Chapter 40
Tom
Tom sat at his desk, the house plans open on his monitor. Their house. The one he'd designed for Lauren five years ago.
But now, looking at the floor plan with clear eyes, all he could see were his mistakes.
The craft room. Tucked under the eaves where the ceiling sloped low.
He'd put Lauren in the attic.
Like something shameful. Like her joy was something to hide.
Tom's hands stilled on the mouse. His chest felt like someone had cracked it open with a crowbar.
Jesus Christ. He'd built her a beautiful house and then stuffed her in the smallest, darkest corner of it. Had designed their entire life around the assumption that what she loved—what made her who she was—should be kept out of sight.
He zoomed in on that section of the plan. She'd spent five years creating in that space anyway. Had made that quilt—had stitched their entire relationship together—under sloped ceilings in the worst light in the house.
While he'd given himself a ground-floor office with wall-to-wall windows.
The shame of it sat in his stomach like lead.
"Thomas."
Tom's head jerked up. His father stood in the doorway.
"Dad." Tom didn't stand. Didn't smile. Couldn't summon the energy to perform for him anymore.
Richard stepped into the office, his gaze sweeping over Tom's desk with that assessing look Tom had spent his whole life trying to earn approval from.
"We missed you at Thursday’s dinner," Richard said.
"I was busy."
"Your mother was disappointed."
Tom turned back to his monitor, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. "I'm sure she'll survive."
Another beat of evaluating silence.
“You will be there next Thursday?” Richard asked, voice deceptively mild—his mother’s question hidden inside it.
Tom exhaled through his nose. “Yes. I’ll be there.”
“Good. And… I take it Lauren won’t be joining us.”
Tom’s throat closed. He swallowed once, hard. Richard waited.
Tom stared at the plans on the screen until the lines blurred. “We’re… we’re still—” His voice cut off. He couldn’t say “separated”. Wouldn’t say it. The word was a cliff he couldn’t step over. “She just won’t be there.”
Then his father moved closer, looking at the plans on the screen. "The Kent project?"
"No." Tom's voice came out rougher than he intended. "My house. Lauren’s house.”
Richard made a small sound of disapproval. "Are you planning renovations?"
"An addition." Tom's hands curled into fists on the desk. "A studio for Lauren. Proper space for her work."
Richard's expression tightened. "Thomas—"
“I let her down,” Tom felt shame and self-loathing spill over him. “I didn’t support her.”
The words tasted like bile.
"And now I’ve lost her,” Tom continued, his voice breaking. "And I don't know if she’ll ever forgive me. But I'm going to design her this studio anyway. Because she deserves it. Because I should have done it properly from the start."
Silence stretched between them.
"It won't be enough,” Tom said quietly. The truth of it settled in his chest like concrete. "I broke her heart. I can't fix that with square footage." But it would be something.
Room to spread out. Room to create. Room to be exactly who she was without apologizing for taking up space.
This was how he should have designed their house from the beginning. With Lauren at the center of it instead of tucked away where no one would see.
She deserved space and light and room to create without having to hide.
Even if she never came back to him—even if she took off his ring and started a new life without him—he was going to build this for her.
Because loving her meant celebrating who she was. Not trying to change her into someone more acceptable.
He should have known that all along.
Tom sat back in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.
He'd failed her.
And now all he could do was try to build something better. Try to prove that he finally understood.
Even if it was too late.
Even if she was already gone.
Gerald and Linda were in the next room, the sound of the TV drifting faintly down the hall.
Tom sat at the craft table, surrounded by chaos.
The necklace tutorial was still paused on his phone: a smiling woman with perfect nails explaining how “any beginner can create a stunning handmade gift.”
Sure. Easy.
The worktable in front of him looked like the aftermath of a small explosion. Tiny pliers. Silver wire. A scattering of beads that refused to stay put. He’d already dropped one on the floor and had spent ten minutes crawling around trying to find it before giving up.
He inhaled. You’re a professional. He could design load-bearing beams, draft complex rooflines. A few beads and wires couldn’t defeat him.
He picked up the chain, threaded one end through a jump ring, and immediately fumbled it. The ring bounced once, twice, and vanished under the table.
“Okay,” Tom muttered. “Fine. That’s fine.”
He opened another jump ring—and promptly snapped it in half.
His palms were sweating. The beads rolled everywhere like tiny, judgmental eyes.
He started again. One bead. Then another. The wire bent unevenly, refusing to lie flat. The pendant—a small gold charm shaped like a heart—refused to hang centered no matter how many times he adjusted it.
It looked nothing like the tutorial.
The chain twisted. One bead cracked clean in half. A smear of glue appeared where glue was never supposed to be.
Tom sat back, the pliers clattering from his hand. “Goddammit.”
He stared at the pathetic thing lying on the table. The wire was bent, the charm crooked, the clasp hanging by a single thread of metal.
He’d wanted to show her that he could make something with his own hands, that he could be brave enough to risk imperfection. But this? This wasn’t brave. This was ugly.
He pressed his fingers to his eyes.
Lauren would never make fun of this, he thought miserably. She’d tell him it was sweet. She’d mean it, too. She’d see the effort, not the disaster.
He’d been too scared to be like that, too desperate for approval to risk looking foolish. He’d spent years telling himself he had convictions when really he’d had nothing but fear.
He’d been weak—pathetically so.
A bead rolled off the table and pinged onto the tile. Tom didn’t chase it. He just sat there, staring at the hideous necklace.
In the next room, Linda laughed at something on TV. Gerald’s voice rumbled in response, easy and warm.
Tom picked up the necklace again. This was what it felt like to make something real.
This was what Lauren had done every time she’d picked up her scissors, her glue gun, her thread.
And he’d never noticed how much courage that took.
He turned the necklace over in his hands, the wire slightly bent, the clasp uneven. It wasn’t beautiful. But it was honest.
He couldn’t give it to Lauren. It wasn’t good enough for her. But it meant something.
Tom looped it around his own neck and fastened the clasp. The metal was cold against his skin, awkward and unfamiliar. It wasn’t a gift he could give her but he could carry it. He could wear it.
A reminder pressed against his chest of what it meant to try.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The house was silent around him, the kind of late-night quiet that made every thought sound louder.
This had become his nightly ritual.
Lauren’s quilt. He’d spent so many nights with it now that he recognized each image by feel.
The necklace he’d made hung against his skin, cool and uneven.
He thought of the letter he’d written her. That at least was something he could give to her.
He reached out and touched the edge of the quilt, tracing a familiar path—the first date, the red door apartment.
He’d been following her map. The café. The red door. The next one was the proposal square.
He closed his eyes and saw it clearly: the trail green and alive, the air sweet, Lauren’s gasp when he’d dropped to one knee.
Tom pressed the quilt flat against his chest, the fabric soft beneath his palms.
He’d taken the job with his father before he’d proposed. You can’t marry a woman if you can’t offer her stability. He thought about everything he’d done in the name of providing: the cautious projects, the constant pursuit of safety. He’d thought he was providing for her.
But she’d given him so much more.
He’d built her a house but she’d made it a home. She’d done more for him than he’d ever managed to give back.
Tom swallowed hard. The necklace shifted against his throat, the touch of it reminding him of its imperfection.
He’d take her back to the place where he’d promised her everything. The overlook above the valley, a place they both loved. The next square on the quilt.
She deserved to hear the words—not from a man who wanted to fix things, but from one who finally understood how much she’d been the one holding them together.
He ran his thumb over the stitched ring one more time.
This weekend, he thought. He’d follow the path she’d laid for him.
And whatever came after, at least she’d know he’d finally learned how to love her like she deserved.