Chapter 44
Tom
Tom parked at the curb and killed the engine.
His parents’ house loomed in front of him—perfect and soulless as ever. The porch lights glowed soft and symmetrical, two identical lanterns on either side of the door. The curtains framed the windows at precise, matching angles. The hydrangeas were pruned into nervous little domes.
He’d grown up thinking this was what good taste looked like: neat, contained, controlled.
Now he could barely make himself open the car door.
He’d almost forgotten about the dinner but the reminder text had come that morning, cheerful and absolute. Six o’clock sharp, darling. We’re doing salmon. No mention of Lauren, though of course there wouldn’t be. His mother didn’t seem to care one way or another that his life was in ruins.
Tom shut off the headlights and sat there for a moment, the dark pressing in. Lauren wouldn’t be walking beside him up the path. No nervous chatter to fill the silence. No warm hand in his. No soft perfume.
For years, he’d watched her steel herself before these dinners—checking her lipstick in the mirror, smoothing her skirt, taking a deep breath before the door opened. He’d thought she was trying too hard to impress them. He hadn’t realized that she knew what they thought of her.
She’d been arming herself.
He got out of the car and shut the door quietly. He stood for a moment at the gate, looking at the windows.
He used to feel proud walking up this path. As if arriving here meant he was doing life right: steady job, steady wife, clean shirt, polished shoes. Now it felt like walking toward a mirror that reflected only the parts of him he hated.
He tightened his coat and forced his legs to move.
The gravel crunched under his boots.
He remembered the small things first. Judith’s eyebrow flick when Lauren said the wrong thing. Richard’s forced pauses.
Micro-cuts, all of them. And he’d let them happen.
No—he’d done worse. He’d joined in.
Shame burned low and constant in his chest.
She’d been the brave one all along. The generous one. The only person in that house who’d engaged in conversation in good faith. Who’d tried.
He’d mistaken her grace for weakness.
Now he was walking up to their perfect front door alone. Shameful, yes—but fitting. He’d built his marriage on his parents’ foundation: restraint, appearance, control. He should have been building something different with Lauren.
He exhaled a long, uneven breath.
He’d felt ashamed of her color, her warmth, her joy.
Now he was just ashamed of himself.
His parents’ dining room was the same as ever. Silver polished to a blind shine, linen napkins. His father sat at the head of the table. At least Jake and Mia were there.
Jake caught his eye across the table, a half-smile that said hang in there. Mia gave a small wave from beside him. Tom managed a smile back as he sat.
The seat beside him—the one Lauren always filled—was empty. Judith had set a place anyway.
He sat, far too aware of the empty seat.
The last time he’d sat at this table with Lauren, she’d slipped her hand into his under the linen. Tonight, his hand felt painfully empty.
Beneath his shirt, under the starched cotton, he could feel the slight weight of the necklace he’d made—uneven beads, crooked wire. It pressed against his skin, ridiculous and comforting. A reminder. A vow.
He wouldn’t stop trying.
The doorbell rang.
Judith’s expression brightened. “Oh! That must be her.”
Her.
His pulse spiked. A kick of adrenaline. A sick, impossible hope.
Lauren.
Richard reappeared a moment later, ushering in a stranger.
For one foolish moment, Tom leaned forward, trying to peer around the woman. Like Lauren might be hidden behind her, late or shy or—
“Everyone,” Judith said brightly, “this is Lila. Evelyn Kent’s niece. She’s just moved here from Boston.”
Too slow, Tom realized his wife wasn’t coming.
“Lila’s newly divorced.” Judith continued. “I thought it would be nice for her to meet some people her age.”
Across the table, Jake’s glass paused midair, Mia’s mouth dropped open.
Lila smiled at Tom. “You must be Tom. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Tom stood automatically. He shook her hand. Sat again.
Mia shot Tom a wide-eyed look. Jake narrowed his eyes at him.
It took too long for the truth to land.
When it did, he felt like he was in free fall.
This was a setup.
