But only a little.
“Wes, his viola is expensive,” she said. “And we have a tour coming up.”
“I know, I know, I’ll be gentle, I promise. Just a few horrible notes.”
“Enough to make a total fool of himself,” Dorian said.
“What are you going to play?” Charlotte asked.
Wes laughed. “ ‘Play’ is a stretch.”
“Just be careful, please,” she said. “That instrument is at least fifty years old.”
“No pressure,” Wes said, then tilted his head at her. “What about you?”
“Me?” she asked.
“Yeah. Any love songs for Brighton?”
“It’s not like that,” she said. An instinct. The first thing that popped into her head, which meant it must be true…didn’t it? But even as she thought this, her chest tightened, fingertips tingling the way they did when she was nervous.
“It’s not?” Wes asked, his tone flat.
She just shook her head, took another sip to keep herself quiet. Because the truth was, she still didn’t knowwhatit actually was, this thing with Brighton.
Great sex.
A relief.
Perfect.
…a mistake?
As her tour loomed—the quartet’s departure just two days away—she was having a harder and harder time parsing what she was feeling. Christmas Eve had been magical, seeing Brighton come alive like that again, a guitar in her hands, just where it belonged. She could tell that night—from the second Brighton finally took the leap and played the first note—that Brighton was born to play, to create.
And how could she do that in New York, a city she hated?
That was the question Charlotte kept rolling over and over and over again in her mind, the question without an easy answer, the question that had sent her into the bathroom on Christmas morning to cry, just to get some relief. Charlotte couldn’t remember Brighton writing a single song while they lived in Manhattan, and that was before the entire Katies ordeal.
She wanted Brighton to thrive.
She knew this much, and that alone was such a monumental change from all her bitterness and resentment, it nearly felt like enough.
To simply let Brighton go.
Let her live.
But every time she readied herself to tell Brighton as much, she couldn’t get the words off her tongue. They tangled there, mottling into nonsense, into a kiss, a tumble into bed. She knew Brighton wanted to talk about their future too, but she couldn’t seem to let Brighton get the words out either.
She was scared of both options—letting go and trying again—and the only response was to stand still.
But she knew she couldn’t stay in that space forever.
“Okay, lovebirds, we’re about to start!” Eli, Watered Down’s host for events, said as he hopped onto the stage.
Cheers went up around the room. Next to Charlotte, Wes sunk down low in his seat.
“I might throw up,” he said.
