He remembered calling Lauren.
And the sound of her voice—quiet, wary—still echoed in his skull louder than the pounding in his temples.
Tom lay in bed, examining the quilt spread out over him.
He traced the embroidered coffee cups—their first date. The tiny stitched steam rising from them looked like question marks now.
He’d known then that he was lucky to be with her.
Somehow, over the years, he’d managed to lose sight of that.
Tom pressed his palms flat, forcing himself to breathe.
His mouth tasted flat and metallic from the champagne. His eyes burned with the exhaustion of someone who hadn’t slept well—and hadn’t deserved to.
Being a good husband meant working hard, providing, keeping everything under control. He did that. But what good was a paycheck when the woman you loved couldn’t even show you her heart without you belittling her?
He rubbed a hand over his face, wincing at the ache behind his eyes.
He didn’t know how to forgive himself.
He’d thought he was being “realistic,” “mature,” “practical.” But all he’d been was cowardly. A small man. Every wound she carried, he’d put there.
He wanted to believe it was mutual—that they’d both made mistakes, both said things they didn’t mean. But it wasn’t true. He was the one who’d cut her down piece by piece.
Sitting here in her childhood bedroom, he wanted to crawl out of his own skin with shame.
He reached for the notebook and flipped it open. He looked at his list:
Flowers
Dates
Letters
The words looked pathetic now.
Tom looked down at the quilt again. Her hands had made this. Hands that stitched beauty into fabric, that filled rooms withcolor and warmth, that had reached for him so many times even when he didn’t deserve it.
He traced the square of their first apartment. He’d convinced her once to let him into her life. He’d done it before and he’d do it now.
Last night, on the phone, he’d heard the hesitation in her silence. He’d heard the distance.
And today—hungover, heartsick, staring at the tangible proof of everything she’d given him—he finally understood what it would take to get her back.
Not flowers.
Not dates.
Not letters.
Something bigger. Something honest. Something worthy of the woman who made this quilt.
He traced the coffee cups again—the stitched steam curling upward—then followed the thread to their red-door apartment, their wedding chapel, the pale blue ocean she’d sewn for their honeymoon. The stitched “blueprint” of the house he’d designed for his wife. His thumb lingered on the home he’d taken for granted.
He didn’t remember decidingto drive there.
One minute, his chest was tight with the weight of everything he’d realized. The next, he was pulling up in front of the house he’d built for Lauren.
