Through the peephole, I see exactly what I feared. It’s Elaine Thompson, wearing a tailored navy suit, Hermès scarf draped just so, blonde hair not daring to move out of place, even in the hallway draft. Her Chanel handbag hangs from the crook of her elbow as she checks her diamond-studded watch—a gift from my father on their thirtieth anniversary.
I step back from the door silently, holding my breath as though she might hear me through the solid wood. The knocking comes again, more insistent this time.
“Skyler? I know you’re in there. Your car is parked outside.” Her voice carries that particular blend of authority and disappointment that defined my childhood. “We need to discuss the guest list. Amanda’s parents are expecting an invitation.”
My jaw tightens. Amanda’s parents happen to be from the Davis family, whose commercial real estate holdings would complement the Thompson portfolio so nicely. Plus, with Amanda’s law degree, the Davis’ and Thompsons’ would be unstoppable. It was the merger that didn’t happen when I watched Amanda transform into everything I never wanted.
I reach for the stereo remote, turning up the volume on the jazz playlist Harley created for evenings like this. The music swells subtly, just enough to make it plausible that I can’t hear the knocking.
“Skyler Thompson. This is absolutely childish.” Another series of knocks, harder now. “The wedding is in four months. These decisions can’t wait because you’re being stubborn.”
Oh, decisions are being made, Mother. Just not with you.
I resume chopping, perhaps with more force than the onions deserve. Chop. Amanda’s parents aren’t coming to my wedding. Slice. The guest list isn’t a business opportunity. Dice. This is my life, not a Thompson Enterprises networking event.
After five more minutes of intermittent knocking and increasingly clipped statements, Elaine’s heels click down the hallway toward the elevator. Only then do I fully exhale, shoulders dropping from their defensive position.
I know I’ll pay for this avoidance tomorrow with an early morning call, perhaps an “accidental” run-in at my favorite coffee shop, or worse, an appearance at the office, where I can’t escape without creating a scene.Angela, give me a Hail Mary.But tonight, in this apartment, I get to be Skyler.
The chicken sizzles when it hits the hot pan, filling the kitchen with the scent of olive oil and herbs. I add vegetables in stages. Red peppers. Onions. Mushrooms. A splash of white wine from the bottle Harley and I opened yesterday. The sauce reduces and thickens as jazz piano fills the apartment.
I’m plating the food when I hear Harley’s key in the lock. My body relaxes at the sound, tension I didn’t realize I was carrying melting away as Harley steps through the door, her arms full of case files and her hair escaping from what was probably a neat bun this morning.
“Something smells amazing,” she says, dropping her bag and files on the entry table. “Please tell me that’s not the Thai food, because it smells way too good to be takeout.”
Beaming at her compliment, I cross to her, taking the files from her arms and setting them aside before pulling her into a kiss. She tastes like coffee and smells like courthouse paper and that vanilla lotion she keeps in her desk drawer.
“Hey, babe,” I say, giving her a squeeze. “It’s chicken with mushrooms and white wine sauce. I figured we had all the ingredients, and I needed to cook something.”
She pulls back slightly, studying my face with those perceptive eyes that see more than I sometimes want them to. “Rough day with the dragon?”
“The usual. Plus, my mom tried to stop in.” I guide her to the kitchen table where our dinner waits. “Nothing a good meal and better company can’t fix.”
We settle into our chairs, knees touching beneath the small table. Harley takes a bite and closes her eyes in appreciation.
“God, this is good. When did you learn to cook like this?”
“My survival skills developed in college. Turns out ramen gets old fast.” I pour us each a glass of wine. “How was the rest of your day?”
And just like that, we slip into the comfortable rhythm that makes this apartment feel so loving. Harley tells me about the judge who fell asleep during the opposing counsel’s argument, about her client’s tearful gratitude when custody was granted, about the mountain of paperwork still waiting. I listen, asking questions, offering the occasional comment, but mostly just absorbing the animated way she talks with her hands when she’s passionate about something.
This is what conversations should feel like. There should be no hidden agendas. No careful monitoring of every word for potential weaknesses. No Thompson chess game, where each statement is a move toward some strategic advantage.
“Oh,” Harley says, reaching for her wineglass, “I noticed the tiles in the shower are starting to come loose. That one in the corner is definitely going to fall out soon.”
“I can fix that this weekend,” I offer, refilling her glass. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two.”
She laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “You’re an architect, not a construction worker. We can call someone.”
“Hey, I know my way around a tile saw.” I feign offense, hand over my heart. “My grandfather taught me basic repairs before I could drive. He said, even if I was going to design buildings, I should know how they’re actually put together.” I smile, feeling lighter than I have all day. “Gotta hold a bit of blue-collar in my white-collar heritage.”
Here, with Harley, I’m allowed to be the person who exists between worlds—the architect who knows how to sweat over manual labor, the Thompson heir who values a lopsided pottery bowl, the man who chose love over family expectations.
Harley reaches across the table, her fingers intertwining with mine. “I like that about you, you know. That you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty.”
If only she knew how careful I am to keep my hands clean at work, how I avoid conflict rather than standing firm. But tonight isn’t for those truths. Tonight is for the home we’ve built, and this small space where Thompson expectations can’t reach us.
At least until tomorrow, when the dance begins all over again.
