She stared at him, the porch light throwing long shadows across his face. “Tom, what are you talking about?”
He ran a hand through his hair, almost laughing, but it came out closer to a sob.
“Tom—”
“I let them humiliate you,” he said, cutting her off. “And I can’t stand it. I can’t—” He stopped again, like the words were too much.
“Tom,” she said quietly.
But he was already moving. One step closer, then another, until he was right in front of her. He folded her against him. His arms came around her with desperate force, crushing her to his chest like he thought she might vanish.
His heartbeat pounded against her ear.
Lauren stood stiffly at first, shocked by the sudden weight of him. He wasn’t just apologizing. He was unraveling.
His face pressed into her hair, his words muffled but relentless. “I love you. I’m sorry. I love you. I’ve been such an idiot.” Something pressed against her collarbone. Uneven edges beneath his shirt.
He was shaking.
“Tom,” she said softly. “What happened?”
He only shook his head, the motion brushing her temple. “Doesn’t matter. I just—I needed you to know I’m sorry.”
Pressed together like this, she could feel the words vibrate through his chest. His arms tightened once more, a painful, desperate squeeze. The object around his neck pressed harder into her skin.
She pulled back an inch, frowning. “What is that? What are you wearing?”
Tom looked down, confused. Then his eyes widened. He reached under his collar and drew it out—a tangle of wire and glass beads strung on uneven loops.
“I made it,” he said hoarsely. “It was just a practice. I’m going to make you a necklace. One that’s good enough for you.”
Her breath caught. He’d looked down on her handmade things, he’d called them childish. And now here he was—wearing something he’d made with his own hands.
“It’s awful,” he added. “I know it’s awful.”
She stared at him. The imperfect wire glinted between them. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“It’s not so bad,” she said on a whisper.
The wind rustled the wreath behind her. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed.
He let out a long, broken breath, and then gathered her again.
Lauren closed her eyes and let herself be held. For a long time, she let herself be held.
Lauren stood in the hallway,one hand still resting on the edge of the door she’d just closed. The air felt thinner now, like Tom had taken half the oxygen with him when he left.
Her body still buzzed from the force of that hug. The pressure of it lingered in her ribs, in her throat, even in her fingertips. How desperate he’d sounded.
She took a breath. It shuddered on the way out.
The porch light spilled faint gold across the floorboards. Something glittered there.
Lauren bent down and picked it up.
A bead—blue glass, the color of a summer sky caught in ice. It must have fallen from the necklace when he’d pulled it from under his collar.
She turned it between her fingers. It was slightly chipped on one side, sharp-edged where the light hit.
