Tom stopped running and bent double, gasping. The air sliced through his chest. The sick feeling he’d been carrying for days twisted sharper.
He wanted to throw up. Not from the run, but from himself—from the smug, superior man who’d thought he was right.
How could he have ever looked at her joy and feltembarrassment?
He thought of his parents’ house—white on white. Perfect. Polite.
So different from Lauren’s parents’ home—messy, mismatched, full of handmade decorations.
“The man I married is ashamed of who I am.”
He straightened slowly, staring down the street as the first light of dawn began to creep across the snow. The world shifted from gray to gold.
He wasn’t going to merely tolerate her excess. He wanted to step into it—into her world of joy and mess and color. He wanted to learn the shape of her happiness the way he once learned blueprints and measurements. He wanted to build something with her, not box her in.
HewantedherChristmas—and all the chaotic, glitter-filled, handmade craft that came with it.
Tom started walking back, chest tight, breath still coming hard.
It didn’t matter if his parents disapproved or if the world thought she was too much.
What mattered was Lauren.
The snow globerode to work in the cupholder.
Every turn in the road made the glitter stir; every bump sent another flurry of silver over the tiny, tilted photograph of them.
It shouldn’t have mattered this much—just a jar, just a bit of water and glue—but it felt alive. Like something breathing under glass.
At the office, the fluorescents hummed and the heater rattled in the vents. The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and printer paper—orderly, colorless.
Tom paused in the doorway of his office.
He could already hear his father’s voice in his head.
Understated.
Safe.
Soulless.
He set the snow globe on the corner of his drafting table. It looked absurd—too personal, too handmade, too bright. Glitter against brushed steel. Love against logic.
The sunlight caught in the liquid, scattering tiny sparks across the papers on his table. The reflection trembled on the page—light in motion, breaking the perfect lines he’d drawn.
He watched the flakes settle.
Their faces—his and Lauren’s—came back into view, still smiling in that captured winter.
He touched the glass.
CHAPTER 29
Lauren
The phoneon Lauren’s desk rang just after lunch, slicing through the steady hum of the magazine’s office.
“Muse Magazine, how may I direct your call,” she said automatically, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
