“The problem,” Mother says, her voice hardening, “is the aisle. Harley insists on these wildflowers. In jars. It looks like a high school prom in the Midwest. I’ve already spoken to the decorator about the red carpet. It’s classic, royal. It’s what people expect.”
I think of Harley, her eyes flashing as she talked about her wildflowers.
“Why can’t we have both?” Amanda asks. “What if we do the red carpet—give it that structural, Thompson elegance—but we have the florists sprinkle it with wildflower leaves and petals? Not the whole flower, just the debris. It gives the illusion of aforest floor without looking messy. It’s a compromise. Skyler, what do you think?”
I stare at Amanda. The idea is brilliant, in the way a trap is brilliant. It satisfies Mother’s need for status and gives Harley a nod toward her vision. Middle ground is what I’ve been hunting for months.
“It could work…” I say. “Harley likes the natural look. If we frame it correctly, I think she’d appreciate the gesture.”
“See?” Amanda smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “It’s all about the presentation. And the cake, Elaine. I heard you wanted the six-tier fondant with the silver filigree?”
Mother sighs. “Harley wants a naked cake. With lemon curd. She said fondant tastes like plastic.”
“She’s not wrong,” Amanda laughs, a light, musical sound that fills the silence I should be occupying. “But a naked cake at a black-tie event looks unfinished. What if we do a lightly frosted white cake, but we use silver leaf to create the ‘naked’ effect? It looks rustic and expensive at the same time. We can even do the lemon curd filling.”
“Silver leaf,” Mother muses, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to dissipate. “Acceptable.”
I sit there, watching the two of them reconstruct my wedding. Amanda is navigating Mother better than I ever have. She’s using the language of Thompson expectations to smuggle in pieces of Harley’s identity, or at least a sanitized version of them. And I’m letting her. I’m sitting here, eating my cold soufflé, all while feeling a treacherous, coward’s gratitude toward my ex-fiancée.
“You’re a genius, Amanda,” Mother says, reaching across the table to pat her hand. “Isn’t she, Robert?”
“Practical,” Father says, which is the highest praise he ever gives.
Amanda looks at me, her green eyes shimmering with something I can’t quite read. “I just want the day to be perfect for Skyler. He’s worked so hard on the Henderson project. He shouldn’t have to worry about the guest list or the flowers.”
“Exactly,” Mother says. “Skyler, you should thank her. This is the first time I’ve felt like we’re actually making progress.”
“Thank you, Amanda,” I say, though the words feel like lead in my mouth. I know how this would look to Harley; I know the fire that would burn in her eyes if she saw me collaborating with the woman Mother wants to replace her with. But Harley isn’t here. Harley is with her dad and a woman who wears coffee stains like badges of honor.
Here, in the cool, filtered light of the club, Amanda’s compromises feel like the only way to stop the bleeding.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Amanda says, her voice low and playful. “We still haven’t tackled the seating chart. But I think with a little more wine, we can convince Elaine that a folk band might work if we hide them behind enough greenery.”
The weight on my chest lightens. I tell myself that I’m doing this for Harley. I tell myself that if I can get Mother to agree to these compromises, then Harley will see that I was working for us all along.
I’m a puppet, just like Harley said. But as I watch Amanda deftly steer Mother away from the red carpet and toward the wildflower debris, I realize that I’m a puppet who has finally found a more talented puppeteer. And God help me, I’m just glad to be sitting down while someone else pulls the strings.
After brunch, I stand at the club’s mahogany bar, the crystal decanter of Macallan 25 heavy in my hand. The amber liquid catches the light.
“I didn’t think you’d still remember my drink,” Amanda says. She’s leaning against the edge of the bartop, her silk blouse shimmering in the dimness.
“Neat, two fingers,” I say to the bartender. When ready, I hand her the drink.
Then, after I take a sip of my own, I say, “Thank you. For tonight. For Mother. I don’t know how you did it.”
Amanda swirls her scotch, her eyes fixed on the golden whirlpool. “I spent three years learning the Elaine Thompson dialect, Skyler. It’s not that hard once you realize everything she says is a coded request for reassurance. She doesn’t want a red carpet; she wants to be told that her son’s wedding won’t be a social embarrassment.”
“I really do appreciate it,” I say. “The compromise with the leaves…Harley might actually go for that. It’s better than a full-scale war.”
“I didn’t do it for Harley…” Amanda looks up, her gaze direct and uncomfortably sharp. “I did it for you. You look like you’re about to shatter, Skyler. Your posture is perfect, your suit is impeccable, but your eyes…it’s like you’re not there anymore.”
I look away, focusing on a smudge on the bar.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just stressed.”
“Stop,” she says, stepping into my personal space. “We don’t have to do the Thompson thing when we’re alone. We’ve earned that much, haven’t we?”
I take another swallow of scotch. “I don’t know what we’ve earned, Amanda.”
