“No,” I say. “You gave birth to me. There’s a difference.”
Turning my back on her is a physical wrenching of my entire history. Still, I walk to the exit with Steven beside me.
I don’t look back when she calls my name. I don’t look back when the sound of her heels follow us, then stop, as she realizes it’s no use.
We push through the heavy glass doors and step out onto the stone terrace. The night air hits me—cool, damp, smelling of Lake Michigan and asphalt. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever tasted.
We reach the Ford F-150. Steven waits for me to get in, then climbs into the passenger seat. He looks at me for a long beat, his expression finally stripping away the cynicism.
“I’ve never been prouder to be your brother, Sky,” he says.
“Thanks. Proud of you, too.”
Chapter 27
Skyler
The sun over 4th and Maple doesn’t care about my pedigree. It beats down on the back of my neck with a blunt, honest heat that silver-plated trays never could. My tool belt is heavy, a familiar weight that rests on my hips where a tailored waistband used to sit. The leather is stained with sweat, and the pockets are full of nails and a retractable tape.
I like the grime.
I’m standing in the almost completed structure of what will soon be a home. This isn’t the imported Italian cedar from the mansion; this is reclaimed lumber, rescued from a warehouse on the south side and planted down to its core. It’s sturdy, resilient, and carries the history of a city that doesn’t mind scraping its hands.
Diego, the foreman, is leaning over the makeshift table we’ve built out of two sawhorses and a sheet of plywood.
“The joists are solid, Skyler,” Diego says, his voice a low rumble that carries over the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of hammers from the back of the house. “But we need to check the clearance for the bathroom again. If the chair can’t make the radius, the entire wing is a failure.”
I tap the blueprint with a pencil stub. “I adjusted the specs. We’ve got an extra six inches if we move the vanity three degrees to the left. And I want to use the low-VOC paint for the interiors. Mrs. Delgado’s lungs don’t need the chemical off-gassing of a standard finish.”
Diego nods, a slow, single motion of respect. Behind him, two of the younger crew members are hauling a load of shingles. They pause as they pass us, nodding to me. I’ve earned my place here, square by square, nail by nail. I’m not the boss’s son or the guy who sits in an air-conditioned office drawing up plans other people will execute. I’m the man who knows why the load-bearing wall needs an extra stud.
“Make it happen,” Diego says, moving toward the rear of the site.
I’m left alone with the blueprints when an older-style Honda pulls to the curb. But it’s the dent in the rear bumper that gives the driver away.
My heart, usually a steady, mechanical throb these days, suddenly hits a snag. It jumps against my ribs. I don’t move or breathe. I can only watch through the open framing as the door swings wide.
Harley steps out.
She’s wearing a blazer over a simple top, her hair pulled back into a professional bun. It’s only been three months since I last saw her, but it might as well have been years. She’s focused, her eyes scanning the site with the keen, sharp intelligence that I’ve always admired and occasionally feared.
She moves to the passenger seat and helps Mrs. Delgado out, the older woman moving slowly.
Since there is nowhere to hide, I pull my shoulders back, adjust my tool belt, and continue with my work.
Harley spots me as they approach the perimeter of the site. Her stride doesn’t break or falter. I’d known Mrs. Delgado would be here today, but I was unsure if my ex-fiancée would be joining her.
“Good afternoon,” she says to me as she nears the plywood table. Her voice is clear, crisp, and entirely devoid of the history we share. “I’m Harley Matthews, the social worker representing the Delgado family. This is Mrs. Tia Delgado, the future homeowner.”
She says it as if we’ve never shared a bed, as if we’ve never argued about the shade of a kitchen tile or the cruelty of my mother. She’s introducing her client to a consultant.
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Delgado,” I say. “I’m Skyler Thompson, the architect and a laborer on this build. I’ve been looking forward to showing you the progress.”
I glance at Harley. Her eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second—a cool, blue impact that feels like a physical blow. Then, she turns back to her client, her hand on the woman’s arm.
“Skyler will be our guide today,” Harley says, and the way she says my name—without warmth, without weight—is the coldest sound I’ve ever heard.
Diego passes out hard hats, and I help Harley and Mrs. Delgado put them on correctly.
