Chapter 15 Tom
Tom
Tom couldn't sleep.
The bed was too soft, the room too quiet, the glow-in-the-dark stars overhead too much of a reminder that this was Lauren's childhood bedroom. That she'd slept here for years, dreaming whatever dreams girls had, before she'd grown up and met him and he'd—
He rolled onto his side, trying to find a comfortable position.
The quilt she’d made him lay folded at the foot of the bed.
Tom closed his eyes and tried to ignore it.
His phone sat on the nightstand, dark and silent. No texts from Lauren. No missed calls.
His mind wouldn't shut off, kept circling back to the same moments on repeat.
Lauren's face when she'd opened that envelope. The way her smile had just... stopped.
Tom sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face. The room felt stuffy. He reached for the lamp and switched it on. He needed water, or air, or something to stop the thoughts from spinning.
The quilt drew his eye.
Lauren had been so excited when he’d unwrapped it, pointing out every detail, and all he'd been able to think about was how his parents were watching. How much he'd wanted Lauren to just... stop talking. Stop drawing attention to something so clearly homemade, so obviously amateur.
Do you see it? That square there—that's our first date.
Her voice had been so bright.
He'd barely looked at it on Christmas Day. He looked at it now.
Tom knew what was tasteful. His mother had drilled it into him and Jake when they were children. And then when he had taken the job in the family business, his father had kept teaching him, showing him what it took to be a professional.
The squares spread across his hands, a patchwork of colors and scenes.
Everyone started out with a chaotic sense of taste but part of growing up was learning to refine that, to… suppress it.
There was too much going on, too many patterns competing for attention. His initial instinct was the same as Christmas Day—to fold it back up, put it away, not think too hard about it.
The first square showed two coffee cups, steam rising in careful embroidery. The cups sat on what was clearly meant to be a café table, tiny stitched legs beneath a checkered surface.
Their first date.
He'd been nervous. Lauren was nothing like anyone he’d met, nothing like the people he’d grown up with. And yet, he’d never connected with someone so immediately.
He’d thought: I could fall in love with this woman.
Had he ever told her? Had he ever told her that he’d thought that on their first date? Would she find it sweet? Or deranged?
Tom's fingers traced the embroidered steam. The stitches were uneven, clearly hand-done. Not perfect. But the scene was unmistakable.
Square after square, their relationship had been laid out in fabric and thread.
The work started out clumsy. She'd unpicked stitches and redone them, little holes in the fabric marking her mistakes. The early squares were rougher than the later ones, her skill improving as she went. Nothing about it was professional or polished.
Tom's hands moved over the quilt, finding details he'd missed at first glance.
Some of the squares had dates embroidered beneath the scene in tiny, careful numbers.
Their initials were hidden in the corners of some, intertwined like a monogram.
In one square—the honeymoon beach—she'd stitched their footprints in the sand, walking side by side.
The bottom row was different. The squares were blank, temporary stitches holding them in place.
For everything still to come.
That's what she'd said, wasn't it? On Christmas Day, when she'd been showing him the quilt with such obvious pride. He'd been too busy being embarrassed to actually listen, but he remembered now. She'd pointed to these empty squares and talked about the future.
She'd been planning for forever. Making space in the quilt for babies and anniversaries.
Tom sat on the edge of the bed, the quilt spread before him like evidence.
He'd called it cringe. It was cringe.
His throat felt tight.
How long had this taken? Work done in secret, spare moments stolen to create this. While he'd been at the office or on job sites, Lauren had been stitching their history. Documenting their life together like it was something precious. Something worth preserving.
His hands curled into fists on top of the quilt. The fabric wrinkled under his grip, and he immediately let go, smoothed it flat again, careful not to damage it.
He stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Outside, snow fell in the pale glow of streetlights, covering everything in white. The neighborhood was silent, sleeping, everyone else tucked warm in their beds, husbands and wives together.
And he was here. Alone in his wife's childhood bedroom.
He’d fix it—whatever it was. He just needed a plan.
Somewhere between midnight and dawn, the decision had taken shape. He wasn’t losing her. Not over this. Not over a misunderstanding.
Now, in the light of day, he sat at Linda and Gerald’s kitchen table, staring at the notebook he’d found on the counter. Definitely Linda’s. Pale pink cover, tiny roses printed around the edges.
The delicate flowers made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
Lauren loved roses.
He'd brought her a single red rose once when they had been dating. Such a small thing, but she'd acted like he'd given her diamonds.
Tom uncapped his pen.
Flowers
He wrote the word carefully. He needed something big this time. Something showy. He could get it delivered to her work.
Tom's pen moved without conscious thought, tracing the outline of one of the printed roses in the margin. Then he drew another. His hand knew the shape somehow, the curve of petals, the way the stem tapered.
Dates
The pen kept moving in the margins, more roses appearing. Simple outlines at first, then more detailed as his hand found a rhythm.
What else had worked when they were dating?
God, he'd written her actual letters. Handwritten, trying to put his feelings into words that didn't sound stupid or clichéd. His hand cramping from the unfamiliar motion of writing longhand instead of typing. Lauren had kept every single one, tied them with ribbon.
He added it to the list.
Letters
Tom paused. The envelope on Christmas. She’d been expecting something other than the check inside.
She'd thought it was a letter. Had wanted it to be a letter.
Something clawed at the back of his throat.
Tom looked down at the notebook, surprised to find he'd filled the entire margin with roses. Dozens of them, some simple outlines, others more detailed. His hand had been sketching while his mind wandered.
The flowers looked clumsy compared to the printed ones on the cover. They were everywhere, crowding around his list like they were trying to say something he couldn't quite hear.
He tore his attention away and focused on what he'd written.
Flowers and letters and romance. That's how he'd won her in the first place, wasn't it?
It had gotten him Lauren's yes when he'd proposed. It had gotten him the wedding, the marriage, the life he wanted.
He'd buy the biggest bouquet the florist had. Write whatever words she needed to hear. Remind her that she loved him.
Tom closed the notebook.
He'd start with flowers.