My overnight bag sits on the bed, half-unzipped. I borrowed it from Dad and have already purchased the essentials, including a toothbrush, a change of clothes, and deodorant. After my failed wedding, I wanted nothing more than to return home with family. Not the fake family Skyler introduced me to, but my actual, supportive one. Staying in a hotel felt tortuous. I’d rather commute to work than be alone right now.
I step out of the bedroom and into the hallway of the small craftsman house where I grew up. It’s a house built on blueprintsand sweat, not social capital and legacy. I follow the scent of cedar and old motor oil toward the back of the house.
Dad is standing by the kitchen island, his large, scarred hands resting on the granite. He stares at me, and for the first time in months, I don’t see the worry of a father who thinks his daughter is outgrowing him. Instead, I see a man who just watched his kid survive a hurricane.
He doesn’t ask how I’m feeling. He just opens his arms.
I walk into the hug. Safely with my dad, I press my face into the rough cotton of his shirt and finally, the tightness in my chest that started months ago begins to loosen. It doesn’t disappear, but it stops feeling like a strangulation.
“You’re home now,” he says into my hair. His voice is a gravelly rumble, a sound that doesn’t know how to lie. “That’s all that matters, Harley.”
He lets go and nods toward the kitchen table. It’s a solid oak piece he built himself when I was eight. Now it’s covered in nicks and dark circles from years of hot mugs and dropped forks. It’s a map of a life actually lived. Such a difference between this and the Thompson home.
Maria is at the stove with her back to us. She’s moving with quiet, efficient grace. When the kettle whistles, she pours the tea into mugs.
“Drink,” she says, placing a chipped ceramic mug in front of me. It’s the one with the faded painting of a bear sneaking around a cabin. The rim is slightly uneven, a manufacturing flaw that Elaine would have deemed a crisis. To me, it feels like a grip I can trust. “It’s chamomile.”
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the steam dampen my face. The heat seeps into my palms, chasing away the chill of the Lake Forest air-conditioning.
“He called,” Maria says softly, sitting in the chair opposite me. She doesn’t have to say his name. “Three times while wewere driving. I blocked the house line temporarily. I figured you weren’t ready.”
If ever.
“I’m not,” I say. My voice sounds thin, like paper. “For the last several months, I’ve said the same thing repeatedly. There’s nothing left.”
Dad sits at the kitchen table, close enough to be present, but far enough to give me space. He’s staring at a small piece of cedar he pulled from his pocket—the remnant of the boxes Elaine had tossed. He’s turning it over and over in his fingers, studying the grain.
“The thing about foundations, Harley,” he says, not looking up, “is that if they’re built on sand, it doesn’t matter how pretty the house is. With the first big storm, the whole thing is going to shift. You did the hard part. You stopped the construction before the roof caved in on you.”
“I just feel so stupid,” I whisper, looking into the amber depths of the tea. “I let them bribe me. Let them use my client, Mrs. Delgado, as leverage. I let him convince me to give them chance after chance.”
“They didn’t bribe you,” Maria says, her tone firm but not unkind. “They exploited your heart. That’s the difference. Being a good person isn’t a weakness. But it can be a vulnerability that people like the Thompsons know how to weaponize.”
“I know,” I say. “But I also can’t help but wonder if everything would have been different had I given in like Skyler wanted. Maybe I was being too difficult. Maybe I was the problem. If several people tell me every day that I’m wrong, how can I be right?”
Maria reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You stayed true to your values and kept your integrity—that’s what matters. You weren’t difficult; you were setting boundaries.”
I’m not annoyed at my parents lecturing me like we’re in a 90s sitcom. Because it’s advice I need right now. Their words and support are the only things preventing me from crawling back inside myself.
While I have no regrets about leaving Skyler, that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.
But it does mean that I feel like myself. I’m Harley Matthews again.
Needing more clothes since I absolutely refused to return to the mansion or the apartment Skyler and I shared, Maria, Lily, and I go to the local thrift store to get me some emergency clothes.
No shame in shopping thrift. I’m a social worker on a social worker’s salary, after all.
The thrift store is a maze of polyester. Racks upon racks of options.
“Okay,” Lily says, sliding a selection of floral dresses aside with a metallic shriek that makes my teeth ache. “Rule number one: If it looks like it belongs on a yacht, we leave it here for the irony-starved hipsters.” Thank you, Lil. “Rule number two: If it requires a steamer, it’s a hard pass. We’re going for ‘competent professional who isn’t trying to impress a board of directors’ today.”
I pull a pair of faded Levi’s from a bin. The denim is soft, broken in by someone else’s life. They cost six dollars. In Lake Forest, six dollars wouldn’t buy you the ribbon on a gift box. Here, it buys a pair of pants that don’t care if I sit on the floor to talk to a foster kid.
Staying away from our shared apartment and his family’s mansion meant accepting a grueling two-hour commute. Iwasn’t willing to take a leave of absence, but thankfully, my boss allowed me to work remotely on days I wasn’t meeting clients. Dad tried to convince me to keep my vacation since I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon and already had the time off anyway, but I’d rather throw myself into work than wallow.
In my basket it goes.
“How about this?” Maria asks, holding up a simple navy cardigan. It’s wool, a little thick, but the buttons are made of wood. It looks like something a person would wear to a library, not a gala.
