Chapter 37
Lauren
"This one?" Linda held up a pearl button.
"Perfect."
Lauren had almost cried when she'd opened the door. Had wanted to collapse into her arms the way she used to as a child, when scraped knees were the worst things that could happen. But she was an adult now, and the wounds were deeper.
The craft room was cramped with both of them in it, but Linda had squeezed herself in without complaint. She'd shown up an hour ago with a bag full of supplies and announced she was here for a crafting evening.
Lauren's hands moved automatically, weaving ribbon through the wire frame while her mother worked across from her, sorting buttons by color into a muffin tin.
They worked in comfortable silence. Lauren had always loved this—creating something side by side with her mom, their hands busy while their minds wandered. Her mother's presence filled the small space like warmth. Like safety.
This was the kind of silence Lauren was born from—hands moving, hearts speaking in color and fabric.
Birthday gifts, holiday tables, even bad days growing up always ended with scissors and ribbon on the counter.
Making something was how her family said I love you. Making something was how her family said I love you—when money was tight, and later, when it wasn’t anymore. She’d learned from her parents: a handmade gift, a handcrafted ornament, a home-baked cookie meant more.
Meant more to give, and meant more to receive.
"How is he?" Lauren asked finally. She tried to sound casual. Failed.
“Pitiful.” Linda said it matter-of-factly, sorting buttons into separate compartments. "Barely sleeping."
Something twisted in Lauren's chest. Satisfaction and guilt tangled together in a way that felt wrong but also deeply gratifying. She wanted him to hurt. God, she wanted him to hurt the way she'd been hurting.
“At least I'm not the only one falling apart," she said quietly.
She thought about Tom in that room. In her bed. Staring at plastic stars she'd stuck to the ceiling when she was ten.
Lauren picked up the ribbon again. Weave, twist, secure. The motions her mother had taught her.
Sitting here with her mom, hands busy, she felt like that girl again. The one who'd decorated her room with sponge-painted clouds. Who'd made friendship bracelets for everyone in her class.
"Your father and I are proud of you," her mother said. "For standing up for yourself."
She heard her own voice again, brittle with a truth she had finally faced: The man I married is ashamed of who I am.
And yet—Tom was fighting for her. Wanted to fix things. Wanted her back. Did that mean he accepted her? Or just wanted the comfort of her? Was she pathetic for hoping he could love the messy, creative, wholehearted woman she really was?
Her mom looked at her, and her eyes were warm. Full of the same unconditional love that had filled Lauren's entire childhood.
Lauren blinked back tears and focused on the wreath taking shape in her hands.
Her mother's knee pressed against hers in the cramped space.
The house was too quiet. Too still. Lauren lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Her hand drifted across the cold sheets beside her, finding nothing but empty space where Tom should have been.
Five years of marriage had trained her body to expect him. The weight of his arm around her waist. The warmth of his chest against her back. The steady rhythm of his breathing that used to lull her to sleep.
She'd thought she'd gotten used to it by now. It had been weeks since Christmas. Weeks of sleeping alone in this big bed, of waking up alone and untethered.
But her body hadn't adjusted. Still reached for him in the middle of the night. Still rolled toward his side of the bed, seeking heat that wasn't there.
Lauren pulled his pillow against her chest.
She hated that she missed him like this. Hated that her anger—righteous and justified and earned—couldn't erase the physical ache of his absence.
Her colleagues at work talked about their partners with casual affection. Mia and Jake were so wrapped up in each other it was almost nauseating. Even her parents, married for decades, still gravitated toward each other like magnets.
And Lauren was here. Alone in a cold bed, missing a man who hadn’t even liked her. Not really. Not enough.
But God, she missed the weight of him. The solid presence that had anchored her for years. At night, in the dark, he'd been hers.
His hand would find hers under the covers. His leg would tangle with hers. His breath would warm the back of her neck.
Lauren squeezed the pillow tighter.
She missed mornings together. Missed the way he'd kiss her forehead when he left for work. Missed watching him move around their bedroom, getting dressed, his movements familiar and comforting in their routine.
She missed sex. God, she missed sex. Missed the way he touched her like she was important. Like she mattered. Like in that moment, at least, she was exactly what he wanted.
It was confusing—this disconnect between her head and her body. Her brain knew all the reasons she'd kicked him out. Could list every hurt, every dismissal, every time he'd chosen his parents' approval over her happiness.
But her body didn't care about any of that. Her body just knew that Tom was supposed to be here. That the bed was supposed to be warm. That she wasn't supposed to be doing this alone.
Lauren rolled onto her back, still clutching his pillow.
The house creaked around her. Outside, wind rattled the windows.
She thought about Tom in her childhood bedroom. Was he awake too? Was he lying there under her old quilt, staring at glow-in-the-dark stars, missing her the way she missed him?
Or was he relieved? Finally getting a break from his too-much wife with her too-bright decorations and her embarrassing enthusiasm?
Lauren's thumb found her wedding ring, twisting it slowly in the darkness.
She could call him. Right now. Could hear his voice, warm and rough with sleep. Could tell him to come home, to climb into this bed, to hold her until the ache went away.
But then what? They'd fall back into the same patterns. He'd tolerate her instead of celebrating her.
And she'd be right back here in six months. A year. Five years. Lying alone in a bed that should have been warm, wondering why love wasn't enough.
Lauren set his pillow back on his side of the bed and turned onto her side, pulling her knees to her chest.
She couldn't go back to being small. Not even for the comfort of his warmth beside her. Not even to fill the awful, aching emptiness of this bed.
Lauren closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
Tomorrow she’d go to work. She’d come home. She had a business to build. A life to create that didn't depend on whether her husband finally saw her worth.
Tomorrow she'd be strong again.
But tonight, in the dark, she let herself feel it. The loss. The longing. The terrible, lonely cold of sleeping alone.