Harley. Something to live in until he can afford the mansion they’ve built for him.”
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, the velvet of my swatch catching the moisture. “I love him, and that’s the partthat’s so frustrating. I know the man under the blazer. He’s kind, he’s brilliant, and he sees things in buildings that no one else sees. But the Thompson is swallowing the man, and I don’t know how to stop it.”
“You can’t,” Maria says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “Only he can.”
I look at my phone again. It’s quiet now. The persistent buzzing has stopped, replaced by a silence that feels heavier than the noise. He gave up for the afternoon. Or maybe he’s just busy with dessert.
“I don’t want to be a phase,” I say, and for the first time, it doesn’t sound like a plea. It sounds like a boundary. “Which is why I’m glad I’m planning alone tonight.”
I explain to my parents my theory about his parents’ influence and how, if I can get the wedding back to how it’s supposed to be, my Skyler will come back to me. He’ll be reminded of our late-night talks, and exactly who we are. It’ll be a real Disney Princess moment.
“I hope you’re right,” Dad says.
We talk for a few more minutes before circling back to wedding plans. Dad reaches behind him and sets three very different containers on the table—vessels to hold my centerpiece flowers. He lines them up carefully, spacing them evenly apart.
“Maria and I did some scouting,” he says, gesturing to a tall, slender glass trumpet that looks like it belongs on a gala table.
“Where did this one come from?” I ask, running a finger along the rim. The glass is thin, cold, and perfectly clear.
“The bridal boutique in town,” Dad says. “It’s hand-blown glass. Sophisticated, the lady said. It’s what people pick when they want to make a ‘vertical statement.’”
I move to the second option—a low, wide woven basket with a sturdy handle. It’s charming and rustic. “And this? What’s it made of?”
“Willow,” Maria chimes in. “Found it at that garden center near the highway. It’s more of a meadow feel, don’t you think? Very soft.”
It’s lovely, but then my eyes snag on the third option. It’s a square, heavy box. It doesn’t have the manufactured shine of the glass or the airy weave of the willow. It looks solid. “What about this one?” I whisper, leaning in closer. “Where was this purchased?”
I reach out to touch it, and my breath catches. The wood is warm, and the scent of the outdoors—sharp, clean cedar—instantly fills my lungs, chasing away the ghost of Lake Forest’s lemon polish. The grain is intricate, flowing in deep waves across the surface.
“That one wasn’t purchased,” Dad says, his voice losing its “foreman” edge and dropping into something softer. “I had a few slabs of cedar left over from the library project. I spent the last two nights out in the shop, seeing if I could join the corners just right. I wanted something that wouldn’t tip, something that felt like it had some gravity to it.”
I can’t stop touching it. My fingers trace the smooth, sanded edges and the tiny, deliberate marks where his tools had shaped the wood. I can almost feel the hours he spent under the shop lights, the sawdust on his skin, and the quiet love poured into every measurement. It’s more than a centerpiece; it’s a piece of him.
“You made this?” I ask, looking up at him, my vision blurring. “For me?”
A slow, genuine grin spreads across Dad’s face, his eyes crinkling with a pride that makes my heart ache. “For you, kiddo. I thought your wildflowers deserved a home that was as tough as they are.”
“I want these, Dad,” I say, my voice thick. “I don’t want the boutique glass or the garden center baskets. I want the ones you built with your own hands.”
He looks at me for a long, grounding second, and I know he sees that I’m not just picking a box; I’m picking a side. “Cedar and wildflowers,” he murmurs, his calloused hand briefly covering mine on the wood. “It’ll be a Matthews wedding, through and through.”
Blinking away the tears in his eyes, he picks up his pencil and says, “Now that we’ve got the sap out of the way, let’s talk about this dance floor. I think if we put the taco bar here, we can fit a bigger stage for the band. We’re going to need space for when I show everyone how to actually do the electric slide.”
“Dad, please. No electric slide.”
“It’s a Matthews wedding tradition, Harl. And you can’t fight tradition.”
I laugh, but the sound is jagged, catching on the realization that I am currently at war with someone else’s tradition, and I’m starting to think my own side might be the only one worth saving.
If Skyler refuses to support me in the planning, then I’ll plan the entire thing my way. He can either come along or get left behind.
Chapter 12
Skyler
I’m driving away from a house that smells like lasagna, toward a club that smells like chlorine, expensive laundry detergent, and the quiet, high-frequency hum of old money.
My phone is sitting in the cup holder, a black slab of potential disaster. Every time it vibrates, it feels like a small electric shock to my thigh. Harley. It has to be Harley. Or maybe Steven, calling to tell me what a monumental idiot I am. I don’t need the reminder. After all, my stomach is already a knot of tension that no amount of deep breathing can untie.
