But it’s not fine, and we both know it. I step toward her, wanting to bridge this sudden chasm between us.
“Tomorrow will be better,” I promise, the same empty words I’ve been repeating to myself all day. “I’ll talk to them.”
She finally meets my eyes. “Will you?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with all my past failures.
“Yes,” I say firmly, willing it to be true. “Get some rest.”
I move to kiss her, but she turns slightly so my lips land on her cheek instead of her mouth.
“Goodnight.”
I feel the distance between us stretch with every step as I walk the long hallway back to my childhood bedroom, my parents’ house expanding like a living thing to separate us further.
The luminous hands of my childhood alarm clock mock me from the nightstand: 3:17 a.m. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for four hours, watching shadows shift across the navy-blue wallpaper my mother selected when I was twelve because “growing boys need proper surroundings.” Nothing in this room was ever my choice—not the mahogany furniture, not the precisely arranged trophies, not even the books on the shelves that were selected more for their appearance than their content. I turn onto my side, punching the too-soft pillow into submission. Sleep refuses to come. All I can see when I close my eyes is Harley’s face at dinner, that moment when she looked at me for support and found nothing but silence.
I close my eyes against the sight, but the dinner scene replays in excruciating detail behind my eyelids.
My own throat, closing like a fist around the words I should have said. My silence an abandonment.
Suddenly, the mattress feels too soft, too familiar—the same bed where I lay awake as a teenager, plotting architectural designs that might finally impress my father. I sit up abruptly, throwing off the Egyptian cotton sheets.
My bare feet hit the plush carpet as I stand, unable to remain still with the weight of my failure pressing down on me. I pace the length of the room—seven steps from door to window,turn, seven steps back. The same path I’ve walked a thousand times before when wrestling with disappointing test scores or preparing for competitions.
The silver-framed family photos on my dresser catch the moonlight streaming through the window. My graduation from Princeton—Mother’s perfectly coiffed hair, Father’s hand on my shoulder, my smile strained beneath the weight of their expectations. Another from a charity gala last year, with Mother, Father, and me in matching black-tie attire, and the empty space beside me where a partner should stand. The space where Amanda once stood, before I finally found the courage to break the engagement to eventually meet Harley.
I pick up the graduation photo, studying my younger self. When did I become this person? This hollow echo of a man who can’t defend the woman he loves against the subtle cruelty of his parents? When did their approval become more important than my integrity?
I’ve always known the answer. Since I was six years old and learned that emotional withdrawal was my parents’ preferred method of discipline. Since I was ten and discovered that achievement was the only currency they recognized. Since I was fifteen and realized that the rare moments of warmth and pride in their eyes were worth any sacrifice, any compromise of my own desires.
Except, it’s not just my desires anymore. Because now I’m compromising Harley’s dignity, her worth, her place in my life.
I set down the photo with more force than intended, the frame making a sharp sound against the wooden surface. I think of Harley, alone in the blue room on the opposite side of the mansion. Is she sleeping? Or is she lying awake, wondering if marrying into the Thompson family is worth the price she’ll pay?
The thought sends a cold ripple through me. I can’t lose her. Not Harley, who laughs at my architectural jokes that no oneelse understands. Harley, who brings me coffee during late-night design sessions without being asked. Harley, who sees the man I want to be, not just the obedient son I’ve been trained to be.
I want our apartment with its mismatched furniture and the kitchen table I restored. I want Sunday mornings with no agenda beyond making Harley laugh. I want a future where my parents’ approval is a welcome addition, not a necessary foundation.
I’ll speak up at breakfast, set boundaries, make it clear that Harley is not subject to their judgment or manipulation.
But even as I think it, doubt gnaws at my resolve. Thirty years of conditioning won’t disappear overnight. The patterns are deep, the grooves well worn.
But I’ve never had so much at stake before. Never had Harley’s trust to lose.
I lie back down, staring at the ceiling, rehearsing variations of what I’ll say in the morning. How I’ll keep my voice steady when Mother’s eyes narrow. How I’ll maintain eye contact when Father’s disapproval radiates across the table.
“Harley is going to be my wife. You will respect her career, her choices, and her place in my life,” I whisper into the darkness, a promise to myself more than a practice of my speech.
The clock reads 3:42 a.m. now. In a few hours, the household will stir to life. Breakfast in the Thompson house has always been a formal affair.
Tomorrow will be different. It has to be.
As sleep finally begins to pull at the edges of my consciousness, I cling to that promise, even as a lifetime of experience whispers that some patterns are too deeply ingrained to break.
Chapter 5
Skyler
