"What?" Zoe shrugged. "Separation doesn't mean celibacy."
"I amnot—" Lauren could feel her cheeks burning. "That's not what tonight is about."
"Sure it's not." Zoe's grin was wicked.
"It's not!" Lauren protested, but her voice came out too high. "I would never—we're separated, I'm not just going to?—"
"Nobody's judging you either way," Rina said, shooting Zoe a look.
Lauren looked around at these women—fierce, successful, unapologetically themselves. Women who saw her crafts as art instead of cringe. Who saw her anger as justified instead of dramatic.
Her fingers found her wedding ring, turning it slowly. The motion felt automatic, like muscle memory she couldn’t unlearn.
Sage clapped her hands, breaking the quiet hum of thought. “Okay. Now show me these pieces. I want to see what you made before we do the shoot.”
The paper crinkled as Lauren pulled it back, revealing the bright red felt, the words she had stitched and glued. The sight steadied her. Her fury, her resolve—they were proof that she wasn’t going to give in.
She felt something solid take root inside her again.
Maybe tonight wouldn’t destroy her.
Maybe it would help her remember who she was—whether or not Tom came with her into that future.
CHAPTER 21
Lauren
The coffee shopsat dark behind its glass windows, aClosed for the Holidayssign taped to the door. Lauren stood staring at it, her breath ghosting in the cold air. The cheerful lettering, the little doodle of a snowflake, felt almost cruel.
Christmas was over, but the street still sparkled with leftover magic. Strings of lights blinked on the lampposts, stubborn and cheerful. Someone had left a wreath hanging on a door across the street, its ribbon half-frozen and trailing in the wind.
Lauren’s fingers tightened on her coat. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she’d agreed to this. A glass of wine, maybe. Conversation. A chance to see him and not fall apart.
She hadn’t expected this familiar ache, this sense of standing inside a memory.
Six years ago, this café had been the beginning.
She’d felt so excited. A handsome man taking her on a date, a beginning.
And now she was standing here knowing how it ended. Knowing he didn’t respect her, not really. Knowing tonight wasn’t a second chance—it was a ghost. A reenactment. Something she was allowing herself and that tomorrow she’d have to be strong again.
The windows reflected only darkness. The inside of the café was empty, chairs stacked on tables.
A crunch of boots drew her back.
Tom reached her and stood beside her, breath clouding in the cold. He held something in his gloved hands—a thermos.
He didn’t speak. Just unscrewed the lid and poured. Steam curled into the frigid air, and the scent hit her instantly—cocoa and cinnamon, familiar and devastating.
“Hot chocolate?” she asked, her voice barely carrying.
He nodded. “I looked up your recipe.”
That shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have reached inside her chest and twisted. The heat of the cup seeped through her gloves, and for a moment, she loved him so fiercely it took her breath away.
And she let herself lean into that feeling—just for this one moment. Just for tonight. She could borrow the memory, slip into the softness of before, even if she knew it wasn’t real anymore.
They stood like that—two figures in the snow, the city hushed around them. The Christmas lights blinked slow and steady down the block. Somewhere, a car passed, tires whispering over the slush.
