“I’m good,” she said, her voice nearly fluorescent. Adele rolled her eyes. “Can’t wait to be home in a few days.” She stuck her tongue out at Adele.
“Oh, honey,” her mom said. “I know. That’s actually why we’re calling.”
Brighton’s back snapped straight, all her senses on alert. Her mom’s tone had gone a bit too sweet, almost songlike, the way it always did when she had to deliver bad news.
“What’s wrong?” Brighton asked. “Are you both okay? Is Grandma all right?”
“Fine, Rainbow,” her dad said. “Everyone’s fine. Fit as fiddles.”
Brighton exhaled. “Okay. Then…?”
Her parents were quiet for a second before her mom said it all in one rushed breath. “The magazine is sending me to Provence to review a new winery, so your dad and I are going to be in France for the rest of the year. I’m so sorry, baby.”
It took Brighton a second to register her mother’s words. But when they hit, they hit hard. “What?” was all she could get out, her voice a pathetic squeak.
“I know,” her mom said. “The timing is so horrible, but themagazine just landed a spot at the winery’s opening, and we’re the only American publication invited, so it’s a pretty huge deal.”
Brighton felt dizzy and slid down the wall a bit more. The rough brick scratched her back, and Adele grabbed her arm.
“You okay?” Adele mouthed.
Brighton couldn’t answer. Didn’tknowthe answer. Her mom had been the head chef at Simone’s, a fancy restaurant in Grand Haven, for all of Brighton’s childhood. Four years ago, she retired—arthritis making it too hard for her to continue working in a kitchen—and started writing forFood & Winemagazine, traveling the country and reviewing restaurants and bistros. She loved it, and Brighton knew going to France to do nothing but eat and drink wine and write about all the eating and drinking was a dream come true for her.
“That’s great,” she managed to say.
“I wish we could bring you with us, honey,” her mom said. “I asked the magazine, but—”
“No, it’s okay,” Brighton said carefully. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” Her brain whirled, trying to think just how she’d befine. Her only grandmother lived in Florida, near her mom’s oldest sister, Brighton’s aunt Rebecca. She supposed she could go there, but the idea of spending Christmas in swampy Tampa, her uncle Jim drinking Bud Light Lime in his pleather La-Z-Boy and watching Fox News twenty-four hours a day, made Brighton literally nauseous.
“You sure?” her mom said. “We don’t have to go.”
That sobered Brighton up a little. “Mom. Of course you have to go.”
“That’s my Rainbow,” her dad said, and Brighton could tell he was smiling. “I told her you’d be fine. You’re a grown woman.”
“A grown woman,” Brighton repeated, as though saying it out loud would make it true. She felt anything but her two years shyof thirty right now. Still, a lie rolled off her tongue, easy as pie. “Yeah. I…I have some friends here who are getting together on Christmas Day. Adele and…some others.”
Adele’s brow lifted.
Brighton ignored her.
“I’ll spend the day with them,” she continued. “It’ll be fun.”
“Oh, good,” her mom said, exhaling so loudly her breath buzzed into the phone. “I’m so glad to hear that, baby. Tell Adele we said hi.”
Brighton nodded, even though her mother couldn’t see her, and proceeded to ask all the right questions about her parents’ trip—when they were leaving, the name of the winery, etcetera and so forth.
By the time she hung up ten minutes later, her chest felt tight enough to burst.
“Aren’t you a smooth liar,” Adele said, facing Brighton with her arms folded.
Brighton leaned her head against the building, looked up at the inky-black sky. “My parents are going to France for the holidays. I had to say something.”
Just like she’d said so many somethings to her parents since the Katies had booted her out—I’m doing awesome! Things are going great! Of course I’m still playing! I’ve got a gig this weekend! And the next! I’m a star!
Okay, she hadn’t exactly said that last one, but the spirit was the same. Her parents believed she was a fully functioning adult in Nashville, paying her rent dutifully and living her musical dream as a solo artist. They didn’t even know how to access Instagram or TikTok, much less search for their own daughter among the accounts. The lies were easy, harmless, and madeBrighton feel like someday they might actually cease to be lies if she just kept at it.
Kept at what, exactly, she wasn’t sure. All she’d done for the last nine months was sling martinis and draft beer and grind her teeth at every musician who stepped onto Ampersand’s stage.
