The house was dark, stripped of Christmas. Of her delusions of her marriage.
CHAPTER 22
Tom
Tom's handsgripped the steering wheel.
He could still feel Lauren's lips on his. Could still feel the way she'd fisted her hands in his jacket, the way she'd made that broken sound against his mouth.
She'd kissed him.
That had to mean something. It had to.
Tom pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. His whole body was still humming with the feel of her, the scent of her perfume still clinging to his jacket where she'd held him.
Tell me to leave,he'd said.Tell me you don't want this.
And instead she'd kissed him.
Tom dropped his head against the steering wheel, eyes closed, replaying the moment over and over. The way she'd risen up on her toes. The small sound she'd made. The way her body had known what her mind was still fighting—that they belonged together.
Tom finally climbed out of the car and let himself into the house. The living room assaulted him as always.
At first, this house had felt suffocating. Now it just reminded him of his wife.
Tom climbed the stairs to Lauren's childhood bedroom, each step creaking under his weight. The glow-in-the-dark stars were already visible in the darkness, pale green ghosts keeping watch.
The quilt lay where he'd left it this morning.
Tom sat down heavily and pulled it into his lap, spreading it across his knees. His fingers found the first square—those two coffee cups, steam rising in uneven stitches. Their first date. The day he'd thoughtI could fall in love with this woman.
And he’d been right. He'd fallen completely, irrevocably in love with Lauren.
Tom's fingers traced the embroidered steam, following Lauren's careful stitches.
She'd kissed him tonight.
But then she'd stepped back. Had pulled away. Had gone inside and closed the door between them.
Her body trusted him. Her heart didn't.
Tom lay back on the bed, the quilt still spread across his chest. The weight of it felt like an accusation and a gift at the same time.
She'd kissed him.
She'd also sent him away.
Tom closed his eyes. He pulled the quilt up to his chin.
He let himself hold onto the memory of her kiss. The way her lips had warmed against his. The way she'd leaned into him.
It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't even hope, really.
But it was something.
CHAPTER 23
Lauren
