She set the envelope on the counter and stared at it.
A check.
Lauren pressed her palm flat against her sternum, trying to hold herself together, trying to keep the pieces from scattering across the kitchen floor.
Lauren touched her bare throat where the necklace should have been.
The necklace that was now Mia's. The romantic gesture that was now Jake's.
She'd given the man she loved her whole, embarrassing heart.
And he'd given her five hundred dollars and told her to go shopping.
CHAPTER 8
Lauren
Lauren stood at the sink,mechanically rinsing plates while the sounds of satisfied conversation drifted from the living room.
"Let me help with those," Mia said, appearing beside her with an armload of serving dishes. "You've done so much already."
The pendant caught the kitchen light as Mia moved, a tiny flash of silver at her throat.
"Thank you." Lauren's voice sounded normal to her own ears, which was something of a miracle.
"That quilt is incredible," Mia continued, setting down the dishes. The necklace swayed as she leaned forward. "The amount of work that must have taken. Tom's so lucky."
It was like trying not to look at a car accident. Every movement Mia made sent light dancing off the silver heart—the one Lauren had dreamed about, the one that was supposed to show the world he cherished her.
The envelope sat on the counter where she'd left it. Practical. Impersonal. Containing five hundred dollars and the death of whatever illusions she'd been clinging to.
"Are you okay?" Mia murmured. "Really?"
Lauren dried her hands on a tea towel she'd embellished with holly leaves.
She caught her reflection in the darkened window above the sink. Red sweater. Home-dyed highlights. Candy cane earrings.
A joke.
This was how Tom's family saw her, wasn't it? How Tom saw her.
"I'm fine," she said, and the lie felt as thin as tissue paper.
Her hands moved automatically, folding the tea towel with precise corners even though everything inside her felt disconnected and far away.
She was numb. Floating somewhere outside her body, watching herself go through the motions of cleaning up, of being a good hostess, of pretending that the last few hours hadn't just dismantled everything she thought she knew about her marriage.
The quilt folded and set aside. Tom's patronizing compliment. The necklace on Mia's throat. The envelope she'd opened with such hope.
Buy yourself something nice.
If she started thinking too hard about any of it, she might shatter right here on the kitchen floor, and there were still plates to wash and guests to smile at and a performance to maintain.
"Lauren," Mia said softly, and there was something in her voice—empathy, maybe, or just pity—that made Lauren's throat tight.
"I need to finish washing up,” Lauren said, turning back to the sink. The water ran hot over her hands, but even that felt distant.
She had to keep moving. Keep cleaning. Keep her face arranged in an expression of pleasant efficiency.
