He'd failed her.
And now all he could do was try to build something better. Try to prove that he finally understood.
Even if it was too late.
Even if she was already gone.
Gerald and Lindawere in the next room, the sound of the TV drifting faintly down the hall.
Tom sat at the craft table, surrounded by chaos.
The necklace tutorial was still paused on his phone: a smiling woman with perfect nails explaining how “any beginner can create a stunning handmade gift.”
Sure. Easy.
The worktable in front of him looked like the aftermath of a small explosion. Tiny pliers. Silver wire. A scattering of beads that refused to stay put. He’d already dropped one on the floor and had spent ten minutes crawling around trying to find it before giving up.
He inhaled.You’re a professional.He could design load-bearing beams, draft complex rooflines. A few beads and wires couldn’t defeat him.
He picked up the chain, threaded one end through a jump ring, and immediately fumbled it. The ring bounced once, twice, and vanished under the table.
“Okay,” Tom muttered. “Fine. That’s fine.”
He opened another jump ring—and promptly snapped it in half.
His palms were sweating. The beads rolled everywhere like tiny, judgmental eyes.
He started again. One bead. Then another. The wire bent unevenly, refusing to lie flat. The pendant—a small gold charm shaped like a heart—refused to hang centered no matter how many times he adjusted it.
It looked nothing like the tutorial.
The chain twisted. One bead cracked clean in half. A smear of glue appeared where glue was never supposed to be.
Tom sat back, the pliers clattering from his hand. “Goddammit.”
He stared at the pathetic thing lying on the table. The wire was bent, the charm crooked, the clasp hanging by a single thread of metal.
He’d wanted to show her that he could make something with his own hands, that he could be brave enough to risk imperfection. But this? This wasn’t brave. This wasugly.
He pressed his fingers to his eyes.
Lauren would never make fun of this,he thought miserably. She’d tell him it was sweet. She’d mean it, too. She’d see the effort, not the disaster.
He’d been too scared to be like that, too desperate for approval to risk looking foolish. He’d spent years telling himself he had convictions when really he’d had nothing but fear.
He’d been weak—pathetically so.
A bead rolled off the table and pinged onto the tile. Tom didn’t chase it. He just sat there, staring at the hideous necklace.
In the next room, Linda laughed at something on TV. Gerald’s voice rumbled in response, easy and warm.
Tom picked up the necklace again. This was what it felt like to make something real.
This was what Lauren had done every time she’d picked up her scissors, her glue gun, her thread.
And he’d never noticed how much courage that took.
He turned the necklace over in his hands, the wire slightly bent, the clasp uneven. It wasn’t beautiful. But it was honest.
