make the radius, the entire wing is a failure.”
I tap the blueprint with a pencil stub. “I adjusted the specs. We’ve got an extra six inches if we move the vanity three degrees to the left. And I want to use the low-VOC paint for the interiors. Mrs. Delgado’s lungs don’t need the chemical off-gassing of a standard finish.”
Diego nods, a slow, single motion of respect.
Behind him, two of the younger crew members are hauling a load of shingles.
They pause as they pass us, nodding to me.
I’ve earned my place here, square by square, nail by nail.
I’m not the boss’s son or the guy who sits in an air-conditioned office drawing up plans other people will execute.
I’m the man who knows why the load-bearing wall needs an extra stud.
“Make it happen,” Diego says, moving toward the rear of the site.
I’m left alone with the blueprints when an older-style Honda pulls to the curb. But it’s the dent in the rear bumper that gives the driver away.
My heart, usually a steady, mechanical throb these days, suddenly hits a snag. It jumps against my ribs. I don’t move or breathe. I can only watch through the open framing as the door swings wide.
Harley steps out.
She’s wearing a blazer over a simple top, her hair pulled back into a professional bun.
It’s only been three months since I last saw her, but it might as well have been years.
She’s focused, her eyes scanning the site with the keen, sharp intelligence that I’ve always admired and occasionally feared.
She moves to the passenger seat and helps Mrs. Delgado out, the older woman moving slowly.
Since there is nowhere to hide, I pull my shoulders back, adjust my tool belt, and continue with my work.
Harley spots me as they approach the perimeter of the site. Her stride doesn’t break or falter. I’d known Mrs. Delgado would be here today, but I was unsure if my ex-fiancée would be joining her.
“Good afternoon,” she says to me as she nears the plywood table. Her voice is clear, crisp, and entirely devoid of the history we share. “I’m Harley Matthews, the social worker representing the Delgado family. This is Mrs. Tia Delgado, the future homeowner.”
She says it as if we’ve never shared a bed, as if we’ve never argued about the shade of a kitchen tile or the cruelty of my mother. She’s introducing her client to a consultant.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Delgado,” I say. “I’m Skyler Thompson, the architect and a laborer on this build. I’ve been looking forward to showing you the progress.”
I glance at Harley. Her eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second—a cool, blue impact that feels like a physical blow. Then, she turns back to her client, her hand on the woman’s arm.
“Skyler will be our guide today,” Harley says, and the way she says my name—without warmth, without weight—is the coldest sound I’ve ever heard.
Diego passes out hard hats, and I help Harley and Mrs. Delgado put them on correctly.
“Let’s start with the entrance,” I say, gesturing to the front of the house. “We’ve designed the ramp to integrate directly into the landscaping. It won’t feel like an add-on but like a part of the home.”
Stepping onto the plywood subfloor, the vibration of my boots echo through the joists.
Harley and Mrs. Delgado follow. I can feel Harley’s presence behind me, a static charge that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
But I keep my eyes on the older woman, on the person who needs the doorways to be wider and the world to be softer.
The crew is watching us. Diego is near the back, leaning on a shovel, his eyes tracking our movement. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel his support, a solid wall of shared labor behind me.
“The doorways are all thirty-six inches,” I explain, pointing to the framing. “Lever handles throughout—much easier on the hands than knobs. And we’ve reinforced the walls in the bathroom for grab bars, even if we don’t install them yet.”
Harley says nothing, her notebook open, her pen moving.
And as I lead them deeper into the wooden ribcage, I realize that this is exactly what I deserve. To be a stranger in her life, rebuilding a house for a woman who no longer knows my name.
Above us, the nail guns fire in rhythmic bursts—thwap-thwap-thwap. Meanwhile, a saw screams through a length of plywood somewhere near the back.
I lead them into what will be the kitchen.
“The counters will run along this stretch,” I say, my voice projecting over the hum of a generator. “We’re using a composite material that’s durable and easy to clean. No porous stone to worry about.”
Mrs. Delgado stops and stares at the empty space where the cabinets will be, her brow furrowed.
