Lola.
Brighton swallowed hard, wondering what she should do.Five years ago, she would’ve knocked. She would’ve gone inside without even waiting for a response, taken Lola in her arms, wiped her tears away.
And god, she wanted to do that now.
But here she was, in the Berrys’ hallway, the love of her life crying in the bathroom, and Brighton didn’t know what to do.
Because Lola wasn’t just crying in the bathroom—she was hiding. Whatever this was, she didn’t want Brighton to see it, didn’t want Brighton to try and fix it. If she had, she would’ve woken Brighton up, curled into her, asked to be held, like she’d sometimes done when they were together. Lola didn’t always have the words, but she knew Brighton was her safe place—she knew she could just ask for a kiss, a hug, and Brighton would give it, no questions asked, that Brighton would take her out to the beach, twirl her around.
But that’s not who they were anymore.
But you can never make it right…
What you did to me will never be okay, Brighton.
A helplessness spilled into Brighton’s chest as Lola’s words from the morning they were snowed in came back to her, sand pouring through an hourglass, unstoppable.
She shook her head. No. No, she hadn’t ruined it. The last couple of days, she’d made Lola happy. She had, she knew she had. They’d forgiven each other. But Lola was leaving in three days. Leaving for a whole month. They hadn’t talked at all about what they would do after the holidays, and as Brighton stood there listening to Lola cry, she knew she had to be the one to bring it up. She had to be the one to go after Lola, because she was the one who had left.
Inside the bathroom, the water turned on, and Lola cleared her throat. Brighton could almost see her washing her face,wiping at her eyes, pulling her hair back, then putting on that red lipstick that Brighton both loved and hated—loved because Lola was always beautiful, hated because she knew Lola wore it as a shield, a sort of armor against the world.
The water turned off, and Brighton hurried back to their room and sat on the edge of the bed. Her blood felt fizzy, carbonated, and she took a few deep breaths. Five minutes later, Lola came back into the bedroom, looking fresh and lovely, red lipstick firmly in place.
“Hey,” she said, not looking at Brighton as she rifled through her suitcase, then sat next to Brighton on the bed and pulled on a pair of socks, tucking them under her sleek black jeans. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Brighton said, leaning her shoulder against Lola’s. “Sleep okay?”
Lola nodded, but her smile was small.
“Lola,” Brighton said, taking a deep breath. She could do this. Shehadto do this. “I wanted to—”
“Oh, hey, I got you a present,” Lola said, shooting up from the bed.
Brighton frowned. “You did?”
Lola nodded and went back to her suitcase, her dark wardrobe perfectly folded in its place, of course. She lifted a pile of sweaters and pulled out a brown box hidden underneath, tied with a red-and-green-striped ribbon.
“For you,” Lola said, setting it in her lap.
“Lola,” Brighton breathed. “You didn’t have to. I didn’t—”
“I know,” Lola said, waving her hand. “But I saw this the other day when I went to get some coffee downtown before the event at Elements. I just thought of you.”
Brighton untied the ribbon, slowly, reverently, then lifted thebox’s lid and set it next to her. Inside, red tissue paper covered the contents. She peeled it back, and there, sitting on a bed of red and green crinkle confetti, was a leather guitar strap.
Brighton’s mouth fell open. It was the color of maple syrup, the material buttery and perfect, so high-quality it was already worn in—she knew it would fit over her shoulder perfectly. She lifted it out, her fingers trailing over the embossed design pressed into the leather.
A sun.
Several suns, actually, spreading over the strap, rays curling outward, bold and bright and sure.
“For when you find your path,” Lola said, but her voice sounded sad, far away. She leaned over and kissed Brighton on her temple, then whispered against her skin. “Because I know you will.”
“It’s beautiful,” Brighton said, tears swelling. “Lola, I—”
But before Brighton could even say thank you, Lola stood up again, made her way to the door. “I’ll see you downstairs,” she said, and then she was gone, leaving Brighton holding her gift, those tears just starting to trail down her cheeks. She smoothed her hands over the leather and let herself cry for a few minutes.
But after she was done, she slipped the strap onto Adele’s guitar, which she’d carried upstairs with her last night. She’d been hesitant to let it go. As though the entire evening of music, ofplaying, would vanish if she let the instrument out of her sight.
