I look at her. I look at the couple, who are now debating the merits of a mystery novel near the front window.
I give Lily a small, slow head shake. No, I don’t need red wine. No, I don’t need a distraction.
I just need to be right here.
I smile at my sister—a genuine, easy thing that doesn’t require effort. Lily’s shoulders relax, and she gives me a quick wink before turning back to the customers.
“Find everything okay?” she asks them, her voice bright and unscripted.
I am exactly where I belong.
And I realize now I’m ready to open myself to love again.
Chapter 23
Skyler
Ishouldn’t have worn the tie.
It’s pale blue St. George from Walmart. I keep adjusting the knot, my fingers twitching against the silk. It’s a reflex. A crooked tie is a sign of a crooked mind. Here, it feels like a neon sign flashing the word ‘invader.’
The waiting room of the Habitat for Humanity office doesn’t have a chandelier. The light comes from long, buzzing tubes that make my skin look gray and my borrowed button-down look like a Halloween costume. The chairs are molded plastic, reminding me of my elementary school days. Except they’re adult-sized. And thank fuck for that.
I’m the only one here. On the wall, photos of families—real families, messy and beaming—stand in front of houses with simple gables and fresh paint. They look happy. Not ‘Christmas-card-at-the-marina’ happy, but a visceral, bone-deep relief.
Thinking about my resume, I wish I had more than one entry under ‘Professional Experience’. As of right now, I only have Thompson Architectural Group listed.
Everything on this page was handed to me. Every project was a gift from Robert. Every promotion was a reward for being a dutiful shadow. I realize, with a sudden, sick lurch in my gut, that if you remove the Thompson name, this paper is just a collection of white space.
“Skyler Thompson?”
I startle, my heart hammering against my ribs. A man stands in the doorway. He’s in his fifties, wearing a polo shirt with a frayed collar and cargo pants that have actual dirt on the knees. He has the kind of hands I’ve only seen on Jake Matthews—thick, calloused, and honest.
“I’m Mike Donnelly,” he says. He doesn’t offer a hand yet.
“Yes. Hi. Nice to meet you,” I say, scrambling to my feet. I move too fast. My elbow catches a revolving rack of pamphlets, and suddenly, the room is raining brochures. ‘Building Strength.’ ‘Building Stability.’ ‘How to Volunteer.’ They carpet the linoleum in a flurry of glossy paper.
“God, I’m sorry,” I mutter, dropping to my knees. I’m a thirty-year-old man crawling on the floor of a nonprofit office to pick up pamphlets. Sweat prickles at my hairline. “I’m usually more . . . I’m sorry.”
Mike watches me for a beat, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t help me pick them up. He just waits until I’ve shoved the pile back into the rack—crookedly, of course—and then gestures toward his office.
“In here,” he says.
Mike sits behind a metal desk and takes my resume. He reads it slowly. Much too slow, given the lack of content. Meanwhile, I sit on the edge of the chair, my hands clasped tightly between my knees. I try to remember the interview tips Steven gave mebefore I left. Maintain eye contact. Lead with your strengths. Be humble, confident, and relatable.
“Tell me about yourself, Skyler,” Mike says, leaning back.
“I graduated Magna Cum Laude from the University of Illinois with a master’s in architecture. I was immediately recruited by Thompson Architectural Group, where I’ve spent the last seven years specializing in luxury residential developments. I’ve overseen projects with budgets exceeding twenty million dollars, focusing on sustainable materials and high-end aesthetic integration. My father—Robert Thompson—founded the firm.”
I stop. It sounds like a press release. Like nepotism times ten.
Mike stares at the resume again. “Twenty-million-dollar budgets,” he repeats. He sounds like he’s quoting a foreign language. “That’s a lot of Italian marble.”
“It is,” I say, trying for a confident smile. “I’m very comfortable managing complex resources and demanding timelines.”
“There’s no Italian marble here. We use donated lumber and volunteer labor. We have a budget where we have to choose between a better HVAC system or a porch. Why do you want to work for us? You’re clearly overqualified for a site supervisor position.”
I feel the scripted answer rise to my lips. It’s the one I rehearsed in Steven’s bathroom mirror. “I want to give back to the community. Everyone deserves a home, and I want to use my talents for a greater cause. I’m at a point in my life where I want to focus on philanthropy over profit.”