“It’s too high,” she says. “Last year I was in a car accident and messed up my shoulder. To reach up, I would need a stepladder or I risk straining my muscles.”
“You’re right,” I say, my voice low and focused. “Standard height is fifty-four inches. But that’s a number, not a rule. We can drop the cabinets here by the window to fifty.”
Pulling the pencil from behind my ear, I reach for the blueprints on the plywood table. Then, I sketch a modification on the fly, my hand steady despite the noise around us.
“See here?” I point to the paper. “We’ll put the pull-out drawers below so you never have to twist your shoulder to find a heavy pan.”
I’m so focused on the sketch that I don’t notice Harley moving.
She reaches for the blueprint at the same moment I do, her intent probably being to see the change I’m proposing. Her fingers—cool, soft, and terrifyingly familiar—brush against the back of my hand.
It’s like an electric surge, a sharp, white-hot spark that travels straight up my arm and settles in the hollow of my throat.
I freeze. The sounds of the construction site—the shouting workers, the drone of the saw—vanish.
There is only the sensation of her skin against mine, a ghost of the life we used to have.
In a synchronized flinch, we pull back at the same time.
I keep my head down, staring at the lines on the paper until the ink blurs. Heat radiates from her.
“Th-that would be better,” Harley says. Her voice is tight. She sounds shaken. Good. At least it’s not just me.
Mrs. Delgado hasn’t noticed our silent collision. She’s leaning over the blueprint, her eyes widening as she understands the sketch. A slow, beautiful smile spreads across her face, deepening the lines around her eyes. “I love it,” she whispers.
“Good,” I say, finally looking up like she’s the most important person in Chicago. Because right now, she is. “It’s your kitchen. It should work for you, not the other way around.”
She examines Harley, her eyes glistening. “He listens, Harley. This young man has a good heart. He sees the old woman.”
The hammer blows resume, louder now, a frantic bang-bang-bang that fills the silence.
“I’ll finalize these specs with Diego today,” I say, my voice sounding like it’s coming from somewhere far away. “We’ll get the framing for the cabinets adjusted before the electrical goes in.”
Harley nods, her pen scratching against her notepad with a sudden, renewed vigor. She’s retreating into her notes, building a wall of ink between us.
“Thank you, Mr. Thompson,” she says.
The ‘Mr. Thompson’ is a slap, a reminder of the distance. But the way her hand is still trembling slightly as she holds the pen tells a different story.
I turn back to the blueprints, my fingers tracing the same spot where her skin touched mine.
Mrs. Delgado is currently across the room, having cornered Diego to discuss the placement of a spice rack. My crew likes her. They enjoy building things for people who appreciate the angle of a doorway or the height of a shelf. It makes the sweat feel like an investment instead of a tax.
Which leaves me. And Harley.
The silence between us is a living thing, standing in the middle of the kitchen framing like an uninvited guest.
I’m busy rolling up the blueprints, my movements slow and deliberate.
I don’t want to look at her. Because I know if I do, I’ll start saying the things I promised myself I wouldn’t.
Like blurting how I made a $40,000 donation by selling the Audi.
I’ll start trying to convince her I’m worth the rubble I’ve become.
“You’re good at this,” she says.
I stop rolling the paper.
“Really good,” she adds, her voice a little softer now. “I’ve watched you with the crew. And the way you handled Mrs. Delgado . . . you listened.”
“The crew is solid. It makes my job easy.”
Harley looks around the skeletal room once more, her gaze lingering on the modified sketch on the table.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she says, her tone shifting back into the efficient, clipped cadence of a social worker.
“Mrs. Delgado wants to review the cabinet finishes, and I need to sign off on the accessibility permits. I expect you’ll have the revised specs ready? ”
“They’ll be ready.”
Heading back to the entrance, she calls, “Mrs. Delgado, we have three more appointments.”
I’m alone again.
Diego walks over, wiping a hand across his forehead. “She’s a tough one, that social worker. Smart, too. She knows her codes better than some of the inspectors I’ve dealt with.”
“She knows everything,” I murmur.