I offer a small, brief smile. It’s the first one I’ve given him in I’m not sure how long.
“Good.” Then, after a pause. “Would you like to have lunch sometime? Not here…at a restaurant. Somewhere with actual chairs and maybe a menu that doesn’t involve Styrofoam.”
Skyler’s hands, which were resting flat on the blueprints, suddenly tighten, his fingers curling into the paper until it crinkles. His expression shifts as a slow, dawning realization crosses his face.
“I’d like that,” he says, his voice a low, stable rumble. “I’d like that very much.”
“Next Thursday?” I ask. “After the inspection?”
“Thursday is good. I’ll…I’ll find a shirt without holes in it.”
“Don’t worry about the shirt, Skyler. I’m not interested in the clothes.”
He laughs, which triggers a chuckle out of me, too.
I turn and start to walk away before I can overthink it, before I can see the hope in his eyes turn into something that looks like an expectation. I’m not promising him anything. The altar is not forgotten. And I’m not saying the Thompson name doesn’t still taste like ash in my mouth.
But as I navigate the mud and the gravel, heading toward my dented Honda, I feel a strange lightness in my stride.
Chapter 30
Harley—five years later
The country club had a way of making the sky look like an expensive accessory. Everything there was curated to within an inch of its life, from the golf course grass that felt like carpet to the silver-service silence that hung over the ballroom. That wedding—the first one, the one that burned down—was a performance in a limestone cage.
My father’s backyard is different.
The grass here is cool and damp against my bare feet, a messy, clover-dotted patch of Earth that doesn’t care about its social standing. I stand on the edge of the clearing behind the house, the morning air sharp with the scent of pine and damp soil. The sun is a pale, smudged thumbprint against the gray-blue of the horizon, dragging the shadows away from the trees.
Sixty folding chairs stand in neat rows in front of me. They aren’t the gold-leafed chivari chairs Elaine had insisted on.They’re simple, sturdy things, each one decorated with a bow of forest green or baby blue fabric. The colors don’t scream for attention; they settle into the landscape like they belong here.
At the end of the aisle stands the arch.
My father spent the last three weeks in his workshop. He used cedar and reclaimed maple—wood with grain like a thumbprint, rough in some places and sanded smooth in others. While a simple structure, it’s the most beautiful piece of architecture I’ve ever seen.
Sorry, Sky. Though the Delgado house is a close second.
I walk toward the arch, my toes sinking into the soft mud. As I pass, I run my hand along the side. I can still feel the faint heat of the friction from the sanding. Lily and Maria were up until the late hours yesterday weaving wildflowers through the corners—vibrant bursts of burgundy, gold, and white.
Hanging from the low branches of the ancient oaks surrounding the clearing are mason jars. Dozens of them are suspended by a wire from shepherd’s hooks. Inside, the fireflies are still. They look like little seeds of light, dormant and patient.
Everything here has a light, airy, and liable weight to it.
I think about Skyler. I think about him at the site on 4th and Maple, his boots caked in this same mud, his hands scarred by this same kind of wood. We aren’t building a dream anymore. We’re building a foundation.
This is just a girl in her father’s yard, waiting for the man who finally learned how to build a door that doesn’t need a key.
The dew is soaking into my hem, but I don’t move. I want to feel it. I want to remember exactly how the ground feels. It’s cold, uneven, but real. And us.
Most importantly, us.
The mirror in my childhood bedroom has a tiny crack in the bottom left corner, a spiderweb of glass that I’ve looked at for twenty years. It doesn’t bother me.
Maria stands behind me, her hands steady as she works the crown of wildflowers into my hair.
The dress is lace, not the heavy, beaded silk of my last one. This is light, simple, with a bodice that lets me breathe and a skirt that doesn’t require a team of bridesmaids to navigate a doorway. It has no train, no veil to hide behind. It doesn’t look like an investment. It looks like a garment worn by a woman who is ready to walk, not just pose.
“There,” Maria whispers. She steps back, her eyes catching mine in the glass. She looks at the wildflowers, then at the way the lace sits against my collarbone. Her face is soft, but her eyes are searching.
