Chapter 49
Lauren
Lauren should be thinking about Valentine’s Day, or Easter, or springtime.
The miniature house wobbled in her hand.
She pressed the glue gun trigger.
The craft table looked like December had exploded. Cardboard scraps, half-painted figurines, tangled lights. Glitter everywhere—on her sleeves, in her hair, ground into the floorboards.
She was making a Christmas village. For herself.
Not the kind you bought from department stores.
This one was cardboard and clay and felt and foil—cut carefully, glued precisely, loud and alive.
Christmas had always been her thing. The season she waited for. She’d loved it since childhood—from those first paper snowflakes and pipe-cleaner reindeer. Over time the crafts changed—cardboard became carved wood, crayons became paint pens, glue sticks became embroidery thread.
She hadn’t grown out of Christmas. She’d grown into it.
Christmas wasn’t just decoration. It was belief.
It was the belief that if you covered something in light and color, it could be something beautiful.
Tom had rolled his eyes at her embroidered stockings. Dismissed the wreath she wired by hand—three layers deep with dried orange and cinnamon—as “too much”.
Too much.
The phrase pulsed in her skull.
She’d laughed it off, thought he’d been teasing her. Until she’d been forced to see the truth.
She angled a chimney into place.
She couldn’t believe how blind she’d been. How foolish.
She was too much.
Here she was surrounded by evidence of it—this riot of a village, this furious love letter to the holiday he’d tried to civilize.
Every house was bursting with color. The rows were organic and the chimneys leaned—whimsical by design, not mistake. A riot of skill.
It was chaos.
And it was perfect.
The letters came out artfully, purposefully uneven. A city sign.
She glued it down.
She loved Christmas. She loved the music and the lights and the handmade everything. She loved the sugar rush and the chaos and the heart of it—the way people tried. The way they believed.
The memory of his letter flashed through her like a heartbeat. If I could go back, he’d written, I’d give you a different Christmas.
Tom hadn’t destroyed Christmas. He couldn’t.
He might have scuffed it, but with his letter he’d polished it back to a shine.
The proof was right here in front of her: a beautifully lopsided village made by a woman who still believed in light, even when it hurt to look at it.
She could still feel his arms around her on the porch, the press of his chest, solid and warm. That hug had felt like safety and apology and home all at once.
Lauren plugged in the string of lights. Tiny bulbs flickered on, gold and pink and green. The crooked little houses glowed from within, their windows bleeding color onto the table.
Her throat tightened.
She’d been building this village for hours, not realizing what she was really rebuilding.
Her belief.
Not in Tom.
In herself. In Christmas.
This piece wasn’t angry anymore. It was a celebration.
Lauren sat back, staring at the messy, brilliant thing she’d made.
It was garish and loud and absolutely alive.
She picked up her brush and painted one last flourish on the Welcome sign—tiny gold stars around the words.
She smiled.
“Welcome to Too Much,” she whispered. “Population: me.”
The phone had been ringing all morning.
Lauren tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and hit the button, slipping back into her reception voice.
“Good afternoon, Muse Magazine. This is Lauren speaking. How can I help you?”
A woman’s voice, warm and confident: “Hi! I was hoping to speak with—oh, actually, I think it’s you I want. Lauren?”
Lauren blinked. “That’s me.”
“This is Margot from The Stockist. Do you have a moment?”
Lauren straightened. “Yes—of course.”
Margot continued, her tone professional but genuinely pleased. “I’m calling with wonderful news. One of our long-standing clients was in today and saw your pieces in the artisan showcase. She absolutely adored them.”
Lauren felt a flutter in her stomach. “She did?”
“Oh yes. She said they made her smile—which, believe me, is rare and noteworthy. She’s interested in commissioning something for next Christmas.”
Lauren’s pen slipped. People booked wedding venues that early—not handmade holiday crafts. Not wreaths and garlands made by someone who still didn’t quite believe she belonged in The Stockist at all.
But Margot kept talking, oblivious to Lauren’s sudden light-headedness.
“She’s hosting several large holiday events in December,” Margot said. “And she would like you to design the decorations for her Christmas tree. It’s a twelve-foot spruce that will be brought into her home the week after Thanksgiving.”
Lauren’s breath hitched. “Twelve… feet?”
“Yes. She’d like the entire tree decorated in your aesthetic—ornaments, garlands, topper, everything. A full thematic concept.” A small, delighted laugh. “She described your work as ‘unapologetic.’ She wants something that celebrates Christmas wholeheartedly, unironically.”
Lauren stared at the wall in front of her.
Wholehearted Christmas. Not ironic.
Not angry. Not the cathartic anti-holiday pieces she’d made after everything fell apart.
She thought of Tom’s letter. She thought of the sprawling Christmas village from the night before. The one that was unapologetically, stupidly, hopelessly unironic.
“Of course,” Margot went on, “she’s aware of your current body of work, so she asked me to confirm—would you feel comfortable creating something… sincere?”
Lauren wasn’t sure she breathed for a full three seconds.
Her gaze drifted to her sketchbook on the desk, open to the tiny crooked heart she’d doodled without meaning to.
A little bruise of hope.
Small, imperfect.
Still beating.
She pictured Tom’s handwritten note. The softened edges in his words. The way it had loosened something knotted inside her.
He hadn’t ruined Christmas. He’d only bruised it. And bruises healed.
“Yes,” Lauren said. “I can do that.”
Margot exhaled, delighted. “Wonderful. I’ll send over the client brief and timelines shortly. And just so you’re aware—holiday commissions book very early with our clientele, but never this early. This is quite a good sign.”
Lauren swallowed.
Next year’s Christmas. And someone was trying to claim her now.
“Thank you,” she breathed. “I’ll look for the email.”
“Perfect. And Lauren?” Margot added warmly. “Congratulations.”
When she hung up, the office hummed with its usual morning rhythm—phones ringing, papers shuffling, laughter by the coffee machine.
Lauren stared down at her notepad.
Christmas tree commission
She underlined it once.
Then she drew a crooked heart beside it.