Chapter 11
Tom
Tom swung the sledgehammer with more force than necessary, the impact jolting up his arms—a sharp, satisfying ache as concrete split and scattered across the site.
This was exactly what he needed. Mindless, physical work. Nothing but muscle and momentum. His T-shirt was soaked through despite the December chill, steam rising faintly from his shoulders. Every blow steadied him. Every crack drowned out the noise in his head.
He’d be back in his own bed tonight.
He’d go home. Lauren would apologize for her outburst, and everything would return to normal.
Simple.
His father had a crew who got paid to swing hammers while Tom handled concept drawings and layouts. But today, he needed something physical. Something that could drive the memories away.
The duffel bag was in the boot of his car, that god-awful quilt folded on the backseat.
He hefted the sledgehammer again. The muscles in his back coiled tight before he brought it down, the crack of breaking cement echoing in the cold air.
“Get out of my house.”
Another swing. Another fracture. This was what he was good at. Building things. Tearing down what didn't work and constructing something solid in its place.
He couldn’t stop thinking of Lauren crying.
“Easy there, college boy,” one of the crew called. “You trying to take down the whole building?”
Tom paused, catching his breath, sweat stinging his eyes. He wiped his forehead with the back of his glove.
He’d slept like shit on Jake’s couch—neck kinked, back aching from cushions that swallowed him whole.
All this over what? Christmas presents? Christ.
He set down the sledgehammer and grabbed his water bottle. Around him, the site was alive—the thud of boots, the buzz of saws, the honest hum of work. The grown-up world.
Here, results mattered more than feelings. You built with concrete, not paper cutouts.
The queasy twist in his stomach was just exhaustion. Too little sleep, too much coffee. It had nothing to do with the memory of Lauren's face when she'd pressed that quilt into his arms.
He pushed the image away.
He would head home early, let Lauren apologize to him. It was time she understood that her craft obsession had to stop.
He rolled his shoulders back, grounding himself in the satisfying certainty of sweat, steel, and stone.
This was what real adulthood looked like — plans, structure, progress.
Lauren was his wife. His partner. The woman he had chosen to spend his life with.
It was time she moved on from craft glue and glitter.
Maybe she wouldn’t like hearing it—but she needed to. Tonight he would explain. Calmly. Clearly.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. For a split second, hope flooded him.
But the text was from one of the junior architects, asking about structural calculations.
Tom frowned at the screen. No messages from his wife. No missed calls.
He picked up the sledgehammer again. The metal felt solid and sure in his hands.
One more swing and this wall would be ready for removal.
Clean. Efficient. Problem solved.