burgundy and gold—a combination that felt royal, solid, and safe. But as I look at the gold
silk now, it feels like I’m trying to fit into a mold that doesn’t belong to me.
One swatch is that muted gold—sophisticated, the kind of color that nods to tradition. The other is a bold, almost defiant burnt-orange velvet. It’s the color of autumn in the country, of the fire in the fireplace.
I’m paralyzed. I can hear Elaine’s voice in the back of my head: “Orange, dear? How unfortunately vibrant. It certainly makes a statement about your heritage.”
“You’re doing it again,” Maria says. She’s watching my face, her expression a map of calm. She reaches across the table and hands me a thick black marker. “The Thompson Voice is in the room. I can see it in your frown.”
“I don’t want it to look tacky,” I mutter, staring at the velvet. “I thought the gold was the right choice, but what if the orange is too much?”
“Tacky is just a word rich people use to describe things that have too much personality,”
Dad says without looking up. He’s focused on a piece of graph paper, sketching in pencil. He isn’t an architect, but he knows how to build, thanks to his construction days. It was originally something he and Skyler had bonded over. And while Skyler is off catering to his parents, my dad is laying out the ceremony space for the botanical gardens—the venue Skyler and I actually wanted before Elaine started pushing the country club. “If you love it, it isn’t tacky. It’s yours.”
“Circle the two that feel most ‘you,’” Maria says, gesturing to the swatches spread across the table. “Don’t think about the ballroom. Don’t think about the photos that Mother Thompson wants to send to the alumni magazine. Just circle what feels like home.”
I look at the gold and realize it was never for me; it was for the person they want me to be. Because truthfully, they would have hated it, anyway. They would have hated any color I picked, so I might as well pick the one I want. Plus, Skyler’s not here. He knows today is the day we officially pick our colors so we can start ordering decor.
I stare at the burnt orange, then at the burgundy velvet from earlier. I circle them both with a thick, satisfying stroke of the marker. The ink bleeds into the fabric, permanent and unapologetic.
“There,” I say, and my heart gives a little skip of relief.
“Good,” Maria says. “Now, why does your phone look like it’s trying to vibrate itself off the table?”
I glance at the offending device. Five missed calls. Eight texts. Skyler is drowning in Lake Forest and trying to pull me in after him. I can almost feel the frantic energy coming through the glass screen. The “management” voice in text form. Sky promised he’d be here by dinner, so I’d rather he text less and drive more.
Giving in, I glance down and read.
Harl, please answer. Something came up.
Let me guess, he’s not driving back after all. Guess I’m taking an Uber back to Lake Forest.
Maria shifts in her chair, the old wood creaking. “Harley. Tell me the truth. Is it just the wedding? Or are you realizing you’re fighting for a man who isn’t standing on the same side of the line as you?”
The question is like a needle prick to a balloon. All the air goes out of me. I lean back, my spine hitting the chair, and I feel the hot sting of tears behind my eyes. I’ve been so busy being angry that I forgot how much it hurt to be scared.
“I’m scared he’s slipping away,” I say, the words catching in my throat. “His family has this gravitational pull. It’s from centuries of being told they’re special, that they have standards to maintain. And Skyler doesn’t know how to exist outside of it. I’m watching him slip back into that robot-version of himself, and I don’t think I’m strong enough to pull him out.”
Dad stops sketching and sets the pencil down to look at me. He doesn’t look at Skyler as an architect or a Thompson. He looks at him as a man failing his daughter.
“Listen to me, Harl,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “I’ve only talked about this once or twice, but you need to hear it today. Your mother—your biological mother—wasn’t a
Thompson, but she had her own version of that gravity. Her family had money, they had a ‘Reputation,’ and she spent every second of our marriage trying to bridge the gap between who she was with me and who they expected her to be.”
I stay quiet, the air in the room suddenly still.
“I thought if I were patient, she’d eventually choose our life,” Dad continues. “I thought love was enough to cancel out twenty years of conditioning. But it wasn’t. Patterns don’t improve after the wedding, kiddo; they intensify. Once the ‘I do’ is said, people like the Thompsons don’t back off...they double down. They see the marriage as a win for their side. And unless Skyler is willing to put in the work and change, he’s showing you exactly who he is right now.”
“He says he’s ‘navigating’ it,” I say, leaning into the word Skyler loves so much.
“Navigating is what you do with a storm you can’t control,” Dad says, leaning forward. “If he won’t draw those lines now, Harley—if he won’t tell his mother that her guest list is trash and his ex-fiancée’s number is blocked—then he’s not navigating. He’s conceding.”
I stare at the orange fabric. At the burgundy. At the sketches my dad made of a space that belongs to us. I think of Skyler at a country club brunch, nodding along as someone talks about sea bass and social obligations, probably touching his phone in his pocket and feeling guilty but doing absolutely nothing about it.
“Amanda calls our engagement a ‘phase,’” I say, my voice trembling. “And I suspect that Skyler knows she still wants him.”
“A phase?” Dad’s eyes go ice-cold. “Then he’s treating your heart like a starter home,
