“Oh, honey, that’s awful,” she says when I finish. “Of course you can—” she stops abruptly, and I hear her muffled voice speaking to someone else. My heart sinks before she even returns to the line.
“Harley, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot, we’re in the middle of renovations ourselves. The contractor tore out the guest room walls yesterday. We’re down to one functioning bedroom and a kitchen full of drywall dust.”
I close my eyes. Of course. The renovation she mentioned last month, the one that would finally fix the water damage from last winter’s burst pipe. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
“It’s okay,” I say automatically, though nothing is okay right now. “I forgot about your remodel.”
“If it were just a few days, we could make the living room work, but it’ll take two months.”
“Really, it’s fine.” I force brightness into my tone. “We have other options.” A lie, but I can’t bear her feeling worse.
“What about Carol?” My unreliable mother. “Her place is bigger than the bookstore apartment.”
“Says she needs to cocoon with her new boyfriend.” I laugh, the sound hollow. “Apparently, her daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law are too big of an intrusion.”
“Lily? She has that futon.”
“In her studio apartment? With three roommates?” I shake my head, though she can’t see me. “We’d kill each other within days.”
Maria is quiet for a moment. “Hotel?”
“Looking at probably ten grand for two months, not counting food.” I glance at Skyler, who’s watching me with growing concern. “That’s our entire wedding budget and then some.”
“Oh, honey.” The sympathy in her voice makes my throat tighten. “Something will work out. It always does.”
We say our goodbyes with promises to update each other. When I hang up, the silence in our apartment feels oppressive.
“No luck?” Skyler asks, though the answer is obvious.
“Renovations.” I drop my phone on the coffee table. “The universe is laughing at us right now.”
Skyler sits beside me, his weight dipping the cushion so I lean slightly against him. “We have one option we haven’t discussed…”
I know what he’s going to say before the words leave his mouth. A cold dread settles in my stomach.
“My parents have plenty of room,” he continues, confirming my fear. “The guest wing hasn’t been used since Christmas.”
The guest wing. Not even a guest room. A wing. The Thompsons’ mansion in Lake Forest practically has its own zip code, with more bathrooms than I can count and a kitchen the size of my first apartment.
“Skyler…” I begin, but don’t know how to continue. How do I explain that I’d rather sleep in our mold-infested bathroom than spend two months under Elaine Thompson’s scrutiny?
“I know.” He takes my hand. “I know it’s not ideal.”
Not ideal. Such a polite way to describe two months of psychological warfare.
I remember the first time I met his mother at their annual Christmas party. I’d spent hours choosing the perfect dress. It was conservative enough for their crowd, but still flattering. When Skyler introduced us, Elaine’s eyes traveled from my face to my shoes and back again, a journey of evaluation that left me feeling like a subpar product.
“How…unique,” she’d said about my dress, her smile never reaching her eyes. Then, when she spotted my engagement ring, her mouth puckered. “Oh, is that the ring? It’s quaint. Simple can be so refreshing these days when everyone’s obsessed with extravagance.”
The memory shifts to another—dinner at an upscale restaurant downtown, three months ago. Elaine asked about my career with the practiced interest of someone checking a social obligation box.
“Social work must be so fulfilling,” she’d said, swirling her wine with a curl of her lip. “Though I imagine the pay is challenging. Robert and I support several charities for underprivileged children. Sometimes giving money is more effective than working it.” Then, like the afterthought it was, she smiled. “No offense, dear.”
The implication was clear: my career is a charity case, not a profession.
Then there was Robert discussing politics, two weeks later at a family dinner. When I offered a perspective on education funding based on my frontline experience with struggling families, he’d smiled thinly.
“That’s a compassionate view, Harley, but lacks economic understanding. These matters require a broader perspective than isolated cases.” He’d turned to Skyler, effectively dismissing me. “Son, the new Henderson project designs look promising. I’ve made some adjustment notes for you to review.”
