Chapter 48
Tom
The craft room was littered with ghosts.
Tom sat on the floor, surrounded by his failed recreations of that night—the night she’d thrown him out.
The current half-finished square was another terrible attempt.
It looked like a child had tried to build Christmas out of scraps.
Which, he supposed, wasn’t far from the truth.
He’d been trying to capture the power that had poured out of her when she’d stood in that doorway, voice shaking, telling him to leave.
Lauren loved Christmas. Loved it with her whole body, like it was oxygen. The lights, the garlands, the stupid mugs with reindeer on them. The carols that started too early and ran too long. The cookies shaped like stars.
He used to think that was tacky.
He hadn’t understood. He did now.
Christmas wasn’t a holiday to Lauren—it was proof. Proof that love mattered. That family mattered.
And he’d ruined it.
He’d hurt her. He’d taken the thing she loved most—the thing that made her her—and made it shameful.
That’s why she’d taken it all down. The handmade ornaments, the garlands, the wreath she’d woven herself. She’d carried it all to the curb, setting it out for the garbage truck like it was nothing.
When it had been everything.
Tom rubbed a hand over his face. The roughness of his stubble scraped his palm.
He looked at the square of fabric.
It was awful.
He almost laughed, but it caught in his throat.
He’d built houses that could stand through storms, but he’d managed to collapse the one thing she’d loved most with a handful of words.
Cringe.
Too much.
Tom pressed his palms against his eyes. The light that bloomed behind his lids was red and sharp.
He’d ruined Christmas. The holiday that Lauren loved so much. The holiday that had always been so magical for her. The holiday she’d wanted to be magical for everyone.
He wanted to take it all back.
He wanted to see her Christmas again.
He wanted to tell her that she’d been right all along.
Tom sat at the table, dressed for work, eyes fixed on nothing.
He ran a hand through his hair. He needed to leave for the office soon. Pretend to care about those dull schematics. Pretend to be a functioning adult.
Footsteps creaked down the hall.
Gerald appeared in the doorway, still in pajama pants and a T-shirt that said World’s Okayest Dad. He looked at Tom and shook his head.
“Jesus, son. You look like you’ve been run over.”
Gerald poured himself coffee, black, and leaned against the counter. “You going to tell me why you’re haunting my kitchen at six in the morning?”
Tom gave a humorless laugh. “I ruined Christmas.”
Gerald blinked once. Then he took a sip. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
Tom frowned. “I did.”
“Okay,” Gerald said. “You ruined Christmas. Fine. So un-ruin it.”
Tom’s head came up, startled. “I can’t just—”
“You can,” Gerald said, cutting him off. “You’re not dead, she’s not dead, and last I checked, Christmas comes around every damn year.”
Tom’s throat tightened. “You don’t understand. She—she threw it all out. The decorations, the lights. I took something she loved and—”
“And?” Gerald raised an eyebrow. “You going to sit here and cry into your coffee about it, or are you going to fix it?”
Tom swallowed. “I don’t even know where to start.”
Gerald snorted. “Start the way she does. With your hands. You build for a living, don’t you? So build something. Make something. I don’t care if it’s crooked. I don’t care if it’s ugly. You think she gives a damn about straight lines? She married you, didn’t she?”
That caught Tom off guard. He almost smiled. Almost.
Gerald took another drink of coffee, then pointed the mug at him. “You want her back? Stop whining about ruined Christmas and fix Christmas.”
Tom stared at the table, the words settling deep, heavy but true.
He’d spent so long apologizing, drowning in guilt, that he’d forgotten the simplest part: Lauren didn’t need him to wallow. She needed him to try.
Gerald set his mug down and headed for the hallway. “And shave before work,” he called over his shoulder. “You look like you’ve been living under a bridge.”
Tom huffed out a breath—half laugh, half something close to relief.
Fix Christmas.
It was ridiculous. Impossible.
But he was going to try.
The smell hit him first: cinnamon, pine, glue, dust. The scent of her joy.
Inside was chaos—but not mess. Not anymore.
Not to his eyes now.
Ribbons tangled with fairy lights. Hand-painted acrylic snowflakes, every stroke careful and deliberate. A garland made from old holiday cards, the handwriting of friends and family looping across it like a shared history you could touch.
He reached into the box and pulled out a wooden heart ornament. Smooth grain beneath glossy red paint, perfectly sanded, the edges sealed. Tom + Lo was carved into it. His throat went tight.
He’d though these things were childish. Had stood right beside his mother and smiled while Judith said handmade décor can be a bit much, don’t you think?
And Lauren—God, she’d just smiled and said, I like “a bit much”.
He pressed the ornament into his palm until the edges bit into his skin.
He pulled the next box toward him. He peeled back the flaps.
Inside—sequins. White fabric. A miniature Elvis jumpsuit with a glittering blue belt. Their first dance immortalized in glitter and thread.
He remembered that night—his chest so full he could barely breathe. He had held her like the world was new and she was the only thing in it.
And she’d commemorated that moment. With her hands. With love.
He had thought all of this was kitsch. Excess. Too much.
But now—now he could see what it really was:
Time. Memory. Craftswomanship. Every piece an act of devotion.
And he’d made her throw it all away.
The lingerie lay at the bottom of the box, folded small and neat—red as holly berries, lace delicate as breath.
She’d been ready to offer him every inch of herself, body and heart.
Tom pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.
He stayed like that for a long time, breathing around the ache, staring at the half-open box of their life—their Christmases, their vows, their magic.
He sat there for a long time, staring at the half-empty box, until Gerald’s words came back again.
Fix it.