The rest of the evening, I might as well have been invisible.
“Harley?” Skyler’s voice pulls me back to the present. “Where’d you go?”
“Just remembering the greatest hits of Thompson family gatherings.” I try to smile, but it feels brittle.
“It would only be temporary,” he promises, squeezing my hand. “Two months, then we’re back home. And I won’t let them treat you badly.”
The same promise he’s made before every family event, with varying degrees of success. It’s not that Skyler doesn’t try, because he does. But standing up to Robert and Elaine Thompson requires a backbone of steel, and with decades of conditioning kicking in, Skyler’s tends to soften in their presence.
“We don’t have much choice, do we?” I ask, though it’s not really a question.
“We could max out our credit cards for a hotel.” His tone tells me what he thinks of this option. “Empty our savings. But with the wedding coming up, it’ll be hard to swing.”
The wedding. Our carefully budgeted, modestly elegant wedding that’s already causing tension with his mother, who wanted something “befitting the Thompson name” at the Drake Hotel.
I look around our apartment. The thought of leaving it for the Thompson mansion makes my chest physically ache.
“It’s just a place to sleep,” I say finally, trying to convince myself. “We’ll both be working during the day. It’s temporary.”
Skyler’s relief is palpable. “I’ll call them right away.”
My fingers grip his a little too tightly, betraying my anxiety. “Maybe we should keep looking for alternatives?”
“Of course,” he says quickly. “But we need a backup plan for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Less than twenty-four hours until we’re homeless. The reality crashes over me again.
“Call them,” I whisper, releasing his hand. “Make the arrangements.”
As Skyler stands to make the call, I wrap my arms around myself, already feeling colder. Two months with Elaine and Robert Thompson. A twisted countdown to our wedding.
I’ve never been less eager to become a Thompson in my life.
Our bedroom is a disaster zone. Open suitcases gape from the floor, half-filled with clothes I’ve deemed “safe” from the bathroom’s toxic reach. The contractor’s warnings echo in my head with every item I touch. “Porous materials trap spores. Fabric absorbs them.” I hold up a sweater, trying to remember if it was hanging in the closed bedroom closet or draped over the bathroom door last week. The line between contaminated and clean blurs with each passing minute.
“What about this one?” I ask, holding up a blue blouse I love but rarely wear. “It’s been in the back of the closet for months.”
Skyler looks up from his methodical packing. Unlike my scattered approach, he’s created a system. Clothes from closed drawers are in one pile, questionable items in another, definite contamination in a garbage bag by the door.
“Should be fine.” He nods, folding a dress shirt with the precision of someone who grew up with staff to do it for him.“Anything in sealed containers or closed closets far from the bathroom should be safe.”
I fold the blouse carefully, trying to imagine wearing it at the Thompson dinner table. Is it too casual? Too bright? Will Elaine make that face—the one where her mouth smiles while her eyes perform a dissection?
I set it aside and reach for something more conservative.
“What are you doing?” Skyler asks, watching me return the blue blouse to our closet.
“It’s not right for your parents’ house.”
His brow furrows. “Harl, you love that blouse.”
“It’s not appropriate.” I don’t meet his eyes. “Your mother would think it’s too informal.”
“You’re not dressing for my mother. Pack what you want to wear.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one who gets evaluated with every appearance. I return to the closet, pulling out neutral cardigans and modest blouses.
My hand brushes against something at the back of our closet. The photo album my father made for my college graduation. Leather-bound, filled with snapshots of my childhood, my mother before she left, family camping trips, prom night, college acceptance letter day—a time capsule of the Matthews family.
