“You look like hell,” Lily says by way of greeting. “Tell me everything.”
I collapse into the chair across from her, clutching my mug like it’s a life preserver. “Where do I even start?”
“With whatever made those circles under your eyes.” Lily leans forward, elbows on the table—a posture that would give Mrs. Thompson heart palpitations.
“His mom reorganized my clothes.” The words tumble out before I can arrange them into something that sounds less petty. “Twice.”
“She what?”
“I came back from work on Tuesday, and all my sweaters—the same ones I’d already organized—had been refolded and arranged by color and occasion. In the dresser drawers. In the guest room. Where I’m staying.” Each fragment punctuates my mounting frustration.
Lily’s eyes widen. “She went through your things?”
“Oh, it gets better.” I take a scalding sip of coffee, welcoming the burn. “Yesterday, I discovered she’d ‘tidied’ my toiletries in the bathroom. Apparently, my face wash was ‘cluttering’ the counter. It’s now hidden behind a decorative seashell display in the cabinet.”
“That’s a violation of—”
“And this morning? My favorite mug—the one Dad got me when I passed my certification—was pushed to the back of the highest shelf. When I asked about it, Elaine said, ‘Oh, I thought that was part of the everyday set. The good mugs are in the front.’”
Lily’s expression darkens. “The good mugs. As if anything you own isn’t good enough for their precious lips.”
“It’s not just the stuff.” I lean closer, lowering my voice, even though there’s no one from Lake Forest within miles. “It’s how Robert talks around me, like I’m not even there. Last night at dinner, he asked Skyler—and I quote—‘Is Harley planning to use the kitchen tomorrow? Marta needs to know if she should prepare all meals or leave ingredients for . . . whatever it is she makes.’”
“Whatever it is she makes?” Lily repeats, incredulous. “Like you’re some kind of feral creature who might whip up roadkill stew?”
“Exactly.” The validation feels good, even if it solves nothing. “And when I answered, because I was sitting right there, he just nodded at Skyler, as if waiting for the official translation. Like I don’t have the ability to speak proper English.”
Lily’s face contorts through several emotions—outrage, disbelief, anger—before settling on concern. “What does Skyler do when this happens?”
The question I’ve been dreading. The real reason my eyes have dark circles and my jaw aches from clenching at night.
I stare into my coffee, searching for an answer that won’t sound as pathetic as the truth. “He tries to smooth things over by trying, but he gives up so easily.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he nods along. Changes the subject. Suggests we move on to dessert.” The words taste bitter. “Yesterday, whenElaine commented that my skirt was ‘brave for a professional environment,’ he complimented her new kitchen flooring.”
Lily’s silence speaks volumes.
“It’s not entirely his fault,” I hear myself say, the defense automatic, even as part of me resents needing to make it. “He’s trying to keep the peace until we can move back home. Two months isn’t that long.”
“Two months is forever when you’re being treated like an unwelcome interloper.” Lily tears her napkin into methodical strips. “And Skyler’s supposed to be your partner, not a UN peacekeeper.”
“He’s caught in the middle.” The excuse sounds weak even to my ears.
“No, Harley. He’s not in the middle because there is no middle. There’s your side, and there’s theirs, and right now, he’s standing firmly with Team Thompson.” Lily’s bluntness is both her greatest flaw and finest quality. I love her. “Has he even once told them to back off?”
I think of all Skyler’s apologies in the hallway. All his promises to do better tomorrow. All the tomorrows that have come and gone without change.
“He says he will.” It’s not really an answer.
Lily’s eyes soften with pity. “Harley.”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s complicated. You don’t know what it’s like to grow up with parents like that. They’ve spent thirty years training him to avoid conflict.”
“And you’ve spent three years loving him in spite of it. But that doesn’t make it okay.”
She’s right, of course. But admitting it feels like betrayal. Of Skyler. Of us. Of the future I still believe we can have once we’re back in our own space, away from the Thompson influence.
