Chapter 20
Lauren
Lauren spotted Tom's car in the parking lot before she'd even pulled into her space. Her stomach dropped, an unfamiliar mixture of longing and dread was her new response to seeing her husband.
He was leaning against the building's glass facade, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, his breath visible in the cold air. He looked tired. Good. She hoped he hadn't been sleeping any better than she had.
Lauren gathered her things from the passenger seat—the two pieces she'd finished last night, wrapped in tissue paper and ready for Sage's photography session.
Tom straightened when he saw her and fell into step beside her. “Lauren,” he said quietly.
She didn’t look at him. “I’m late.”
“Come out with me tonight?”
Lauren stopped walking, her grip tightening on the wrapped pieces. "Tom—"
He kept his hands in his pockets, kept his distance. "I know showing up at your work is—I tried calling. But you weren't answering my calls, and I—"
Her first instinct was to shut him down. To make him feel what she’d felt—small, unwanted, dismissed. The word no hovered on her tongue.
“Just to talk.” And then he added—softly, almost pleading. “Please.”
Lauren studied him. Tom was always confident, always sure of himself. But right now he looked… desperate.
Lauren shifted the wrapped pieces in her arms. Part of her—the part that was still so angry she could barely breathe at times—wanted to make him suffer the way she'd suffered at Christmas.
But that one word, the way he said it—quiet and genuine—made something twist in her chest.
When she spoke, her voice was firm, controlled. “I don’t want some big, romantic reunion. Not dinner. We talk. That’s all. And it happens because I am choosing it.”
Tom blinked, surprised by the steel in her tone. Then—slowly—he nodded. “Whatever you want.”
“This is what you get.” She gestured at herself: her worn jeans, her old wool coat, the cardigan she’d pulled on that morning without thinking. “No dressing up. No pretending this is romantic.”
Tom's brow furrowed slightly, confusion crossing his features. "You look beautiful."
Heat rose in her cheeks before she could stop it.
“Seven o’clock,” she said. “I’ve got work to do now.”
Tom nodded. He stepped closer, and for a moment Lauren thought he might try to kiss her. Instead, he reached out and gently adjusted her scarf where it had slipped off her shoulder. The contact was brief but it left her heart stumbling in its rhythm.
At the entrance he held the door for her, stepping back to give her the space to pass.
Through the glass of the lobby, she could see him still standing there, watching her.
Lauren looked down at her wrapped pieces. The "CRINGE" tree topper sat on top, visible through the thin tissue paper.
The word glared up at her, sharp and ugly. A reminder of Christmas. Of humiliation.
She had a photo shoot waiting.
She didn’t need his approval.
"Lauren!" Sage spotted her immediately and waved her over. "Did you finish the pieces?"
Lauren set the wrapped artwork down carefully on her desk, avoiding eye contact. "They're ready for you.”
“Are you okay?” Sage asked, studying her face. “You’re not happy with them?”
Lauren opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "Tom was waiting for me in the parking lot just now.”
Zoe's head popped up. Wren rolled her chair closer.
"He asked me out.” Lauren's voice came out angrier than she intended. "And I said yes."
She thought again of Christmas Day—of the quilt, of his face. Of watching his brother gift the necklace she’d dreamed of to someone else.
“I should have said no. I should have told him that talking won’t fix what’s broken.” Lauren's voice rose. "But instead I'm standing there thinking about how good he smells and how much I miss him and—"
"And you're a human being with feelings," Wren interrupted. "Not a robot programmed to stay angry forever."
"But shouldn't I be—I don't know—stronger than this?"
Sage laughed. “Girl, you kicked him out on Christmas. You made a giant statement wreath. Your art is about to be featured in a magazine. How much stronger could you be?”
Lauren thought about the pieces wrapped on the desk. The anger that bled into every letter. The clarity she'd felt making them.
“I don’t feel strong,” she admitted. “I feel… pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic,” Wren said decisively. She leaned forward. “It’s just one date, right? You get to decide what you need from him. Not the other way around."
“Exactly,” Zoe's expression turned mischievous. “You can just use him for the physical stuff and keep him at arm's length emotionally."
Lauren's face went hot. "Zoe!"
"What?" Zoe shrugged. "Separation doesn't mean celibacy."
"I am not—" Lauren could feel her cheeks burning. "That's not what tonight is about."
"Sure it's not." Zoe's grin was wicked.
"It's not!" Lauren protested, but her voice came out too high. "I would never—we're separated, I'm not just going to—"
"Nobody's judging you either way," Rina said, shooting Zoe a look.
Lauren looked around at these women—fierce, successful, unapologetically themselves. Women who saw her crafts as art instead of cringe. Who saw her anger as justified instead of dramatic.
Her fingers found her wedding ring, turning it slowly. The motion felt automatic, like muscle memory she couldn’t unlearn.
Sage clapped her hands, breaking the quiet hum of thought. “Okay. Now show me these pieces. I want to see what you made before we do the shoot.”
The paper crinkled as Lauren pulled it back, revealing the bright red felt, the words she had stitched and glued. The sight steadied her. Her fury, her resolve—they were proof that she wasn’t going to give in.
She felt something solid take root inside her again.
Maybe tonight wouldn’t destroy her.
Maybe it would help her remember who she was—whether or not Tom came with her into that future.