Amanda tilts her head, the motion practiced to highlight the elegant line of her neck. “Thank you. Your mother mentioned you’d heard about it.”
A flicker of confusion crosses Skyler’s face. “Oh, right. Dad mentioned it after his lunch with George Davis last week.”
Her father. Of course. The family connections run deep, but at least I now know that Elaine had exaggerated. While Skyler may have known, he also had forgotten.
Skyler squeezes my shoulder, a silent question asking if I’m okay. I nod slightly, though it’s a blatant lie.
“Everything all right?” he asks me quietly, his back partially turned to the table of women pretending not to eavesdrop.
“Just discussing wedding traditions,” I reply, my eyes conveying what my words can’t: Help. Me.
“Speaking of which…” Skyler turns back to the group, his hand still on my shoulder. “Harley and I were just talking about the venue yesterday. We’re thinking something outdoors, maybe that botanical garden downtown.”
The botanical garden. A place we’d casually mentioned once, months ago. Not anything we’d actually decided on. But he’s trying—in his way—to establish our relationship as the current reality.
“The botanical garden?” Elaine repeats, as if Skyler has suggested getting married in a public restroom. “In the city?”
“It’s beautiful in the spring,” I offer, grateful for the redirection, despite its inaccuracy. “All those cherry blossoms.”
Amanda’s eyes narrow slightly. “Weren’t you always set on a traditional ceremony at the lake house, Skyler? Like your parents had?”
The question is a perfect trap. If he agrees, he undermines our supposed botanical garden plans. If he denies it, he contradicts what his mother has been saying about his deeply held traditions.
Skyler shifts his weight, a subtle tell that he’s uncomfortable. “Things change. Harley and I want something that represents both of us.”
It’s the right answer, the supportive partner answer. But something in his hesitation makes me wonder if the lake house still pulls at him, if part of him still imagines saying vows on that shore.
“Well, as long as you’re happy.” Amanda’s smile could cut diamonds. “That’s all any of us want.”
“Exactly,” Skyler agrees, clearly relieved by the apparent ceasefire. He checks his watch. “I should let you all get back to the committee work. I just wanted to make sure everything was going smoothly.”
My heart sinks. He just got here, and he’s leaving already?
“You’re not staying?” The question slips out before I can stop it, making me sound needier than I intended.
“Can’t.” He grimaces apologetically. “Conference call with the Shanghai office in ten minutes. I’ll see you later?”
“Of course. Good luck with your call.”
He presses a quick kiss to my temple—too brief to even register as affection—and then he’s gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that feels like abandonment.
The room exhales collectively, as if Skyler’s presence had been holding something at bay that is now free to resume.
“Well,” Elaine says after a moment of silence, turning to Amanda. “Speaking of weddings, I was organizing some files last weekend and found your original venue sketches. The ones for the lake house pavilion.”
And we’re back. As if Skyler’s brief appearance was just a commercial break in The Amanda Show. Not to be confused with the Nickelodeon one.
“You kept those?” Amanda asks.
“Of course I did. Your vision was exquisite.” Elaine leans forward, suddenly animated. “Remember how you wanted to drape those Italian silk panels from the trees? And the floating candles on the lake at dusk?”
The wedding fantasy continues unabated, with each woman contributing another detail of Amanda and Skyler’s perfect-but-never-happened nuptials. The flowers—peonies imported from Japan. The music, which was a string quartet that played for actual royalty. The honeymoon on a private island…naturally.
I sit perfectly still, a statue of polite endurance, while my engagement ring grows heavier on my finger with each passing minute. The emerald that Skyler chose because “it matched my eyes” now feels like a poor substitute for the flawless five-carat diamond that Amanda no doubt had—probably a Thompson family heirloom passed down through generations of appropriate brides.
Finally, I’ve had enough. It’s my day off, and I’m sitting here listening to a fake, never-even-happened wedding.
So I can’t help it when I blurt, “Can we move on?”
