But God, she missed the weight of him. The solid presence that had anchored her for years. At night, in the dark, he'd been hers.
His hand would find hers under the covers. His leg would tangle with hers. His breath would warm the back of her neck.
Lauren squeezed the pillow tighter.
She missed mornings together. Missed the way he'd kiss her forehead when he left for work. Missed watching him move around their bedroom, getting dressed, his movements familiar and comforting in their routine.
She missed sex. God, she missed sex. Missed the way he touched her like she was important. Like she mattered. Like in that moment, at least, she was exactly what he wanted.
It was confusing—this disconnect between her head and her body. Her brain knew all the reasons she'd kicked him out.Could list every hurt, every dismissal, every time he'd chosen his parents' approval over her happiness.
But her body didn't care about any of that. Her body just knew that Tom was supposed to be here. That the bed was supposed to be warm. That she wasn't supposed to be doing this alone.
Lauren rolled onto her back, still clutching his pillow.
The house creaked around her. Outside, wind rattled the windows.
She thought about Tom in her childhood bedroom. Was he awake too? Was he lying there under her old quilt, staring at glow-in-the-dark stars, missing her the way she missed him?
Or was he relieved? Finally getting a break from his too-much wife with her too-bright decorations and her embarrassing enthusiasm?
Lauren's thumb found her wedding ring, twisting it slowly in the darkness.
She could call him. Right now. Could hear his voice, warm and rough with sleep. Could tell him to come home, to climb into this bed, to hold her until the ache went away.
But then what? They'd fall back into the same patterns. He'd tolerate her instead of celebrating her.
And she'd be right back here in six months. A year. Five years. Lying alone in a bed that should have been warm, wondering why love wasn't enough.
Lauren set his pillow back on his side of the bed and turned onto her side, pulling her knees to her chest.
She couldn't go back to being small. Not even for the comfort of his warmth beside her. Not even to fill the awful, aching emptiness of this bed.
Lauren closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
Tomorrow she’d go to work. She’d come home. She had a business to build. A life to create that didn't depend on whether her husband finally saw her worth.
Tomorrow she'd be strong again.
But tonight, in the dark, she let herself feel it. The loss. The longing. The terrible, lonely cold of sleeping alone.
CHAPTER 38
Tom
The frame saton the desk beside him, the paint long since dried into streaks and blotches that looked only vaguely like roses. It was ugly. Uneven. A mess of good intentions and clumsy execution.
Tom lifted the print. The photo of Lauren on last year’s Christmas morning glowed up at him—her surrounded by an explosion of color and lights and handmade ornaments, joy radiating out of her like warmth. The version of her he had tried so hard to dim.
His throat tightened.
She was beautiful. Earnest, bright, full-hearted.
He picked up the frame . The painted roses looked worse under the office lighting than they had in the craft room—muddy petals, wobbly outlines, a nervous man’s heart smeared across cheap wood. A part of him wanted to throw it out and start over.
But Lauren wouldn’t. Lauren would offer the imperfect version, the heartfelt version, the version that said:I tried my best because loving you mattered.
Tom slid the photo into the back of the frame. It settled behind the glass, aligned and centered. Her smile shone out at him through a border of smeared, streaky roses.
