Chapter 43
Lauren
Lauren pressed another letter into place—bold, red, glittering.
Staple. Paint. Rip. Repeat.
Tom’s letter sat folded on the worktable, pushed just far enough away that she could pretend she wasn’t thinking about it.
Except she was. Every line. Every stupid, beautiful, painful line.
Lauren,
I keep thinking about Christmas.
It was the best present I have ever received.
And I didn't even look at it.
She slammed the staple gun again.
Once. Twice.
“Damn you,” she muttered. “Damn you.”
She dragged a streak of gold across the canvas, then another, and another, until it shimmered, until it almost hurt to look at.
You’ve always made Christmas into something wonderful. And I treated that like it was small. Like it was embarrassing.
The anger was starting to shake now instead of burn.
Her fingers ached. Her chest did too.
I need you to know that I see it now—every time I made you smaller.
You were never the one who needed to change, Lauren. It was me.
She stared at the mess she’d made—the letters, the glitter, the smear of red.
It looked like chaos.
It looked like her.
If I could go back, I’d give you a different Christmas.
I’d sit beside you while you strung the garlands and painted the ornaments. I’d tell you how lucky I am to be loved by someone so talented.
I’d hang that quilt where everyone could see it, because I’d be proud of it and proud of you and proud of our life together.
I want the mess. The noise. The ornaments and wreaths and handmade everything.
I don’t deserve another chance, but I want one anyway.
I love you. I’ve always loved you.
And just like that, she was crying again.
Lauren wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.
She looked at her piece again—ugly and bright and loud. She loved it.
Her hands moved slower now, gentler, smoothing the last strip of ribbon into place.
Lauren leaned back, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, and laughed—soft and shaky, but real.
I don’t deserve another chance, but I want one anyway.
She picked up a brush, dipped it in gold, and added one last small detail in the corner: a single, crooked heart.