Skyler
The phone vibrates on the scarred wooden table of my new apartment, its buzz sounding like a swarm of angry hornets against the bare grain. I’m nursing a lukewarm beer and staring at a sketch of a porch railing for the 4th and Maple site. The screen glows with a name I haven’t seen in eight months: Mr. Simpson, the manager of the country club.
I pick it up on the fourth ring.
“Skyler,” Mr. Simpson says, and I can hear the nervous sweat in his tone. “I apologize for calling. I know it’s late. But we have a significant clerical issue with the final billing and the insurance indemnity from…the event last September. There are four documents that require an original signature to close the file. The board is quite insistent on having this finalized before the fiscal quarter ends on Monday.”
That’s what they’re calling it now: the event. Not the disaster; not the day I lost my future, but finally grew a spine. Just the event, like it was a particularly rainy Tuesday or a charity auction that failed to meet its goal.
“I’m not going there,” I say. “Mail them.”
He clears his throat, a tiny and pathetic sound. “I’m afraid these are sensitive internal documents, so they cannot leave the premises. If you could just spare twenty minutes? I’ve stayed late specifically to accommodate you. I’m in the main administrative office.”
I want to hang up, but I also want every bridge between me and that club burned to the ground, and if it takes a signature to provide the match, I’ll do it.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll be there in thirty.”
I call Steven. He’s the only person I trust not to judge me for going back into the belly of the beast. Twenty minutes later, he’s climbing into the passenger seat of my Ford F-150. He looks at the dashboard, then at me, then at the half-empty bag of fast food on the floor.
“I still can’t believe you bought a truck.” He shakes his head, though there’s a flicker of a grin under his cynical mask. “You’re really leaning into the salt-of-the-earth thing. What’s next? A denim jacket and a sudden interest in country music?”
“It’s functional,” I say, shifting into gear. The engine rumbles, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my seat. “And not about the image.”
He leans back. “No, of course not. It’s about the soul. But listen to me. If we get there and Simpson starts talking about ‘family obligations’ or ‘long-term investments,’ we’re leaving. I’m your get-out-of-jail-free card. Use me.”
My knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel, the skin stretched tight over bones that feel fragile. My hands are shaking, a fine tremor I can’t stop. The road to Lake Forest is awinding ribbon of darkness and perfect hedges. As we pass the stone pillars marking the entrance to the community, I feel the weight of it. The social gravity. It’s a pressure that pushes against my lungs, telling me to straighten my back, to check my hair, to be the man they expect.
I fight it by slouching in my seat.
We reach the country club. The white colonial architecture looms out of the darkness, lit by spotlights that make it look like a stage set. Parking the Ford right out front, I tuck it between a Porsche and a Bentley. It looks like an ugly, dented bruise on a perfect body.
“I like that it’s here,” Steven says, opening his door. “It ruins the aesthetic.”
We walk toward the entrance, my boots clunking against the stone steps. At the door, the valet starts to move toward me, his hand reflexively going for his cap, but he freezes when he sees the truck. He glances at me, then at the Ford, and his eyes go wide. He recognizes the face, but the context has changed. I don’t give him the keys. I just walk past.
Inside the lobby, I call out, “Mr. Simpson?”
A door near the back office opens. Mr. Simpson steps out, but he isn’t alone. He looks sheepish, his eyes darting to the floor, his hands twisting a set of keys.
“I’m so sorry, Skyler,” he whispers. “I really am.”
And then she steps out from behind him.
My mother.
She looks perfect, as always. A charcoal silk dress that moves like water, a single strand of pearls, and a posture that suggests she’s the one holding up the ceiling. She doesn’t look like she’s been waiting in a back office for an hour.
Honestly, it’s pathetic, especially for her.
“Elaine,” I say.
The word is cold. I use her name as if she’s a stranger I’ve met at a business meeting I didn’t want to attend.
Her eyes flicker, a brief flash of hurt that she immediately suppresses behind a mask of regal disappointment.
“Skyler,” she says, her voice like honey poured over glass. “You’ve been ignoring my calls and your father’s texts. You’ve left us with no choice but to take matters into our own hands.”
I turn to Mr. Simpson, my jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. “A trap? You called me here for a clerical issue so she could ambush me?”
