“He can talk to the dial tone,” I say.
As if on cue, my phone vibrates on the counter behind me. It’s a rhythmic, insistent buzz—a digital heartbeat that won’t stop. I don’t even look at it. I know the number. I know the pattern. I know the tone of the texts he’s sending—that desperate, pleading management voice that thinks every problem has a compromise if you just negotiate long enough.
“I’m not pausing my life for him,” I continue. “He had his chance to be a partner, but he chose to be an heir. He can live in his museum, and I’ll live in the world.”
Dad clears his throat. He’s been quiet, focusing on his food, but I can see the gears turning in his head. “The guest room is fine, Harley, but it’s cramped. And Maria needs the space for her sewing projects if she’s going to keep the bookstore’s inventory moving.”
My heart sinks slightly. I don’t want to be a burden. “I’ll find an apartment. I’ve already started looking at the local listings—”
“I’m not finished,” Dad says, holding up a hand. “I’ve been thinking… I’m sleeping on the couch anyway since the back surgery. That bed in the guest room is hell on my spine. I’m going to move my stuff out of the workshop’s office. It’s got a separate entrance, its own little bathroom, and it’s quiet. You can stay there. It’s yours as long as you need it.”
“Dad, no. You love that office. It’s your sanctuary.”
“My sanctuary is wherever my family is safe,” he says, his voice final. “I’ll clear it out tonight. We can put the daybed in there, maybe some of those colorful rugs Lily likes. It won’t be a ‘suite,’ but the roof doesn’t leak and there isn’t a single calla lily in the zip code.”
Maria reaches into the pocket of her apron and pulls out a folded section of the local newspaper. There are red circles all over the ‘Apartments for Rent’ column. “I did some scouting after the thrift shop. There are a few places near the park. Modest, but they have character. One of them is above the bakery on 4th. Imagine waking up to the smell of sourdough instead of whatever French perfume Elaine sprays on her curtains.”
I look at the red circles. I look at my sister, who is already planning a housewarming party that involves cheap wine and a karaoke machine. I look at Maria and Dad, who are building a safety net underneath me without me even having to ask.
This is what a merger looks like. Not a joining of trust funds, but a pooling of strength.
“I’ll pay rent,” I say. Ironically, Skyler and I didn’t stay with my parents because of the commute, and now here I am. I’m commuting and single after the worst months of my life. If I’m going to stay here long-term, I could find a job closer to here, but I don’t want to leave my clients in the lurch.
“We’ll talk about that later,” Dad says, standing up to clear the plates. “Right now, you just focus on Mrs. Delgado. And on blocking that number. The sound of that phone is starting to irritate the dog.”
Lily grins. “I’m staying over this weekend. We’re going to watch bad movies, and I’m going to teach you how to make a sourdough starter. It’s a metaphor, Harl. Something that takes work but actually feeds you.”
I laugh, a real sound that vibrates in my chest. “I think I’d rather just stick to social work, Lil.”
“Fine. But I’m still staying.”
As I help Maria dry the dishes, the phone buzzes again. One long, persistent vibration—a voicemail. I imagine Skyler standing in the mahogany hallway, his voice breaking as he tells me how much he’s changed. I imagine the regret in his eyes.
I pick up the phone, walk to the trash can, and for a split second, I consider listening, just one last time. To see if he’s finally found his spine.
But then I look at my father, who is currently dragging a toolbox toward the workshop to build me a room. I look at Maria, who is circling a future for me in red ink.
I delete the message without listening. The silence that follows is the first genuine peace I’ve felt in months.
I’m sitting cross-legged on the twin bed in my childhood room. The duvet is a faded floral print that’s lost its crispness, but the cotton is soft against my skin. The only light comes from my phone, a cold blue glare that feels like a surgical instrument.
Lily is leaning against the doorframe, a glass of water in her hand. She’s watching me with the focused intensity of a bodyguard. “You doing okay? You’ve been staring at that screen for five minutes.”
“I’m performing an exorcism,” I say.
I open the contacts. Skyler. It’s a name that used to mean safety, but now it just looks like a brand I can’t afford. I hit the small ‘i’ in the corner. Scroll down.
Block this Caller.
The phone asks for confirmation. You will not receive phone calls, messages, or FaceTime from people on the block list.
“Good,” I whisper and tap the button.
The screen flickers. He’s gone. At least, from the immediate reach of my pocket.
Next comes social media. I unfriend, unfollow, and block. I watch the photos of us disappear—the gala at the Art Institute, the weekend in Door County, the one where he’s kissing my cheek and I’m laughing at something he said. They look like stills from a movie I’ve decided to walk out of. I delete the shared accounts, the cloud storage, the digital footprints of a “merger” that never stood a chance.
“It’s not about being petty,” I tell Lily, looking up from the screen. My eyes feel dry. “I just need to breathe. Every time it buzzes, I hear his ‘management’ tone. I hear him trying to find a compromise where everyone wins. But in his world, ‘everyone wins’ just means his mother doesn’t have a migraine and I lose a piece of myself.”
