Chapter 66
Tom
Rain hammered the windshield, a relentless blur of silver lines. Tom sat in the parked car outside the corner newsagent, wipers ticking uselessly. A freshly purchased copy of Muse lay on the passenger seat, its glossy pages reflecting the glow from the dashboard.
Lauren’s face in print. That plaque in her hands. DIVORCED AF in bold white letters, like a headline on his failure.
Tom stared at her photograph, pulse stumbling. He had thought he’d been fixing things. The quilt squares, the letter, the church parking lot, the way she’d let him kiss her.
She’d told him he could use his house key again.
It felt like progress. Like hope. Like love finding its shape again.
In the photo she looked incredible. Powerful. Unapologetic. And so done with him it made his stomach twist.
He’d tried—he’d designed, apologized, cooked, humbled himself—but none of it erased what he’d done. Maybe nothing ever could.
He was lost without her. Pathetic. Desperate.
And she was thriving.
A better man would let her go.
He dragged a hand through his wet hair and let his head drop back. The rain thudded heavier, a steady percussion against the roof.
His life without her stretched in front of him like a road that led nowhere.
He’d tried to imagine moving on—some new life, some new future that didn’t have her in it. His mind rejected it every time. His heart refused. His body refused. The idea made him physically ill.
He couldn’t move on. He wouldn’t. He knew that with the same certainty he knew his own name.
But he also knew this: you don’t get someone back by clinging to their ankles.
Maybe respecting her meant letting her live her life without him dragging behind her like dead weight.
He reached toward the magazine, fingers brushing the glossy paper. Her smile—small, fierce—was aimed at the world, not at him.
He wanted her joy more than he wanted anything for himself.
And it wrecked him that she seemed to find it only when she walked away.
Christmas came back in a rush.
He’d told her: it’s very nice, honey.
That perfectly imperfect, beautiful quilt. And he’d put it aside like it was nothing. Worse. Like it was an embarrassment. She’d given him her heart for Christmas and he’d humiliated her for it.
He rubbed at his chest, trying to ease the physical pain he could feel. He’d taken the day she loved most—the season she turned into magic—and made it cruel. She’d built joy out of scraps and glitter and fabric, and he’d turned it into shame.
Tom pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes.
He’d thought growing up meant he was supposed to be restrained. Dignified. He’d spent years diluting the color out of everything—out of their home, out of himself, out of her—and he’d called it good taste.
He was a fucking joke.
He reached for the magazine again, thumb dragging over her photograph. Divorced AF. Maybe she was right to celebrate it. To claim it. He’d pushed her that far.
His reflection caught in the window—tired, gray, washed-out by the rain.
She’d built something bright from the wreckage he’d given her. He was proud of her for that. Proud and wrecked and jealous of anyone who got to be a part of her life now that she was leaving him behind. A failed marriage that she’d outgrown.
Tom closed his eyes and let the rain drown the rest of the world.
Would his only legacy in her life be that ruined Christmas? Would he live on in her life, year after year, in that seasonal heartache?
That was something he couldn’t stand. Lauren should be happy and thriving and loving Christmas.
He couldn’t undo that Christmas. Couldn’t un-humiliate her. Couldn’t un-break what he’d broken.
But he had to try.
The boxes were still stacked in the corner of her parents’ living room, a small mountain of cardboard against the colorful walls.
Lauren’s Christmas.
Tom sat cross-legged on the rug.
He’d told himself he’d bring the boxes back to her. When she was ready. When she’d forgiven him. When he was back in the house he’d built, back living with his wife.
He reached out and tugged the top off the first box. The scent reminded him of her: cinnamon, glue, pine, and something faintly sweet—her hand cream, maybe.
He pulled out a length of garland, the gold ribbon catching in the lamplight. Then the red stocking with his name stitched in white letters. He traced the loops of thread with his thumb.
She’d made this for him. Every year, she’d made everything for him. He’d treated it like clutter, like childish excess, and she’d kept doing it anyway.
Because that’s who she was. She built wonder out of scraps.
He opened another box. Pulled out the angels, the spray-painted pinecones, the glittered snowflakes with photo cutouts. The Elvis jumpsuit.
Every ornament carried a fingerprint of her heart.
He pulled them out one by one.
She had done this for him every year—quietly, lovingly. And he’d never praised her. Never taken a moment to appreciate that she was filling his life with joy.
And he’d never once thought how he could give it back.
He remembered Christmas, remembered how alive it had been. Warm. Messy. Real.
He picked up one of the felt stockings—her name stitched across it this time.
If he couldn’t undo the Christmas he’d ruined, he would give a new one. One that was full of light and color and joy. One that was worthy of his wife. One that would make her happy.
He clutched her stocking in his hands. But suddenly he didn’t feel hopeless. He felt… determined.
“I’ll make it magic,” he murmured. “For you.”
A laugh caught in his throat—half misery, half madness. “Guess it’s my turn, huh?”