Chapter 10
Lauren
Lauren sat on the edge of their bed, staring at the red lace. She’d been planning on seducing her husband tonight.
What a fucking joke.
Lauren picked up the lingerie, letting the lace spill through her fingers. Twenty-four hours ago, the idea had made her feel powerful. Sexy. Now it just felt humiliating. Like a costume from a play she hadn’t realized was over.
Her chest ached. Five years of marriage.
Five years of handmade gifts and now—every ounce of love she’d poured into him now curdled inside her. Embarrassment. Humiliation.
She caught her reflection in the mirror. Cheeks blotchy from crying. Box-dyed hair. Red lipstick. She’d thought it was festive but now the color just looked cheap. Gaudy.
Ordinary. Overdone. The kind of wife who didn’t even earn a hand-picked gift.
Her gaze swept over the room, and she saw it the way Tom must.
The garland across the headboard. The felt stockings with their careful, contrast stitching. Too many ornaments clustered on the dresser.
Her homemade Christmas. Her love of color. Her love of excess. A desperate, gaudy love letter plastered across the walls, to a man who didn’t want it.
The garland came down in one violent yank.
The lights she’d wound carefully through the curtain rods were harder to unweave, until finally they too ripped free in a tangle of wire and bulbs.
Every decoration she’d displayed felt like an announcement of her own stupidity.
She grabbed the mason jar snow globe from the nightstand. For one intoxicating moment, she wanted to smash it, to watch it explode into glitter and glass and water.
Instead, she let it slip from her fingers and roll harmlessly across the bed.
All that work. And none of it—not one single piece of it—had been good enough for him.
Lauren stood among the wreckage, surrounded by torn garland and shredded ribbon. Her vision blurred.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. Friends and family sending their Christmas messages. Her parents on their cruise, her colleagues on the group chat. Little reminders that other people cared. That to them, she mattered.
Lauren looked at the wedding ring on her finger. Gold, solid, familiar.
Mia’s shining face rose in her mind—Jake fastening the necklace around her neck, his eyes soft. The way her sister-in-law’s hand kept rising to touch it, again and again, unable to stop. The way Jake looked at her like she was priceless.
Lauren was jealous of her after all. Bitterly, achingly jealous.
Jake had fastened a necklace around Mia’s neck; Tom had folded a quilt and put it away. One gesture was love. The other, dismissal.
Outside, the snow fell soundlessly, a white shroud over the world.
This was supposed to be the best day of the year.
Instead, it was the day Lauren’s world collapsed—quietly, beautifully, completely.
Lauren woke to silence.
Her hand reached instinctively for the familiar warmth of Tom's body, before her brain caught up. Cold sheets.
Over five years of waking up beside him. Over five years of that steady, reassuring presence.
She pressed her face into his pillow, breathing in the faint trace of his shampoo. Her chest ached with missing him—the weight of his arm around her waist, the way he’d pull her closer in his sleep.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the curtain rail where yesterday fairy lights had been strung.
Outside, the world was muffled with snow, soft and white and peaceful.
Maybe she’d overreacted. Maybe she’d misunderstood.
The quilt in his hands.
Her own voice—so bright, so eager—like a child showing off a school project. Do you recognize this? Remember that?
Heat rose in her cheeks even now, alone in the quiet room.
The way he’d set it aside.
Everyone had seen it. His parents. Jake. Mia.
They’d all seen that Tom was embarrassed by her.
She pressed her palms to her face.
She’d been so sure that she was making something wonderful. So sure he’d see the love sewn into every seam and feel—
What? Cherished?
What did Lauren know about feeling cherished?
She pulled on her robe.
The living room was still a graveyard of Christmas—crumpled paper on the floor, empty wine glasses on the mantel.
Lauren sank onto the couch, curling her knees to her chest. The house felt hollow without his presence filling it. No coffee brewing, no shower running, no off-key humming.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. Hope you and Tom had a magical Christmas!
Eventually the screen dimmed back to black.
She pulled the blanket tighter, tucking her chin against her knees.