Chapter 18 Lauren
Lauren
“Right,” Rina said, signaling the waiter with authority. “We’re drinking, and Lauren’s not paying a cent because her husband’s an ass.”
Lauren sat wedged into the corner booth, surrounded by her colleagues like a protective pack. The restaurant still wore its Christmas lights—soft, twinkling lies.
“He’s not—” Lauren began, but Sage waved her off.
“No defending him. We heard the story.”
Vivian, already shrugging off her immaculate coat, said, “And the cheese board. This requires alcohol and cheese.”
When the wine arrived, Vivian poured generously. “Start from the top.”
And Lauren did.
The words spilled out faster than she meant them to: Judith’s quiet contempt, the silence that had followed, the quilt, the check, her idiotic snooping, Mia’s necklace.
Tom calling her “cringe.”
The inescapable truth that Tom didn’t want someone like her.
By the time she finished, her voice was raw, and her glass was empty.
Rina looked ready to throw hands.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Lauren said softly. “The look on his face when he saw what I’d made him.”
The table fell silent—charged, pulsing with collective fury.
"Lauren, I've been married three times," Vivian said then. Her perfectly manicured fingers wrapped around her wine glass. “The first husband cheated. The second was an asshole. The third seemed great at first, but he wore me down, day by day.”
She paused to take a sip of wine, letting that sink in.
"You know which one did the most damage? The third one. Because at least the cheater and the jerk were obviously problems. By the time I saw that the third was taking more than he was giving, I was convinced that wanting more was greedy. That I should be grateful."
Lauren felt tears prick her eyes.
"I wasted eight years with him," Vivian continued. "Eight years telling myself I was lucky, that other women had it worse."
"But you divorced him," Wren said softly.
"Eventually.” Vivian's laugh was bitter. She raised her glass. “To Lauren. For realizing sooner than most of us do.”
The toast broke the tension—glasses clinked, laughter bubbled up, sharp and bright.
Sage grinned. “That wreath you brought in? The ‘I Deserve Better’ one? That’s a statement.”
“That should be our January feature,” Rina said over her wine glass. “An anti-holiday spread.”
Vivian’s eyes gleamed. “What if it was?”
There was a pause as the table processed Vivian’s words.
And suddenly everyone was talking—page counts, layouts, art direction, print deadlines. Hands waving, phones out, calendars open, a hundred moving parts snapping into motion.
Lauren sat still, half-dizzy, watching the swirl of conversation like it was a storm she’d somehow summoned.
Lauren blinked. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly,” Vivian said. “I need your wreath, and one or maybe two more pieces. Something bold.”
“By January?” Lauren asked, dazed.
“By tomorrow,” Vivian said briskly, sliding out of the booth.
“That’s insane,” Lauren said.
But even as she said it, ideas were already sparking—flaring too bright to ignore.
Her anger, her hurt, her heartbreak transformed into color and texture, something that couldn’t be ignored.
Her pulse thrummed, her fingers itched for scissors, glue, wire.
"Another bottle?" the waiter asked, appearing at their table.
"Absolutely not," Vivian said, standing and reaching for her coat. “Lauren, you have work to do."
Lauren stood in the attic, heart pounding.
Was she even capable of two brand new pieces by tomorrow? Yes. Right now she was capable of anything. Something hot and electric was sparking through her veins like a live wire.
Her gaze landed on a pile of wire, foil, and half-finished ornaments. A star frame, something that had been waiting for her inspiration.
She thought of Tom’s face when he’d looked at her quilt. That bland, polite mask he’d learned from his mother. The way he’d folded it up, careful not to touch it for longer than necessary.
Cringe.
That was the word he’d chosen. Her love, her work, her hours bent over fabric—cringe.
This wouldn’t be delicate or tasteful.
No. It would be perfect.
She wired layer after layer of tinsel around the frame—silver, gold, red—until it caught every scrap of light in the room. Then she added glitter spray, shards from a broken ornament.
Her phone buzzed on the table; she ignored it.
More was more.
Lauren stepped back. The thing was ridiculous—glittering, gleaming, loud as a scream.
Richard would have hated it. Judith would have sneered.
And Lauren couldn’t stop smiling.
Because it was perfect.
It needed one more, unsubtle addition. Her brush moved steady and sure, each stroke defiant, as she spelled out the word that defined this piece. The word that defined her.
C-R-I-N-G-E
A tree-topper. A crown for her rebellion.
Let them call her cringe. She’d own it.
The staple gun’s crack was satisfying. Violent.
Lauren thought of Tom’s silence while his parents made their careful little comments.
Very festive. How industrious.
Every backhanded compliment while her husband just sat there and said nothing.
While he agreed with them.
Her jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
The shape came easily, the familiar Christmas stocking curve.
Across the cuff where a name should have gone, she embroidered two words in thick, deliberate stitches.
TOO MUCH
A declaration, not an apology.
She sat back. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Lauren reached for her hot glue gun and her box of embellishments. Buttons first—dozens of them, red and gold and pearl-white, overlapping like scales. Then rhinestones, because of course rhinestones. They caught the light and refused to let it go.
She added bows—three different ribbons that didn’t match in color, texture, or logic. Each one wrong in its own way. Each one perfect.
A mist of gold spray paint across the edges until it shimmered, unapologetic.
Too much. Way too much.
Exactly right.
Lauren stood back and looked down at the stocking spread across the worktable. The stocking gleamed.
Tom would hate it.
And tomorrow, it would be photographed for a magazine feature. Seen. Celebrated.
Her phone buzzed beside her. Three missed calls. Two texts.
Can we talk? Please call me back.
Her gaze dropped to her wedding ring. She twisted it, feeling its familiar weight. It used to mean love and protection. Now it felt too heavy.
But it was a weight that she wasn’t ready to take off. Not yet.
But she was ready for this. Ready to show the world that her craft, her work, her cringe, was worthy of respect.