Chapter 26
Tom
Tom woke late, the pale New Year’s morning leaking through unfamiliar curtains. His head throbbed with a dull, sour hangover—the kind that made everything feel half a second out of sync.
He didn’t remember falling asleep.
He remembered the party.
He remembered calling Lauren.
And the sound of her voice—quiet, wary—still echoed in his skull louder than the pounding in his temples.
Tom lay in bed, examining the quilt spread out over him.
He traced the embroidered coffee cups—their first date. The tiny stitched steam rising from them looked like question marks now.
He’d known then that he was lucky to be with her.
Somehow, over the years, he’d managed to lose sight of that.
Tom pressed his palms flat, forcing himself to breathe.
His mouth tasted flat and metallic from the champagne. His eyes burned with the exhaustion of someone who hadn’t slept well—and hadn’t deserved to.
Being a good husband meant working hard, providing, keeping everything under control. He did that. But what good was a paycheck when the woman you loved couldn’t even show you her heart without you belittling her?
He rubbed a hand over his face, wincing at the ache behind his eyes.
He didn’t know how to forgive himself.
He’d thought he was being “realistic,” “mature,” “practical.” But all he’d been was cowardly. A small man. Every wound she carried, he’d put there.
He wanted to believe it was mutual—that they’d both made mistakes, both said things they didn’t mean. But it wasn’t true. He was the one who’d cut her down piece by piece.
Sitting here in her childhood bedroom, he wanted to crawl out of his own skin with shame.
He reached for the notebook and flipped it open. He looked at his list:
Flowers
Dates
Letters
The words looked pathetic now.
Tom looked down at the quilt again. Her hands had made this. Hands that stitched beauty into fabric, that filled rooms with color and warmth, that had reached for him so many times even when he didn’t deserve it.
He traced the square of their first apartment. He’d convinced her once to let him into her life. He’d done it before and he’d do it now.
Last night, on the phone, he’d heard the hesitation in her silence. He’d heard the distance.
And today—hungover, heartsick, staring at the tangible proof of everything she’d given him—he finally understood what it would take to get her back.
Not flowers.
Not dates.
Not letters.
Something bigger. Something honest. Something worthy of the woman who made this quilt.
He traced the coffee cups again—the stitched steam curling upward—then followed the thread to their red-door apartment, their wedding chapel, the pale blue ocean she’d sewn for their honeymoon.
The stitched “blueprint” of the house he’d designed for his wife.
His thumb lingered on the home he’d taken for granted.
He didn’t remember deciding to drive there.
One minute, his chest was tight with the weight of everything he’d realized. The next, he was pulling up in front of the house he’d built for Lauren.
The driveway was half-buried in snow, the porch light off, the windows dark. The wreath she’d made—crooked, glittering, hers—still hung on the door, its berries dulled by frost.
Her car was gone. She wasn’t home.
Tom killed the engine and sat for a long moment, watching his breath fog the windshield.
He stepped out, boots crunching on the frozen drive.
Unlike the houses he planned these days, he’d fought for pieces of himself in this one.
He’d stood in the drafting room while his father frowned at the plans. Too much glass, Tom.
But Tom had kept the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room anyway, because Lauren had said she wanted natural light.
He’d added the window seat in their bedroom even though his father called it unnecessary. Because Lauren had once told him she’d always wanted one.
The wind cut against his neck as he looked up at the blank, snow-covered steps. They needed to be shoveled.
It was almost a relief—the simple, familiar awareness of something that needed doing.
Lauren wouldn’t come home to unshoveled snow. He wouldn’t leave it for her to handle.
The first scrape of metal against ice jarred through his arms. Scrape. Lift. Heave. Over and over, until the rhythm settled into him like breath, until sweat gathered beneath his collar despite the cold.
The work steadied him. Physical, simple. Something he could fix. Something he could do.
By the time he’d finished, his gloves were soaked through, his shoulders burning. He leaned on the shovel, breath clouding the air, and looked back at the house.
He’d given her a home she loved. That was something.
For a moment, pride flared—small and helpless but real.
Then he turned toward the street and saw them. A line of boxes sat by the curb, half-buried in snow. The lids bowed under a thin crust of ice.
He swept the snow from the top and opened the first box.
Hand-painted ornaments. Ribbons in red and gold.
A ceramic snowflake with a photo in the center.
He lifted it carefully, his gloved thumb tracing along its edge. Her smile was still bright. His was smaller, but real.
One ornament after another—exquisite, glittery, personal.
Tom’s knees were wet from the snow before he realized he’d sunk down next to the boxes.
Lauren loved these ornaments. She loved these bright, gaudy, wonderful Christmas decorations.
This was what he’d thought he wanted—less chaos, less excess, less of her handmade Christmas taking over the house.
So why did seeing it all tossed out like trash make him feel like this?
He brushed aside a layer of tissue paper.
There, nestled among strands of tinsel, lay an ornament Lauren had made their first Christmas as husband and wife—a tiny white Elvis stage jumpsuit, hand-sewn with beaded detailing and a minuscule cape. She’d even stitched a glittering blue belt around the waist.
Every Christmas she’d hung that ornament front and center.
It represented their wedding. Their first dance.
Tom swallowed hard.
He couldn’t leave them there. Couldn’t let the garbage truck take them away like they were nothing.
His hand brushed against something softer than ribbon. Tom frowned and lifted a scrap of red lace from the corner of the box.
Lingerie. Brand-new. Never worn. Tom’s breath stalled in his chest.
He couldn’t think about that right now.
He swallowed hard, set the lace back exactly where he’d found it, and closed the box with a careful finality—as if keeping it shut might keep the thought from splitting him open.
He gathered the boxes one by one, loading them into the back of his car. There was an ache building behind his ribs.
He looked back at the house—the house that was supposed to be their forever. The house that was their forever.
He brushed the snow from his knees and climbed into the driver’s seat.
The headlights swept across the drive, catching on the glitter that had spilled from one of the boxes. It sparkled in the snow—stubborn, defiant, beautiful.
Tom’s mouth twisted into a grimace.
He turned the key.
And drove away—carrying her Christmas with him.