But “no work” doesn’t mean “no Thompson.”
Loud and lively, dinner begins. Between the cacophony of passing dishes and my dad’s stories of botched plumbing, Maria asks about my caseload. For a fleeting moment, the oppressive chill of the Lake Forest mansion fades from memory.
“So, Skyler,” my dad says, pointing a chunk of garlic bread his way. “Harley says you’re working on that big atrium design. Dealing with those high-end clients must be a lot of pressure.”
“It has its challenges, sir,” Skyler replies. While he maintains his polite veneer, I notice his eyes darting to his wrist. Again, he checks the time. “But I enjoy the architectural complexity.”
“Complexity is fine, but does it stand?” Grinning, Dad leans in. “In my time, I’ve seen plenty of million-dollar designs that look great on blueprints but leak the second it rains. To make it last, you’ve got to pay attention to the materials.”
“Agreed,” Skyler says. His hand goes to his pocket. He doesn’t pull the phone out, but he’s touching it. Fidgeting. Like a smoker trying to quit.
I watch him. The tension in his shoulders hasn’t dissipated. He may be physically in our dining room, surrounded by my family’s warmth, but his mind is elsewhere.
“Skyler, honey, you haven’t touched your food,” Maria notes, her voice soft but observant. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, sorry,” he says, quickly retrieving his fork. After taking a bite, he glances at me. The expression he wears is a specific grimace I’ve learned to associate with him delivering bad news.
Silence stretches. My parents are quiet, sensing the shift.
“Something on your mind, Sky?” I ask, my voice losing its warmth.
“Mother expects us at her country club brunch tomorrow,” he says, his voice taking on that measured, professional quality he uses when he’s placating a client. Or me.
My heart sinks. “You didn’t mention it.”
“I didn’t want to ruin our visit with your dad and Maria today,” he says. “But she was quite insistent. The Davises are going to be there. It’s a strategic thing, Harley. Mr. Davis is a silent partner in the Henderson development, and Father wants me there to walk him through the east-wing projections. We’d need to head back Sunday morning to get ready.”
“Sunday morning,” I repeat, the words flat. “Sunday is tomorrow. Skyler, we’re supposed to spend the entire weekend here. Maria and I are going to look at the florist’s portfolio in the morning. Dad is going to help us look at the catering menu. We planned this. Two weeks ago. You agreed.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.” The word feels like a lead weight. “But this is the Hendersons. If I’m not there, then it looks like I’m not taking the project seriously. And with Amanda’s firm being involved in the legal side now—”
“Amanda,” I breathe. Of course. It always circles back to the perfect ghost in Valentino red. “So, your mother snaps her fingers, and we’re supposed to just cut our trip short? Is that how it works now?”
I glance at my parents. My dad is staring at his plate, his jaw set in a way that tells me he’s biting back a very pointed opinion. Maria is looking at Skyler with quiet disappointment.
“We’re here for forty-eight hours, Skyler,” I say, my voice trembling. “That’s all I asked for. Forty-eight hours where I don’t have to be ‘Ms. Matthews’ and you don’t have to be a Thompson. Can’t you just tell them no for once?”
“It’s not just about telling them no, Harley. It’s about being professional.” His voice takes on that smooth, modulated tone he uses for difficult clients. “We can come back in the afternoon.”
“No, we can’t. Because you’ll have a ‘briefing’ for Monday morning. There is no end.”
“That’s unfair,” he snaps. As his phone buzzes again, he pulls it out. Without even looking at us, his thumb flies across the screen.
“Skyler,” Maria says, her voice calm. “The lasagna is getting cold. And I think my stepdaughter is making a good point.”
He looks up, the blue light of the screen reflecting in his hazel eyes, making him look cold, distant. Like the portraits in the Thompson foyer.
“I have to go back. I’ll talk to Father in the morning, see if I can push it to one o’clock, but I have to be there.”
Though the lasagna looks delicious, I can’t imagine swallowing a single bite. Saying nothing, I simply pick up my “adequate” mug and head for the kitchen sink, the ceramic cold against my palm.
I feel Skyler’s gaze on my back, my parents’ heavy silence filling the room. I’m realizing that for Skyler, home is wherever the Thompson name carries the most weight. And currently, that weight is crushing the life out of us.
Skyler’s chair scrapes against the linoleum. He’s coming to use his “management” voice, I can feel it. Turning around, I note how Maria and my father are still at the table, a few feet away, watching their daughter’s life fray at the seams.
“Harley,” he says, stepping into the kitchen.
“No, don’t ‘Harley’ me. Don’t use your junior associate tone with me. I’m not a project to be managed, Skyler.”
