Harley isn’t back yet. I text her. No reply.
Mother asks if I want to eat in the formal dining room or the kitchen. I say kitchen, hoping for something less performative.
She sits across from me, salad on a porcelain plate. She asks about the wedding. If I’ve reconsidered the country club. If I’ve heard from Amanda lately.
I tell her no to all of it.
She sips her water, watching me over the rim. “You know, Skyler, it’s not too late to change your mind.”
I stare at her. I can’t believe she said it out loud.
“Harley and I are getting married.” My voice is steady for the first time all day, but the muscles in my neck are corded.
She doesn’t blink. “Of course. I’m just saying… Life is long. Mistakes can be corrected.”
Vision blurring at the edges, a hot, prickling sensation stings behind my eyes. I want to throw my glass across the room. I want to see the porcelain shatter.
Instead, I set my fork down with a sharp clack against the plate, my trembling enough for her to notice. “Don’t talk about her like that.”
Mother’s smile is thin. “I’m only thinking of your happiness, darling. You deserve someone who makes things easier, not harder.”
I push my chair back. “Excuse me.”
I leave the kitchen and don’t look back.
Harley comes in after ten. I hear the click of her heels in the hallway, the sigh as she finally closes the door behind her.
I want to go to her. I want to explain, to confess how much I hate it here, how much I hate who I become around my parents.
But I don’t. I just stand at the window, watching her silhouette cross the lawn toward the guest wing, her shoulders hunched against the dark.
I should follow.
I should.
But I don’t.
Instead, I listen to the silence pressing in from every side and wonder how many more nights like this we have before there’s nothing left between us but apologies and empty promises. Because if I go to her now, I have to admit how much my mother’s words rattled me, and in this house, a reaction is aninvitation for more pain. I have to be the stable one. I can’t end up like Steven. My brother has turned into a “cautionary tale” whispered over dinner parties. A disappointment, not good enough for our family name. Meanwhile, I’ve spent my adult life perfecting the art of being a stone, thinking that if I didn’t give my parents a reaction, they couldn’t hurt me.
I text her. Are you okay?
No reply.
I stand there, staring at the screen, waiting for something to change.
It doesn’t.
Chapter 6
Harley
Freedom tastes like coffee and smells like cinnamon rolls. The moment I push through the door of Brewed Awakening, the weight of the Thompson mansion slides off my shoulders like water. Three days of perfect posture, perfect smiles, perfectly arranged fruit plates for breakfast. Three days of Elaine’s subtle corrections and Robert’s dismissive glances. Three days of watching the man I love dissolve into the obedient son I barely recognize. But here, surrounded by eclectic furniture and the hiss of espresso machines, I can breathe again.
Lily spots me before I see her, her arm waving wildly from the corner table she’s claimed. My sister, with her purple-streaked hair and excessive jewelry, stands out in this crowd of morning commuters like a peacock. I love her for it.
“Over here!” she calls, loud enough to turn heads. Lily’s never understood the concept of an indoor voice, and right now,her shameless volume is exactly what I need after a week of whispered conversations and awkward silences.
I order my usual—double shot vanilla latte with an extra espresso shot—and make my way through the maze of tables. This place couldn’t be more different from the Thompson dining room if it tried. Bright colored mugs instead of bone china. Dog-eared books on shelves instead of first-edition classics no one reads. People who laugh without covering their mouths. It reminds me of a sitcom coffee shop—like in Boy Meets World or Sabrina.
