He couldn’t give it to Lauren. It wasn’t good enough for her. But it meantsomething.
Tom looped it around his own neck and fastened the clasp. The metal was cold against his skin, awkward and unfamiliar. It wasn’t a gift he could give her buthecould carry it. He could wear it.
A reminder pressed against his chest of what it meant to try.
He lay in bed,staring at the ceiling. The house was silent around him, the kind of late-night quiet that made every thought sound louder.
This had become his nightly ritual.
Lauren’s quilt. He’d spent so many nights with it now that he recognized each image by feel.
The necklace he’d made hung against his skin, cool and uneven.
He thought of the letter he’d written her.Thatat least was something he could give to her.
He reached out and touched the edge of the quilt, tracing a familiar path—the first date, the red door apartment.
He’d been following her map. The café. The red door. The next one was the proposal square.
He closed his eyes and saw it clearly: the trail green and alive, the air sweet, Lauren’s gasp when he’d dropped to one knee.
Tom pressed the quilt flat against his chest, the fabric soft beneath his palms.
He’d taken the job with his father before he’d proposed. You can’t marry a woman if you can’t offer her stability. He thought about everything he’d done in the name of providing: the cautious projects, the constant pursuit of safety. He’d thought he was providing for her.
But she’d given him so much more.
He’d built her a house but she’d made it a home. She’d done more for him than he’d ever managed to give back.
Tom swallowed hard. The necklace shifted against his throat, the touch of it reminding him of its imperfection.
He’d take her back to the place where he’d promised her everything. The overlook above the valley, a place they both loved. The next square on the quilt.
She deserved to hear the words—not from a man who wanted to fix things, but from one who finally understood how much she’d been the one holding them together.
He ran his thumb over the stitched ring one more time.
This weekend, he thought. He’d follow the path she’d laid for him.
And whatever came after, at least she’d know he’d finally learned how to love her like she deserved.
CHAPTER 41
Lauren
The knock came early—tooearly for a Saturday.
When she peered through the peephole, there he was: Tom, bundled in his dark coat, the same gray-green scarf looped around his neck. Snowflakes clung to his hair and lashes.
She opened the door a crack. “It’searly,” she said, voice still scratchy with sleep. “What could possibly be so urgent?”
He smiled, that infuriatingly calm, steady smile. “You’ll need hiking boots.”
Lauren blinked. “What?”
“Hiking boots,” he repeated, holding up a thermos and what looked suspiciously like a paper bag of breakfast pastries. “And gloves. It’s cold.”
She gaped at him. “It’s the middle of winter, Tom. We’re not going hiking.”
