Changing the subject, I say, “What have you been up to?”
“I’m busy,” she says, her tone shifting to something more professional, more partner-track. “The firm is handling the legal side of the Henderson development now. We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other, Skyler. Professionally, of course.”
I think of Harley. I think of the way she looks in the morning, her hair a mess and her blue eyes filled with a fierce, uncompromising intelligence. I think of the “adequate” mug and the lasagna. And then I look at the woman beside me, the woman who represents everything my parents want for me, and I feel a wave of nausea.
“Skyler, darling, are you listening?” my mother asks.
Shit. No.
“Yes, Mother. I’m listening.”
“We were saying that the club’s grand ballroom has opened up its schedule. It’s such a relief. You know how impossible it is to get a last-minute booking this time of year.”
I set my glass down. The sound of the crystal hitting the table is sudden in the quiet room. “Harley and I haven’t selected the country club. I’ve already told you she wants the botanical gardens.”
The table falls silent. My mother’s smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes narrow. My father pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. Bill Davis clears his throat, a low, awkward sound.
“Have you forgotten about ticks?” Mom asks.
“An oversight,” Dad unhelpfully adds.
“One has to be prepared. Harley will understand, I’m sure. She seems like a very practical girl. Had she considered the mosquitoes and the ticks and the—”
“Smell,” Dad finishes.
“Ah, yes, the smell. I’m sure once she thinks about that, she’ll select the country club.”
“Son, it’s a man’s duty to fix mistakes before our women realize they’ve made one.”
I shift in my chair, my posture as rigid as a structural column. I try to pull my shoulders back, to reclaim some sense of myself, but the Thompson name is a heavy mantle, and today, it feels like it’s made of lead.
“I’ve also hired a new florist,” Elaine continues, ignoring me entirely. “The navy and silver palette is going to look stunning in that ballroom. We’re doing calla lilies and white hydrangeas. I’ve already seen the mock-ups. They’re exquisite.”
“Harley doesn’t like calla lilies,” I snap.
Elaine’s smile remains fixed, but there’s a flicker of something cold in her eyes. “Darling,” she says, her voice dropping to aconfidential, motherly tone that feels like a chokehold. “Harley will be grateful for the guidance. She’s a lovely girl, but she’s simply not familiar with events of this caliber. Her background doesn’t prepare one for the expectations of a Thompson wedding. She’ll thank us once she sees how beautifully it all comes together.”
“It’s her wedding, too, Mother,” I say, but the protest feels hollow even to me. I can feel the eyes of the Davises on me. I can feel the weight of their judgment, the quiet assessment of whether I’m the man my father says I am or the “puppet” Harley accused me of being.
“Pay your mother some respect,” my father interjects, his voice firm and final. “A union of this importance isn’t just about two people; it’s about the legacy we’re building. Talks of gardens and weeds is utter nonsense. Let your mother handle the details so you can focus on the Henderson project—that’s where your energy belongs.”
My throat tightens. It’s a physical sensation, like a hand slowly closing around my windpipe. I take a shallow breath.
The server arrives with the first course—poached salmon on a bed of green beans. A bit heavy for brunch, but that’s the way. It’s beautiful, expensive, and entirely tasteless. Embarrassed at being called out, I pick up my fork and begin the slow, methodical process of eating, while Amanda continues to smile beside me, her presence a constant, suffocating weight against my side. I am exactly where my mother wants me to be, and for the first time in my life, I don’t know how to find the exit.
Throughout our meal, we talk business. Though my attention floats between willing my body to stand and storm out and placating my parents to make it stop.
That is, until Amanda opens her mouth. “I was actually thinking about the wedding. I know it’s unusual, but I hate seeing everyone so stressed. Skyler, I know how much pressureyou’re under with the firm. And Elaine, I know you only want the best for the Thompson name.”
I feel the familiar, sickening lurch of my stomach. This is another opportunity to say no. This is where I should stand up, walk out, and drive back to that ranch house where the air smells like woodsmoke.
“I’d be more than happy to help,” she continues. “I have so much experience with family events. I know the vendors Mother prefers, and I think I can help bridge the gap between…well, between the different visions for the day.”
Mother’s eyes light up. “Oh, Amanda. That would be a godsend. Harley is a lovely girl, truly, but I think she’s overwhelmed by the scale of a Thompson wedding. She seems to think we’re hosting a garden party for the PTA.”
“I don’t think it’s that,” Amanda says. I look up, surprised. She’s looking at me with what looks like genuine empathy. “Harley has a very specific, grounded aesthetic. It’s charming, in its own way. It just needs a little…Thompson refinement. You can’t just ignore what the bride wants, Elaine. That’s how you end up with a very unhappy daughter-in-law.”
That Amanda Davis is the one defending Harley’s “grounded aesthetic” is a glitch in the universe. I lean forward, the chocolate on my spoon forgotten.
