“Hey, Char, you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, an instinct. She kept moving and burst out the back door, the cold like a slap in the face but welcome.
She breathed and breathed and breathed, desperate for air, for something, anything, to soothe this ache in her chest, but all she got was dizziness. She leaned against the brick, put her head between her legs.
Breathe.
You’re okay.
You’re Charlotte Donovan.
Charlotte…Rosalind…Donovan.
“Hey,” a voice said, the heavy metal door opening next to her and slamming shut.
Brighton. Of course it was Brighton.
“Oh my god, it’s freezing out here,” she said.
Charlotte felt a coat—her own, by the scent of it—slide over her shoulders.
“Put this on,” Brighton said, tugging her to standing.
Charlotte complied, her breathing still a little fast, her body trembling. Brighton helped Charlotte get her arms into her coat, then buttoned her up and slid her own hands into Charlotte’s hair.
“Hey,” she said again, her voice so soft. “What’s wrong?”
Charlotte shook her head, but “Nothing” felt like the wrong answer. She couldn’t stop thinking about Sloane, about the last two years, about how she’d done everything wrong. Sloane hadso easily summed it all up in a sentence she hadn’t even finished. But Charlotte didn’t know if she was brave enough to fix it. Didn’t even know how to stand here with Brighton without a million questions and doubts and geographical issues crowding into her mind.
She didn’t want her mind right now.
She just wanted her heart.
She just wantedfresh and new. With everyone.
“Kiss me,” she said to Brighton. “Please.”
And Brighton did.
Chapter 25
Brighton slipped in her earbudsand pressed “Play” on her phone.
For the millionth time in the last few days, “December Light” filtered into her ears. The first notes hit like a punch, her heart rate climbing, then settled into her blood like an old lover, wistful and achy and lost.
It was Christmas Eve, and they’d all just finished the Berrys’ traditional holiday meal of chicken saltimbocca—prosciutto-wrapped chicken—with homemade mashed potatoes, green beans, and peppermint chocolate cake. The house was warmly lit, snow fell outside, and Lola was nestled next to Brighton on the sectional in the living area, her feet tucked under her as she perused some emails on her phone. Everyone else sat around, sipping spiked hot chocolate and talking about Christmas Eve traditions—opening one gift or saving them all for the morning, reading “ ’Twas the Night Before Christmas,” watchingIt’s a Wonderful Life, sleeping under the Christmas tree.
It all made Brighton miss her mother, miss her home at Christmas. She leaned her head against Lola’s and started the song over again, turning up the volume a bit more to drown out the hum of conversation.
Winter lake, December light,
tears on your face, but I’ll make it right.
An empty house that I want to fill,
ten years later this is still what’s real.
She closed her eyes, reliving those ten years, and before she knew it or could stop it, her mind was onafter. She tried to picture New York, their apartment, which she knew Lola didn’t live in anymore. She tried to see herself on the streets—maybe Brooklyn was a better fit for her. Soon her fingers were moving in her lap, creating the chords she’d written for “December Light,” and she saw herself on a dimly lit stage, a crowd in front of her, small but rapt.
