Chapter 42
Tom
Tom watched her fingers break the seal on the envelope.
His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. In his fingertips. In every nerve ending that screamed at him to look away, to not witness this moment of her seeing him completely exposed.
But he couldn't look away.
Lauren pulled out the pages.
He'd bared himself to her. Every failure. Every regret. Every moment he'd looked at her and felt shame when he should have felt pride. It was all there in black ink, unflinching and raw and more honest than he'd ever been about anything.
Tom had never felt more naked in his life.
Lauren had seen him physically naked hundreds of times. Had touched every inch of him. Had known his body in a way nobody else ever had.
But this was different. This was worse.
Standing here watching her read his words felt more intimate and terrifying.
Lauren's eyes moved across the page. Her brow furrowed. Her lips pressed together.
Tom's hands curled into fists in his pockets.
He'd put Lauren in this position. Had made her doubt him so completely that even his most honest words made her question him.
The hesitation on her face—the careful way she was reading like she was looking for the catch, the angle, the place where his promises would reveal themselves as hollow—that was his fault.
He'd broken her trust so thoroughly that even reading a letter made her look fragile and guarded.
A tear slipped down her cheek. She was crying because of him. Again.
Something in Tom twisted at the sight of her pain. He wanted to reach for her. Wanted to wipe that tear away. Wanted to pull her against him and promise he'd never make her cry again.
But he stayed where he was. Fists clenched. Watching. Witnessing what his words were doing to her.
More tears now. Silent ones that tracked down her face and dripped onto the paper. Her hand came up to cover her mouth.
Tom could only stand there while Lauren read every raw, desperate word he'd written. Every promise he had no right to make but was making anyway.
She read the last line.
Lowered the pages slowly.
Looked up at him.
She gestured helplessly at the letter. "I don’t think words can fix this."
Something fierce and furious roared to life in Tom's chest. Anger. Not at her—never at her. At himself. At every year he'd wasted making her feel less than.
Anger and impotence.
The same feeling he'd had watching her slam the door on Christmas—that terrible, beautiful moment when she'd finally chosen herself.
"Of course they're not enough," he said. "You're worth so much more than words, Lauren. You're worth everything."
She stared at him.
"But words are part of what you deserve," Tom continued.
"They're not all of it—not even close—but they're something.
And I'm going to give you everything. Every single thing you deserve.
That's—" His voice cracked. "That's my right. It’s a husband's privilege to give his wife everything he has to give.”
He'd given her his words. His truth.
But words were just the beginning. He'd give her everything else too—actions, time, proof, the studio addition with wall-to-wall windows, the rest of his life spent celebrating instead of diminishing her.
She deserved everything. And Tom would spend whatever time he had left in this world trying to give it to her.
If she let him.
Tom pulled into her driveway and killed the engine.
The silence that followed felt heavy. Significant. Like they were both trying to figure out what came next.
Lauren still had the letter pressed against her chest, the pages crumpled now from being held so tightly. Her eyes were red from crying. Her face was blotchy and beautiful and Tom wanted to memorize every detail of this moment.
"Thank you for today," she said quietly. "For bringing me there. For this." She touched the letter.
Tom nodded. His throat felt too tight for words.
They sat there for a moment longer. The house in front of them was dark It looked cold. Empty.
He hated the thought of her going back into that emptiness alone.
"I should—" Lauren started.
"Let me walk you up," Tom said quickly.
She looked at him, something unreadable in her expression. Then nodded.
Tom fell into step beside her as they walked up the path to her door. Close enough to feel her warmth but not touching. That careful distance they'd been maintaining all day.
The afternoon sun was weak through the clouds, casting everything in gray winter light. It was that strange time of day in January where it felt later than it was—the days still short, darkness always threatening at the edges.
Lauren fumbled with her keys. Her hands were shaking—from the cold or from emotion, Tom couldn't tell.
She got the door open. Turned to face him.
"Tom—"
He couldn't help himself. "Can I see you again? Tomorrow? Next week? Whenever you're ready?"
Lauren's eyes searched his face. She nodded.
Hope flared bright and painful in his chest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." She twisted the letter in her hands.
They stood there on her porch, the afternoon cold settling around them. Tom knew he should leave. But he couldn't make himself move.
Lauren was looking at him with those eyes that had always undone him. Red-rimmed from crying, but still so achingly beautiful it made his chest hurt.
"Lauren," he said, and her name came out rough. Desperate.
She stepped closer. Just one step, but it closed the distance between them in a way that made Tom's breath catch.
"I meant every word."
Her voice broke slightly. "That's what makes this so hard."
Tom's hands came up slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. His palms cupped her face, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. She was so cold. Had been standing in the snow with him for hours and was probably freezing.
"You're cold," he murmured.
"I'm okay."
She wasn't okay. They both knew it. But she was here, standing this close to him, letting him touch her face.
Tom leaned in slowly. She didn't pull away.
His lips met hers, gentle and careful. A question more than a statement. She made a small sound—something between a sigh and a sob—and her hands came up to grip the front of his coat.
Tom deepened the kiss. Weeks of shame and regret and missing her with his whole body. His whole being. All of it pressed into this moment, this kiss, this woman who deserved so much better than him but was letting him hold her anyway.
Lauren’s fingers twisted in his coat, pulling him closer, and Tom went willingly. Wrapped his arms around her and held her against him the way he'd been aching to do all day.
When they finally broke apart, Lauren's forehead rested against his chest. Tom pressed his lips to her hair, breathing her in.
"I should go inside," she whispered against his coat.
"I know."
But neither of them moved. They stood there wrapped around each other on her porch, the winter afternoon fading around them.
Finally, Lauren pulled back. Her eyes were wet again, her lips slightly swollen from kissing. She looked wrecked and beautiful and Tom wanted to pull her back in and never let go.
She stepped back, putting space between them. The cold rushed in immediately where her warmth had been.
"Goodbye, Tom."
"Bye, Lo."
Lauren slipped inside and closed the door softly behind her. Tom heard the lock click into place.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door. His whole body was screaming at him to use his keys, to go inside, to not leave her alone in that cold, empty house.
But he needed to give her space. To prove himself through actions, not just words on a page.