She stepped back, putting space between them. The cold rushed in immediately where her warmth had been.
"Goodbye, Tom."
"Bye, Lo."
Lauren slipped inside and closed the door softly behind her. Tom heard the lock click into place.
He stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door. His whole body was screaming at him to use his keys, to go inside, to not leave her alone in that cold, empty house.
But he needed to give her space. To prove himself through actions, not just words on a page.
CHAPTER 43
Lauren
Lauren pressedanother letter into place—bold, red, glittering.
Staple. Paint. Rip. Repeat.
Tom’s letter sat folded on the worktable, pushed just far enough away that she could pretend she wasn’t thinking about it.
Except she was. Every line. Every stupid, beautiful, painful line.
Lauren,
I keep thinking about Christmas.
It was the best present I have ever received.
And I didn't even look at it.
She slammed the staple gun again.
Once. Twice.
“Damn you,” she muttered. “Damn you.”
She dragged a streak of gold across the canvas, then another, and another, until it shimmered, until it almost hurt to look at.
You’ve always made Christmas into something wonderful. And I treated that like it was small. Like it was embarrassing.
The anger was starting to shake now instead of burn.
Her fingers ached. Her chest did too.
I need you to know that I see it now—every time I made you smaller.
You were never the one who needed to change, Lauren. It was me.
She stared at the mess she’d made—the letters, the glitter, the smear of red.
It looked like chaos.
It looked like her.
If I could go back, I’d give you a different Christmas.
I’d sit beside you while you strung the garlands and painted the ornaments. I’d tell you how lucky I am to be loved by someone so talented.
