CHAPTER 30
Tom
Richard leaned over the plans,scanning with that focus that still had the power to make Tom feel sixteen again.
“Excellent work,” his father said finally, tapping the paper. “This—” he looked up, nodding—“this is the kind of house I would have designed.”
Tom stared down at the plans. Of course it wassomething his father would have designed.
Tom didn’t even know whathis ownstyle was anymore.
He used to take risks. Color. Curves. Buildings that felt alive.
The morning light caught the snow globe’s glitter. The photo inside—him and Lauren, laughing under snow—gazed back at him.
He looked at the plans again and tried to find himself in them. The kid who used to sketch houses with curved walls and skylights, who’d been obsessed with how lightmovedthrough a space, not how clean the lines looked on paper.
That Tom had disappeared somewhere between paychecks and performance reviews.
He’d bowed his head to “good taste,” told himself that growing up meant paring down, polishing, compromising.
He’d traded color for credibility.
He’d traded instinct for approval.
And it had worked. He’d built a career. A reputation. A life his father could nod at.
A compromise Lauren never asked of him.
He looked at the plan again and couldn’t see a single trace of himself in it.
Neutral. Understated. Tasteful.
The words scraped against his chest.
Richard kept talking about the roofline, but Tom wasn’t listening anymore. He couldn’t stop thinking about Lauren.
Lauren didn’t follow. She was bold. He’d thought that was a weakness.
“Something wrong with the plans?” his father asked, noticing his silence.
Tom shook his head. “No. They’re fine.”
Richard nodded, satisfied. “You’re finally getting it.”
Finally getting it.
The shame came sudden and sharp.
He remembered himself, proud and stupid, showing his father a sketch full of color and wildness.It’s nonsense, Tom. Grow up.
He’d believed it.
And later, when Richard said the same thing about Lauren—about her wreaths and handmade garlands—Tom had believed that too.
He’d grasped onto his father’s palette: something boring that passed for sophistication.
The sterile blueprints with their neat geometry were suddenly unbearable.
