“The east-facing windows have the best view in the house,” Mother says, as if Harley picked it out of a catalog.
Harley’s knuckles tighten around the mug. I feel the pause in my bones. It doesn’t matter how beautiful the view is. The point is, we’re sleeping apart.
“It’s lovely,” she says finally.
Mother turns to me, satisfied. “You’re both expected at the club next Saturday. Brunch with the Davises.”
I resist groaning, but at least Amanda won’t be there. “Ah, okay. I’ll ask them to give Amanda my best.”
“Oh, didn’t you know? She’s back from Paris. She switched firms. You two should have a lot to catch up on.” The implication hangs in the air, unspoken but razor-sharp. Amanda, the one who would have fit.
I don’t glance at Harley, but I don’t have to. I can feel her shrinking, molecule by molecule, across the table from me.
But I have nothing to hide, so I say, “I didn’t know. Amanda and I haven’t kept in touch.”
Father lifts the coffee pot, refills his cup, then mine. Nothing for Harley. No one offers. I do though. Without asking, I switch our cups so she has my full one, and I have her empty one.
Mother pretends not to notice. She takes a croissant and tears it in half with careful fingers. “I hope the mold situation hasn’t affected your health, Harley. Those things can be quite…insidious, if left unchecked.”
Harley meets her gaze, steady. “It was discovered early. We moved out as soon as the building inspector advised.”
Mother hums, noncommittal. “Some people are more susceptible than others, I suppose.”
Father flips open the Wall Street Journal. “You’ll want to deal with your building manager directly, Skyler. Legal recourse is often necessary in these cases.”
“I’ll look into it,” I say, though I’m certain the work is already done. Knowing Harley, she likely spent hours last night scouring every clause and filing every form while I laid in my childhood bed, staring at the ceiling.
Harley doesn’t correct me. She just sips her coffee, a silent concession.
Jerome appears, silent as a ghost, to clear the empty plates. He nods to Harley, who gives him a real smile, softer than the one she wears for my parents. I watch the exchange, the brief flicker of human connection, and something twists in my chest.
Breakfast ends the way it always does: with my father rising first, his chair scraping back like a gunshot in the perfect room.
“Henderson at one,” he says. “Don’t be late.”
He leaves without waiting for a response.
Mother dabs at her mouth with a linen napkin. “I’d love to schedule fittings for the wedding. Harley, you’ll want to bring your dress as soon as you get it. The seamstress has limited availability.”
Harley nods. “Of course.”
Mother stands, smoothing her slacks. “You know where to find me.”
She glides out, her perfume lingering behind her like a warning.
Now it’s just us. The sunlight is sharp and cold, making the silverware gleam. Harley sets her cup down, careful not to make a sound.
I reach for her hand, but she’s already pulling away, gathering her things.
“You okay?” I ask, hating myself for how small my voice sounds.
She doesn’t look at me. “I have to go. Intake interviews at the courthouse. I’ll be home late.”
Home. I almost laugh. Home is a word that doesn’t belong in this house.
The rest of the day is a blur of numbing tasks. Calls to the remediation team; emails with the insurance adjuster. Endless spreadsheets for my father, every line item a reminder of how little control I have.
By the time dinner rolls around, I feel like a ghost in my own life.
