It sits on the nightstand, a glowing slab of rejection. I stare at the screen until the pixels burn into my retinas. 11:42 p.m. 2:15 a.m. 4:00 a.m. I’ve sent sixteen texts in the last twelve hours. I’ve called five times. Every time the call goes to voicemail, I hear her voice—that pragmatic, grounded tone she used when she was telling me about a new case—and it feels like a physical blow.
Hey Harl. Please. Just let me know you got home.
I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do.
Harley, I’ll leave. I’ll walk away from everything. Just talk to me.
The status of the messages remains unchanged. Delivered, but never read. Or maybe read through the notification bar, then swiped into the trash like our wedding invitations. I don’t blameher. It doesn’t mean I don’t wish she’d pick up the phone, though.
I haven’t left this bed in three days. The sheets tangle around my legs like white silk restraints. I’m still wearing the same undershirt I had on when I crawled in here after the club emptied.
Enjoying my purgatory in the only way I can, I flinch when my bedroom door crashes open. It’s Steven. Desperate for him to leave, I pull my duvet over my head and hope he takes the hint. We’re not close anyway. I bet he’s here to gloat.
But he does neither. Instead, he rips off my covers and then tugs the heavy velvet curtains open with a mechanical screech.
Sunlight hits me like a bucket of ice water.
I groan, shielding my eyes with my forearm. “Get out, Steven!”
“And the Sleeping Beauty stirs. I was thinking you’d pulled a Juliet and taken the easy way out. But no, you’re just rotting. Efficient, I suppose. Less paperwork for the Thompson Foundation.”
I squint at him through the glare. He’s standing by the window, silhouetted by the mid-morning sun. He’s wearing a faded band shirt and jeans, looking entirely too functional for a house currently in the middle of a social nuclear winter.
“What time is it?”
“Tuesday. Or maybe Wednesday. Does it matter?” Steven walks over to my desk and picks up a gold trophy. He examines it with an expression of profound disgust before setting it back down. “I’ve seen better-looking corpses in documentary footage.”
“Steven, really, I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh, I know. You’re in the ‘strategic retreat’ mood. Your favorite. The one where you crawl back into the womb of the family mansion and wait for Mother to tell you it’s all going to be okay, as long as you marry someone with a better pedigree.” Hekicks a discarded shoe across the floor. “The Thompson retreat ends now. You’ve had seventy-two hours of wallowing. Time to get up.”
“She won’t answer me,” I say, the words catching in my dry throat. “She’s gone, Steven. Really gone.”
He lets out a short, harsh laugh. “Of course she’s gone. She walked out of a three-hundred-guest wedding at the Lake Forest Country Club after telling our parents to go to hell. What did you think was going to happen? She was going to wait by the Audi and ask if you wanted to go for spicy potato tacos?”
“I love her.”
“No. You love the idea of her.” Steven leans in, his face inches from mine. He doesn’t have the Thompson polish. He looks tired, cynical, and honest. “You loved having someone real to point to so you didn’t have to admit you were becoming a cardboard cutout of Robert. But when the choice came between being a man and being a Thompson, you froze. You let her drown in a sea of silver and navy so you wouldn’t have to explain to Mother why the napkins weren’t the right shade.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair is a word for children. We’re Thompsons. We don’t do fair; we do ‘appropriate.’ And what you did to that girl wasn’t appropriate.”
I sit up, the movement making the room spin. I look at my hands—clean, soft, the hands of someone who has never done a day of real work in his life. I think of Jake’s hands. I think of the cedar boxes. I think of the dumpster.
“I didn’t think Mother would actually do it,” I whisper. “I thought if I gave in on the venue, then she’d leave the rest alone.”
“Then you’re more of an idiot than I thought. Our mother doesn’t want compromises, Sky. She wants total surrender. She wants to see the light go out in someone’s eyes so she knows they’re finally safe. She did it to Dad, she did it to Amanda. Shetried to do it to me, but I was too much of a prick for the mold to take. And look at us now. I’m free, and you’re…here.”
“I have to find her,” I say, my voice trembling.
“You can’t find someone who doesn’t want to be found by you.” Steven turns back to me, his expression softening just a fraction. “You’re not ready to see her, anyway.”
“That’s not what I’m thinking.”
“Isn’t it?” Steven walks over to the closet and yanks open the doors. Row after row of tailored shirts and expensive blazers stare back at us. “Look at this. This is your life. A collection of garments designed to make you look like you belong in a room full of people who don’t care if you’re happy as long as you’re successful.”
He grabs a handful of shirts and throws them onto the floor.
