“Good.”
I turn and walk toward the door. Every step feels like I’m moving through wet cement. I reach the threshold and stop in front of Jake. I look him in the eye—one builder to another.
“Thanks for letting me in, Jake,” I say.
“Good luck with the site, Thompson,” Jake says. “Watch out for the zoning boards. They’re bastards.”
“I will.”
After I leave and am about to start my truck, my phone buzzes in the cup holder. I don’t have to check to know who it is. Steven.He’s been checking on me every hour since I told him I was going to the Matthews’ house.
How’d it go, Sky? You still breathing?
I stare at the screen, wanting to tell him that I failed. He was right—you don’t come back from the altar. But I can’t find the words. I can’t even find the motivation to unlock the phone. Instead, I let it go dark.
I reach for my left wrist.
The Patek Philippe feels heavier than a lead pipe. I unbuckle the leather strap, the gold buckle glinting one last time under the streetlamp. This watch was a reward for being a good son. It was a graduation gift from a man who only loved the versions of me that won trophies.
I open the glove compartment. It’s filled with receipts for lumber, a spare set of work gloves, and a half-eaten bag of beef jerky. I place the watch inside, right on top of a crumpled invoice for two-by-fours. I shut the door. Clack.
The sound is final.
I sit there for a long time, my forehead resting against the steering wheel. The grief is there, sharp and ripped at the edges, but underneath it, something else is stirring. It’s a lightness. A strange, terrifying freedom.
For the first time in my life, nobody is waiting for me to be perfect. Robert isn’t waiting for a report. Elaine isn’t waiting for me to pick a navy napkin. Even Harley isn’t waiting for me to fix myself anymore.
I’m nobody.
Chapter 25
Harley
Justice isn’t a blind goddess with a set of scales.
She’s a tired woman in a beige cubicle with a broken stapler and a stack of paperwork.
In this office, justice is a dogfight. Scrappy, loud, and it usually ends with someone crying over a three-hundred-dollar security deposit.
I sit across from Mrs. Rodriguez, our knees nearly touching because the consultation room was designed for people who don’t require personal space.
“He says the radiator is fine, Harley,” Mrs. Rodriguez whispers, her voice a fragile thing. “He says the ice on the inside of the window is just decoration. But my grandson, he’s coughing. He’s coughing that deep sound again.”
I glance at the file. The landlord is a name I’ve seen before—a shell company owned by a larger firm that probably hasits headquarters in a building my ex-fiancé helped design. The irony is a bitter pill, but I’ve learned to swallow it without water.
“The ice isn’t decoration, Mrs. Rodriguez. It violates the municipal code.” I lean forward, putting my hand on the table. “We’re filing for an emergency injunction. We’re going to force him to turn the heat up or we’re going to start escrowing your rent.”
I say ‘we,’ but I mean the lawyers in our office.
She looks at me, her brown eyes searching mine for a lie. I give her the truth instead—it’s the only thing I have.
I reach for my coffee mug, a chipped ceramic thing that says, “Social Workers: Because Even Superheroes Need a Day Off”. It was a gift from Sarah, my office-mate who handles domestic violence cases.
Before the mug can reach my lips, the door flies open.
Sarah bursts in, looking like she just ran a marathon through a rainstorm. Her hair is sticking out in three different directions, and her face is the color of a ripe tomato. She’s gasping for air, her hand clutching the doorframe.
“Harley,” she wheezes. “You…you need to come to the front. Now.”
