I pull it out, suddenly fearful. It’s been sitting on the closet floor, near the shared bathroom wall. I flip it open, examining the pages for any signs of mold or moisture.
“What’s that?” Skyler asks, moving beside me.
“My dad’s album.” My voice comes out smaller than intended. “The contractor said anything porous is contaminated.”
Understanding crosses his face. “Let me see?”
I hand it over reluctantly. Skyler examines the binding, the covers, while flipping through several pages.
“Seems dry,” he says finally. “No visible spots. And it was in a closed closet.”
Relief washes through me. “So it’s safe?”
“Should be.” He hesitates. “But maybe we should store it in a sealed plastic container, just to be sure. We can leave it with your dad for safekeeping.”
The thought of parting with it sends a sharp pang through my chest, irrational but powerful. It’s just things—just paper and memories—but it’s also evidence of who I was before I became part of the Thompson orbit. Proof that I come from people who love unconditionally, without measuring worth by degrees or tax brackets.
“Hey.” Skyler’s fingers brush mine. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I take the album back, clutching it tightly. “I just don’t want to lose this.”
“You won’t.” He cups my cheek, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. “Two months will go by before we know it. Then we’ll be back home. Everything will still be here.”
I nod, even though I don’t fully believe him. Something tells me these two months will change us in ways we can’t predict.
“We should pack our toiletries,” I say, changing the subject. The thought of bringing my personal items to the Thompsons’ house makes me feel oddly exposed. Will Elaine notice my drugstore brand face wash? Will she comment on my practical makeup compared to Amanda’s perfectly curated collection?
Amanda. I hadn’t considered her potential presence until now. Skyler’s ex-fiancée, the woman his parents still invite to family functions as though the breakup was a temporary misunderstanding. The thought of running into her while in pajamas on the way to the Thompsons’ kitchen sends a fresh wave of anxiety through me.
“Should I pack pajamas?” I ask, half-joking. “Or will your mother expect formal wear at all hours?”
Skyler doesn’t laugh. “Pack comfortable clothes, Harl. This isn’t a state dinner.”
But it is, in a way. Every moment in that house feels like a performance evaluation. Every meal a chance to use the wrong fork or express the wrong opinion. Every conversation a minefield of subtle insults disguised as concern.
I gather my toiletries like I’m about to encounter TSA, just with extra deodorant, because the thought of having to ask Elaine for a store run makes my skin crawl. My prescription migraine medication, because two months with the Thompsons guarantees headaches. The engagement ring cleaner, because God forbid my “quaint” ring look anything less than perfect.
When our suitcases are finally packed and sealed, I stand in the center of our living room, turning slowly. Our apartment—the first place that truly felt like ours—suddenly seems fragile. The couch where we cuddle on movie nights. The kitchen table where we plan our future over Sunday coffee. The bookshelf with my social work textbooks mingling with his architectural journals. All of it tainted now, under threat.
“It’ll still be here when we come back,” Skyler says, reading my thoughts. He wraps his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on top of my head. “And it’ll be clean and safe.”
I lean back against him, drawing strength from his solidity. “I know.”
But I don’t know. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re leaving something behind that we won’t get back. Not just possessions, but a version of us that exists only within these walls, away from his family’s expectations and judgments.
“I should call my mother,” Skyler says, releasing me. “Let her know we’re on our way.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I’ll do one final check for anything essential.”
While Skyler steps into the kitchen to make the call, I move from room to room, touching furniture like I’m saying goodbye to old friends. In our bedroom, I slip my hand under the mattress, retrieving the wedding notebook I’ve been keeping with ideas, budget plans, and lists of things still to do. I tuck it into my purse, unwilling to leave it behind.
Through the wall, I hear Skyler’s voice shift into what I privately call his “Thompson tone”—more formal, less animated, modulated to prevent triggering his mother’s disapproval.
“Yes, Mother. We’ll be there around seven . . . No, just dinner is fine . . . Yes, I’ve told her . . . Of course . . . Thank you again for accommodating us on such short notice.”
When he returns, his expression is carefully neutral, but I see the tension around his eyes. Whatever Elaine said, he’s shielding me from it. Another bad sign.
“Ready?” he asks, lifting two suitcases.
