Tom's thumb moved slowly across the screen.
In every photo, she was herself. Completely, unapologetically herself. Covered in glitter or flour or paint. Wearing those terrible Christmas sweaters. Hair falling out of whatever messy bun she'd twisted it into that morning. Making things, creating things, pouring herself into projects that would never be understated
He'd looked at all of this—at her—and thought she needed to change. Shame pressed against his ribs like a fist—hard, unrelenting.
Tom stopped on one photo. Lauren in their living room last Christmas, surrounded by every decoration she'd made. The tree behind her was absolutely covered—no coordination, no matching color scheme, just layer upon layer of ornaments collected over the years. She was wearing that candy cane earring set and a sweater with a snowman pattern, and she looked so happy it made his chest ache.
He'd taken this photo. Had captured this moment of her joy.
And then he'd spent the next year trying to convince her to tone it down.
Tom set the phone on the nightstand and stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars overhead.
Buying her a necklace now wouldn't fix anything.
It had never been about the necklace. It had been about being valued. Being chosen. Being celebrated.
She'd wanted something that said she mattered. Something visible that would show the world—show his parents—that he was proud to have her as his wife.
Tom picked up his phone again and looked at that photo of Lauren surrounded by her decorations. The explosion of handmade joy that he'd called cringe.
She'd been showing him love. With her hands and her time and her generous, unrestrained heart.
And he'd rejected it. Over and over and over again.
Flowers and jewelry and restaurant reservations—those were easy.
Lauren didn't need easy. She needed something that cost him what her gifts had cost her.
Vulnerability.
He missed her.Tom lay in Lauren's childhood bed, the quilt spread across his chest. The glow-in-the-dark stars overhead had dimmed to almost nothing. Just faint green ghosts keeping watch in the darkness.
His fingers found the edge of the quilt, tracing the binding Lauren had stitched. How many hours had she spent on this?
He'd looked at the completed squares so many times now he could see them with his eyes closed. The coffee cups. Thered door. The beach umbrella. Their life together rendered in crooked stitches and mismatched fabric.
But it was the empty squares that haunted him tonight.
Three blank spaces at the bottom of the quilt, waiting.
Tom's chest ached.
When Lauren had made this, those empty squares had been hope. Space for the babies they might have. The anniversaries to come. The Christmases that would layer memory on top of memory until they were old and gray and their story was complete.
She'd been planning for forever.
Tom's fingers moved over the fabric.
He knew exactly what belonged in the first empty square.
Lauren. Powerful and blazing and absolutely magnificent. Standing in their doorway with Christmas glowing all around her—the garlands she'd made, the tree she'd decorated, the snowflakes in the windows. All that she'd created shining behind her like a halo.
She'd shoved him backward, her hands on his chest, and he'd felt the rage and hurt and betrayal radiating from her like heat.
Out. Out, out, out.
The door slamming in his face. The wreath rattling against the wood.