His parents were trying to set him up with this woman. As if Lauren were already gone. As if she were disposable.
The words ripped out of him. “I’m married.”
Judith’s smile didn’t falter. “Tom, darling, you’re separated. It’s hardly the same.”
“I’m married,” he repeated. Louder. Sharper.
Richard sighed. “Frankly, it’s for the best. She was never—”
“Stop.” Tom’s voice came out low, dangerous.
Judith gave a small, dismissive laugh. Tom felt heat and cold battling in his veins at the sound. “You can’t put your life on hold forever,” she said.
Jake’s voice cut in, harsher than Tom expected. “Mom. No. Tom doesn’t want this. He wants his wife.”
Tom felt like a beam cracking under pressure. He found himself standing without making the conscious decision.
“Thomas,” Richard said, his tone snapping into command. “There’s no need to make a scene.”
He laughed once, sharp and incredulous. “There’s every need to make a scene.”
Judith’s lips thinned. “You’re upset—”
“This is unforgivable, Mom.” His voice was raw, louder than he intended.
Lila interrupted then. “I’m sorry—maybe I should—”
Tom turned to her, trying to soften his tone but failing. “Apologies for this, Lila. It’s not your fault.”
No. Of course it wasn’t her fault. He’d caused this. He’d let his parents believe Lauren was an accessory instead of the center of his life. He’d left her undefended for years because he’d been too uncertain, too fucking afraid to challenge them.
He wasn’t letting anyone misunderstand where his loyalty lay ever again.
He looked at Judith. “I love you,” he said. “You’re my mother. But if you want to set up a choice between you and Lauren—I choose Lauren.”
Judith gasped. “Tom—”
“Every time,” he said grimly. “Even if she never takes me back, I still choose her.”
Tom grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. The blood was rushing in his ears.
“Lauren was never the problem,” he said. “She was the best thing that ever happened to me. You want to know what wasn’t right for me? This.”
He gestured around the table. The perfect plates. The sterile light.
“This house. This life. Pretending everything’s fine because it looks fine.”
Judith blinked. “Tom—”
“Every time we came here, I let you treat her like shit,” he said, louder now, his voice cracking. “And instead of leaving me the first time I did that, she wanted to earn your approval instead. And she tried. God, she tried.”
He had to leave. Had to get out before the walls closed in. But at the doorway, he stopped, one hand braced on the frame.
“Lauren was never the embarrassment,” he managed, voice rough. “I was.”
The reflection of his parents’ perfect front windows shrank in the rearview mirror until it disappeared altogether.
He should drive back to his guest room at Linda and Gerald’s. Sleep, cool off, breathe. But he turned right instead of left.
He should’ve felt proud for finally standing up to his parents, but pride wasn’t what burned in him. It was something darker. Hotter.
Shame.
It burned in him like fire, spreading with every mile.
He’d thought his parents’ cruelty had made him angry, but the truth was worse: he was angry because he saw himself in them.
Every quiet insult Judith had ever dealt Lauren—every polite dismissal, every smothered laugh—he’d allowed it. He’d accepted it.
He gripped the steering wheel harder. “I’m the problem,” he muttered aloud, voice shaking. “I’m the goddamn problem.”
He remembered Lauren at those dinners, her smile too bright, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She’d been surviving. Surviving his parents. Surviving his quiet betrayal.
He couldn’t wait another day to tell her. He couldn’t keep the truth inside him one more night. He needed her to know.
Not that he missed her. Not that he loved her.
That he got it.
He was the problem.
He’d spent years trying to mute her joy, her noise, her art—when it was him that needed to be louder.
He thought of her face at Christmas, trying so hard to keep smiling while his parents picked her apart. He thought of her hands on the quilt, her voice soft and hopeful.
I’ve left blank squares for memories still to come.
He’d filled those blanks with silence. With cowardice.
Now he was going to fill them with the only thing he had left to offer—the truth.
His pulse spiked as their home came into view, lights glowing faintly through the curtains.
He didn’t think. He didn’t plan.
He needed his wife.