Chapter 36
Tom
He'd been scrolling through necklaces for the past twenty minutes. Delicate chains, heart pendants.
His thumb hovered over a listing. He could order one right now. Have it shipped overnight. It wasn’t enough.
Tom closed the browser and opened his photos instead.
Lauren.
In the kitchen, wearing that ridiculous apron with the reindeer on it. Flour smudged across her cheek, her smile wide and unselfconscious. He'd taken that one in early December, catching her mid-laugh.
He scrolled further.
Lauren at the dining table, surrounded by fabric and thread.
The late afternoon sun streaming through the window, catching the dust motes floating around her like she was working in a cloud of gold.
She hadn't known he was taking that photo—was completely absorbed in whatever she was creating, her expression peaceful and intent.
Lauren decorating the Christmas tree. She'd been standing on tiptoe, trying to reach a high branch, and he'd snapped the photo just as she'd turned to stick her tongue out at him for laughing instead of helping.
Tom's thumb moved slowly across the screen.
In every photo, she was herself. Completely, unapologetically herself.
Covered in glitter or flour or paint. Wearing those terrible Christmas sweaters.
Hair falling out of whatever messy bun she'd twisted it into that morning.
Making things, creating things, pouring herself into projects that would never be understated
He'd looked at all of this—at her—and thought she needed to change. Shame pressed against his ribs like a fist—hard, unrelenting.
Tom stopped on one photo. Lauren in their living room last Christmas, surrounded by every decoration she'd made.
The tree behind her was absolutely covered—no coordination, no matching color scheme, just layer upon layer of ornaments collected over the years.
She was wearing that candy cane earring set and a sweater with a snowman pattern, and she looked so happy it made his chest ache.
He'd taken this photo. Had captured this moment of her joy.
And then he'd spent the next year trying to convince her to tone it down.
Tom set the phone on the nightstand and stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars overhead.
Buying her a necklace now wouldn't fix anything.
It had never been about the necklace. It had been about being valued. Being chosen. Being celebrated.
She'd wanted something that said she mattered. Something visible that would show the world—show his parents—that he was proud to have her as his wife.
Tom picked up his phone again and looked at that photo of Lauren surrounded by her decorations. The explosion of handmade joy that he'd called cringe.
She'd been showing him love. With her hands and her time and her generous, unrestrained heart.
And he'd rejected it. Over and over and over again.
Flowers and jewelry and restaurant reservations—those were easy.
Lauren didn't need easy. She needed something that cost him what her gifts had cost her.
Vulnerability.
He missed her. Tom lay in Lauren's childhood bed, the quilt spread across his chest. The glow-in-the-dark stars overhead had dimmed to almost nothing. Just faint green ghosts keeping watch in the darkness.
His fingers found the edge of the quilt, tracing the binding Lauren had stitched. How many hours had she spent on this?
He'd looked at the completed squares so many times now he could see them with his eyes closed. The coffee cups. The red door. The beach umbrella. Their life together rendered in crooked stitches and mismatched fabric.
But it was the empty squares that haunted him tonight.
Three blank spaces at the bottom of the quilt, waiting.
Tom's chest ached.
When Lauren had made this, those empty squares had been hope. Space for the babies they might have. The anniversaries to come. The Christmases that would layer memory on top of memory until they were old and gray and their story was complete.
She'd been planning for forever.
Tom's fingers moved over the fabric.
He knew exactly what belonged in the first empty square.
Lauren. Powerful and blazing and absolutely magnificent. Standing in their doorway with Christmas glowing all around her—the garlands she'd made, the tree she'd decorated, the snowflakes in the windows. All that she'd created shining behind her like a halo.
She'd shoved him backward, her hands on his chest, and he'd felt the rage and hurt and betrayal radiating from her like heat.
Out. Out, out, out.
The door slamming in his face. The wreath rattling against the wood.
It was the bravest thing he'd ever seen.
Tom's throat felt tight.
Tom's hands stroked the quilt gently.
She'd been so excited in front of his parents on Christmas Day, pointing out each square of the quilt.
He'd wanted her to stop talking. To stop drawing attention to something so clearly handmade, so obviously amateur.
He'd told her it was cringe.
She should have thrown him out years ago. Should have slammed the door in his face the first time he'd made her feel small. The first time he'd sat silent while his mother made a cutting comment.
But she'd loved him. Had kept trying. Had spent five years refusing to make herself smaller and quieter and more acceptable despite him.
Until something in her had finally broken.
Or maybe not broken. Maybe the opposite.
Maybe she'd finally shown them all who she was underneath all the criticism. Underneath his parents' careful disdain.
She'd stood in that doorway and reclaimed herself.
And Tom had stood on the porch, stunned and stupid, holding a quilt he didn't deserve.
He was glad she'd done it. The thought burned him.
He hated that she'd had to. Hated that he'd pushed her to that breaking point. Hated that his wife—his generous, loving wife—had been forced to gather up that much anger just to protect herself from him.
But she'd needed to do it. And he'd needed to feel it.
Needed to stand on that porch in the cold and have the door slammed in his face.
Tom pulled the quilt up to his chin, breathing in the faint scent of her fabric softener.
Maybe this quilt would end with six squares of memory and three squares of nothing. A marriage that had promised forever but only made it partway through.
No. Their story wasn't over yet.
Tom closed his eyes, the quilt heavy and warm across his chest.
He pictured it. That next square. The next signpost of their relationship.
Lauren in the doorway, blazing with righteous fury, taking up all the space she deserved. And Tom on his knees where he belonged.
It would be the most beautiful square on the whole quilt.
Because it was the moment she'd saved herself.
Saved their marriage.