Some of the ladies gasp. Literally gasp!
But it works, because even though Elaine mutters, “No decorum,” under her breath, we do indeed move on to actual charity.
Chapter 7
Harley
The oak-lined streets of Lake Forest feel alien as I walk slowly, each deliberate step an act of postponement against returning to Thompson territory. I had to get out of there after the “charity” meeting. The mansion looms, not like a house, but like a museum exhibit. A place where I’ll never relax.
Lily’s words tumble in my mind, sharp-edged and deeply uncomfortable. Is she right? Is Skyler repeating a pattern I am too much in love to recognize? I need a second opinion.
I pull out my phone, scrolling past Skyler’s missed texts to find the number I need. Dad answers on the second ring, his familiar, gruff voice instantly grounding me.
“There’s my girl.” His tone, solid and familiar as worn leather, flows through the phone. “Caught you on your dinner break?”
“Sort of.” I move off the sidewalk to let a jogger pass. “I had coffee with Lily earlier.”
“Ah.” That single syllable holds volumes of understanding. “And how is Hurricane Lily today? Still thinking she should dye her hair green to complete her look?”
“It’s purple now. And she’s…” I hesitate, unsure how to describe my sister’s warnings without sounding like I’m complaining about Skyler. “She’s concerned…about me. About us.”
Dad’s silence is comforting. He isn’t waiting for his turn to speak; he’s actively listening.
“The Thompsons are suffocating me,” I admit. “Elaine keeps ‘organizing’ my things without permission. Robert talks around me like I’m invisible. And Skyler…” My voice catches. “Skyler tries to help, but he leaves too soon.”
I wait for his immediate reassurance or defense, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the silence stretches, familiar and patient, giving me the space I desperately need.
“Lily thinks it’s a pattern. That Skyler did the same thing with Amanda. That he let his parents mold her into what they wanted until she wasn’t herself anymore. She thinks I’m headed down the same path.”
“And what do you think?” Dad finally asks.
“I think…” I close my eyes, leaning against the maple’s rough bark. “I think I love him. And I think his parents are making me question whether that’s enough.”
Dad sighs, the sound familiar from a thousand childhood conversations about difficult truths. “Standing your ground doesn’t mean starting a war, sweetheart. Remember, these people will eventually be family.”
It isn’t the blanket validation I expected, but still valuable.
“So I should just let them walk all over me? Let Elaine rearrange my life while Robert pretends I don’t exist?” The edge in my voice is sharp and unconcealed.
“No, not at all.” His tone remains measured, steady. “But there’s a difference between defending your boundaries and turning every interaction into a battlefield. One preserves your dignity; the other just exhausts you.”
I consider this, watching a cardinal land on a nearby fence. Its vivid red feathers stand out starkly against the pristine white paint—a bright disruption in Lake Forest’s carefully controlled color palette. I feel a kinship with its boldness.
“Elaine moved my coffee mug again this morning,” I say, the petty complaint slipping out. “Said it ‘belonged with the everyday set’ and not with the ‘good china.’ Dad, it’s the mug you gave me—the one with my certification logo.”
“Hmm.” I can picture him rubbing his chin, the familiar gesture of deep thought. “And what would happen if you just kept putting it back where you want it? Without comment. Without explanation. Just quietly reclaiming your space.”
The simplicity of the suggestion is startling. Not confrontation, not surrender. Just a silent, unwavering insistence on my right to exist on my own terms.
“It’s not my house. I’m only a guest. And I don’t want to make things harder for Skyler,” I say, the real fear finally emerging.
“Did he try to help when this happened?” Dad asks, the question gentle but direct.
“Yes, he did.” I nod, recalling his quick defense with his hand on my shoulder. “But he leaves too soon. He’ll make a supportive statement, then immediately change the subject or remember a meeting, giving up the fight before it even starts.”
“Only because he’s choosing to stand in the middle, honey.” Dad’s voice softens. “Have you told him exactly how this is affecting you? Not in the heat of the moment, but in a real conversation?”
I think of our whispered exchanges in the hallways, the strained conversations in separate bedrooms. How much haveI actually said, and how much have I swallowed to maintain a brittle peace?
