Harley deserves better than being dependent on people who’ve made their disapproval clear from day one. Obviously, she’s met them before, but she never spent a lot of time with them.
“It’s just temporary,” she says.
Her optimism is enduring. A few months ago, I tried to stand up to my parents at Sunday dinner. Their comments about our “modest” wedding plans had finally pushed me too far.
“Actually, we’re quite happy with our venue choice.” My voice had been firm, surprising even myself. “Not everything needs to be at the Drake Hotel.”
My mother’s face fell instantly, her hand fluttering to her throat, where those ever-present pearls rested. “I see. I’m only trying to help, Skyler. I thought with your position at the firm, you’d want something more befitting of your status.” Her eyes had grown shiny with unshed tears. “But if you’d rather I stay out of it entirely . . .”
“That’s not what I meant,” I’d backpedaled immediately, the sight of her hurt expression unraveling my resolve. “Your input is valuable. We’re just trying to stay within our budget.”
“Budget.” My father had practically spat the word. “Thompson weddings aren’t constrained by budgets. Budgets are for half-done jobs.”
By dessert, I’d apologized three times and agreed to consider their suggestions. Harley had been silent the entire ride home.
The memory twists in my stomach. Another failure to stand my ground.
The landscape transforms as we approach Lake Forest, urban sprawl giving way to carefully manicured estates hidden behind wrought-iron gates and privacy hedges. My parents’ house—mansion, really—sits at the end of a winding driveway lined with oak trees I used to climb as a child, before I learned that Thompson boys don’t scale trees. Too much sap.
“Almost there,” I say unnecessarily, feeling Harley tense beside me.
The gates swing open automatically—my father’s security system recognizes my car. Fancy stuff. The driveway stretches before us like a judgment.
“It’ll be different this time,” I promise, more to myself than to her. “I won’t let them make you feel unwelcome.”
Harley says nothing, but the implication is there.
The house appears around the final curve, stone and glass and history looming against the bruised sky. Three stories of Thompson legacy, windows glowing with warm light that never quite reached the rooms inside. My chest tightens as I pull up to the circular driveway.
I will not bend this time. I will not retreat into the dutiful son role at the first sign of disapproval.
I can do this.
Before I can put the car into park, the massive front door swings open. My mother emerges, elegant in gray wool and those damn pearls, my father stern behind her.
“Deep breath,” I murmur before turning off the engine.
We step out into the light rain, and I move to Harley’s side of the car, placing my hand protectively at the small of her back. A potent statement. She is with me, and we are a unit.
“Skyler, darling!” My mother’s voice carries across the driveway as she descends the steps, arms outstretched, smile perfectly painted on. She embraces me, the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 enveloping me for a moment before she pulls back to examine my face. “You look tired, dear. This dreadful situation with your apartment must be so stressful.”
“Hello, Mother.” I step back slightly, moving closer to Harley. “Thank you again for letting us stay.”
“Of course.” Her eyes shift to Harley, performing that familiar head-to-toe assessment that never fails to make my stomach clench. “Hello, Harley. I trust packing wasn’t too arduous. I imagine it was difficult deciding what was worth salvaging, given the dampness.” Her upper lip curls.
There it is. The first dig, wrapped in a velvet glove of concern.
Harley’s lips part, but no sound comes out. I step in, cutting off the silence before it can stretch. “We brought everything we need.”
“Regardless, you won’t mind if the staff fumigates the bags. We simply cannot risk spores in the house.”
My father steps forward, extending his hand to me. “Son.” A nod to Harley. “Ms. Matthews.”
“Thank you for having us, Mr. Thompson,” Harley says, her voice steady despite the tension I feel radiating from her body.
“Yes, well,” my mother says with a thin smile, “what an unfortunate circumstance. I always said those older buildings in the city were problematic. Mold in the walls—how distressing.And so close to the wedding.” She clicks her tongue. “One has to wonder if it’s some sort of sign.”
My prepared speech rises in my throat. The words I’ve rehearsed since we left our apartment. My chance to set the tone moving forward.
