“You’re here,” I whisper, a desperate attempt to break the ice.
She doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t squeeze my fingers. She just stands there, a beautiful, white-shrouded warning sign, and waits for the slaughter to begin. I turn to face the priest, my heart racing, my palms damp against her skin. I’ve done it. I’ve managed the merger. Now I just have to sign the contract.
The priest’s voice is a drone, a rhythmic recitation of traditions that feel as dusty as the Thompson family Bible. I stand there, nodding at the appropriate intervals, feeling like a man who has finally reached the summit. My legs are a little shaky, the adrenaline of the entrance beginning to ebb, leaving behind a hollow, frantic exhaustion.
I steal a glance at Harley’s profile. Her jaw is set. A stray curl has escaped her veil, resting against the pale skin of her neck, the only part of her that looks soft. I want to reach out and tuck it back, to touch her, to remind myself that she’s real and not just an expensive prop in my mother’s latest production. But the weight of the moment—the three hundred pairs of eyes, the silver-framed judgment—keeps my hands frozen.
“Do you, Skyler Thompson,” the priest intones, his voice booming through the silent hall, “take Harley Matthews to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
I don’t hesitate. I’ve spent months rehearsing for this, months navigating toward this specific sentence. “I do.”
My voice is clear. It’s the voice of a Thompson who has delivered on a promise. It’s the sound of a deal closing. I feel a surge of genuine warmth, a delusion that this “I do” can wash away the dumpsters and the gift cards and the secret texts. I look at Harley, expecting the mask to break, expecting a smile—even a small, resigned one.
The priest turns to her. “And do you, Harley Matthews, take Skyler Thompson to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
The silence that follows isn’t the romantic kind; it isn’t the pause of a woman overwhelmed by love. It is the silence of a structure about to collapse. It stretches, growing heavier with every beat of my racing heart. I see my mother lean forward in the front row. I see Robert’s eyes narrow.
“No.”
The word is small, but in the vacuum of the country club, it sounds like a gunshot.
I physically recoil, my hands dropping from hers as if her skin has suddenly turned to fire. The world tilts on its axis. I feel the blood drain from my face, the air in the ballroom suddenly too cold to breathe.
“Harley?” I whisper. It’s a pathetic sound. A plea. “What are you doing? Is this a joke?”
She doesn’t look at the priest. She doesn’t look at the crowd. She looks at me, and for the first time in weeks, the “management” mask is gone. Underneath is a woman who has found her voice, and she’s using it to tear me apart.
“No, Skyler.”
“Harley, please,” I stammer, my eyes darting to my father. Robert’s face is a mask of purple-tinged fury. This is the ultimate embarrassment. This is a branding nightmare. “Whatever this is, we can talk about it later. Just say the words. Please. Don’t do this here.”
“I gave you every chance to prevent this, Skyler. I told you that one more lie, one more ‘management’ move, and I was gone. Did you think I was joking?”
She doesn’t understand. I need her to understand. It was never about me; it was about them. About pushing past to save ourselves in the long run. “I was trying to save the day!” I shout, my voice cracking. The “management” is gone. I am just a man in a tight suit, drowning in front of three hundred people. “I was trying to keep the peace.”
“You weren’t saving the day; you were saving your standing at the country club.” She pulls her hands away, the motion clean and final. “You watched your father insult my career. You watched your mother throw my family’s work into a dumpster. And you let them plan a wedding that belongs to Elaine Thompson, while I was at my father’s house thinking I had a partner.”
My mother’s high-pitched voice rings in my ears. “This is unseemly!” I can see the pulse jumping in her neck. “Robert, do something! This girl is—”
“This girl is leaving,” Harley says.
No! All I’ve sacrificed is falling apart. My chest aches enough that I have to catch my breath. When Harley turns back to me, I feel small. Without her, I’m nothing.
“I know about Amanda,” she says.
My heart stops. Panic, raw and jagged, surges through me. She knows? How? I think of the texts, the late-night sessions at the bar where I let Amanda’s easy understanding soothe the guiltof my cowardice. I think I’m being honest, but I’m really just bleeding out.
“I can explain!” My voice cracks, a high, thin sound that doesn’t belong to a man at his wedding. “We’ve only been texting here and there, and when she flirted with me—”
“Wait.” Harley lifts a hand. The silence that follows is sharp enough to draw blood. “What are you talking about?”
The air leaves the room. I realize, with a sickening lurch in my stomach, that I just handed her a weapon she didn’t even have. I look at Amanda, who actually looks ashamed, shrinking back into the pew, but my mother steps forward, her voice like ice cutting through my humiliation.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she unhelpfully says. “Amanda was helping plan your wedding. If she and Skyler were flirting, it’s only because you’ve been so difficult.”
“No!” I shout, but the word dies in the vaulted ceiling. The damage is done. I’ve just confirmed her worst fears in front of every business partner my father has ever known.
Harley lets out a dry, hollow laugh. “Wow. I was referring to your previous engagement, Skyler. But it seems I’m behind on the times, aren’t I?”
