“Lily would know. She’s changed her hypothetical wedding plans six times since high school, and she’s not even dating anyone.”
“Your sister contains multitudes,” Dad says gravely. “Most of them loud.”
I set a clean plate in the drying rack. “We’ll figure out flowers this weekend if it’ll make you both happy.”
“And the menu? Maria’s got suggestions.”
“I’m sure she does.” I smile, picturing my stepmom with her ever-present notebook of ideas. “We’ll discuss everything when we’re there, I promise.”
“Good.” He clears his throat in that way that signals a subject change. “Your mom called yesterday. Wants to know if she can bring that guy she’s seeing to the wedding.”
I sigh. “Kevin? They’ve been together, like, what, three weeks?”
“Four, apparently. That’s practically common-law marriage in Carol-land.”
My mother’s revolving door of relationships has been a constant since she left when I was twelve. Dad never speaks ill of her, a kindness I’ve tried to emulate.
“Tell her it’s fine. At this rate, we’ll have more guests than venue capacity.”
“Speaking of guests,” Dad says casually. “Are Skyler’s parents joining any of these planning sessions? Maria mentioned inviting them for dinner sometime.”
My shoulders instantly tensed. The plate I’m rinsing slips from my fingers, clattering against the sink basin. A familiar knot forms in my stomach at the mere mention of Robert and Elaine Thompson.
“They’re busy.” The words taste false even as I say them. “Robert’s company is in the middle of some big project, and Elaine has her charity commitments.”
The truth is more complicated. The Thompsons have made their disapproval clear since Skyler brought me home. I wasn’t Amanda—Skyler’s ex-fiancée, and their handpicked future daughter-in-law. I didn’t attend the right schools, move in the right circles, or have the right family connections. Every interaction since has been an exercise in polite disdain.
The proof of their influence was tucked in the back of a desk drawer. I found an old Polaroid of Skyler and Amanda at a college dive bar. She was wearing a worn-out burgundy leather jacket, her hair a messy tangle of blonde, laughing so hard the camera was a blur. It was a jarring contrast to the woman I seeon social media now. The Amanda Leigh Davis of today only wears muted tones and luxury silk, her natural vibrancy sanded down to a finish that matches the Thompson family silver. Skyler once told me she ‘grew up,’ but looking at that photo, it felt more like she mirrored what was expected of her.
And look how that turned out for her.
“Right.” Dad’s tone tells me he hears what I’m not saying. “Well, the invitation stands. Might be good to break bread together before the wedding.”
The thought of my down-to-earth father and label-conscious Elaine Thompson discussing centerpieces makes me wince. “I’ll mention it to Skyler.”
Another lie, but some battles aren’t worth fighting at seven-thirty in the morning.
“You okay, Harley?” Dad’s voice softens. “You know you can talk to me about anything.”
For a moment, I consider telling him everything—how Elaine suggested a different engagement ring when she saw mine, how Robert calls Skyler daily with “career advice” that sounds suspiciously like control, how family dinners leave me feeling two inches tall through no words are said directly to me.
Instead, I say, “Just nervous about court. The Johnson case is complicated.”
“You’ll handle it,” he says with complete confidence. “Those kids are lucky to have you fighting for them.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Call me after court? Let me know how it goes?”
“Will do.” The shower shuts off down the hall. “I should finish up here. Skyler’s almost ready to leave.”
“Give him my best. See you Saturday.”
“Love you,” I say.
“Love you more, kiddo.”
I end the call just as Skyler emerges from the bedroom, hair damp and perfectly styled, wearing the charcoal suit that makes him look like he stepped off a magazine cover. The transformation from sleepy, bedheaded man to polished professional still fascinates me after three years.
