I toss the bag back onto the table. It slides across the wood and hits my “adequate” mug with a dull thud.
“I never wanted the card, Skyler; I wanted a partner. I wanted the man who told me he loved my independence. But it turns out you only love my independence when it doesn’t inconvenience your parents.”
Dad’s gaze shifts to Skyler, his gentle eyes now ice cold. “Skyler,” my dad says, his voice low and gravelly. “I think you should listen to what she’s saying.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Matthews,” Skyler says, pivoting to face my father, his chin lifting in that Thompson way, “you don’t understand the pressure of a position like mine. You don’t understand what’s at stake.”
“While I may not understand a fancy position like yours, I do understand a man who treats his woman like a line item in a budget. And I understand a man who lies,” my dad says, standing. “We don’t do that in this house.”
Skyler’s brows crease. He turns back to me, searching for an out. “Harley, come on. We can figure out a compromise.”
“No more compromises.” I feel like Harley Matthews again—the girl who worked two jobs to get through grad school, the woman who fights for kids who have no one. “I’m done navigating your family’s neuroses. I’m done being the guest they tolerate.”
I stare straight into his eyes.
“You want to go to that brunch? You want to be the perfect Thompson son? Then go. You can talk about atriums and Valentino red with Amanda until your heart’s content. But I’m staying here. I’m staying here to be a Matthews. Being a Matthews means being someone who actually cares about the people at the table more than the names on a guest list. I’m not going back to Lake Forest with you tomorrow, Skyler. And honestly? I don’t know if I’m going back at all.”
The room falls silent. Even the clock on the wall seems to stop.
Skyler stares at me, his mouth agape. He seems disoriented. For the first time, the Thompson mask has slipped, revealing the man underneath who realized he’s just lost the only thing that made him real.
“Harley, please,” he whispers, a final plea for understanding. “We’re out in a month and a half.”
It’s so close but feels infinitely far. Because I’m not sure if I’m losing Skyler or have already lost him.
But then I have an epiphany. With Skyler skipping out on the menu tasting and flower arrangements, I get to decide. He won’t even be present for interference.
If Skyler isn’t here, he can’t “appease” his mother during the menu tasting. He won’t be there to “compromise” on the flowers until they’re nothing but Thompson silver and navy. He’s handed me the one thing he’s been too afraid to give me for months: total control.
He thinks he’s leaving me in isolation, but he’s actually leaving me in my seat of power. And if I’m in power, then that means I can make decisions the old Skyler wanted—and I know that old Skyler is in there. I’ll get my flowers, my colors, and once we move out and walk down the aisle, we can return to our old lives. Skyler’s right, but he’s been right for the wrong reasons.
“Fine,” I say.
His head bobs in a double take. “Fine?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He inhales a sharp breath, clearly in relief. “Thank you! I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’ll be back by tomorrow night,” he says. His voice is a ghost of the confidence he had ten minutes ago. “I’ll just do the brunch, handle the Davis meeting, and drive straight back here. I’ll make it up to you, Harl, I promise.”
He hesitates, stepping toward me as if to lean down and kiss me goodbye. It’s the ritual. The “I love you” that’s supposed to bridge the gap created by his cowardice.
I don’t lean in. Don’t tilt my head.
Skyler stops mid-movement, seeing the lack of invitation. He sees the wall I’ve finally built to match his own. He looks at me for a long beat, his eyes filled with a desperate, pathetic kind of longing, and then he turns away.
The keys jingle in his hand—a small, irritating sound.
“I have to go, Harley. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
“Sure.”
“Bye, Mr. and Mrs. Matthews,” he says to my father and Maria, both standing, arms crossed.
“Yup,” my dad says. There’s no warmth in it; just the cold politeness you give to a stranger who’s overstayed his welcome.
“Drive safe,” Maria intones.
The back door opens and closes. A soft click. A finality.
