“You don’t have to do it, you know,” she said.
He frowned at her, tilted his head. “You’re not much of a romantic, are you?”
She laughed. “An understatement.”
But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. She used to love romance. She would bring Brighton flowers and write her actual physical notes in high school before they even got together, because even then Charlotte had loved her.
She sighed, glanced at Sloane. “But you’re right—you should do it,” she said to Wes.
“Yeah?” he said, brows lifted.
Charlotte smiled at him, and this one was real. “Yeah.”
He grinned like a little kid, and it was so cute that Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh and pat him on the leg.
“Hey,” Brighton said, walking up to Charlotte’s other side, bringing a wash of cold air with her. “What’d I miss?”
“Oh, just my impending humiliation,” Wes said.
Brighton frowned, but he turned to say something to Dorian.
“Where’ve you been?” Charlotte asked, both relief and panic surging as Brighton settled into a chair.
“Just running late,” Brighton said, but she didn’t make eye contact. Charlotte studied her as she took off her red coat, revealing a lacy black blouse with a black bra underneath, dark jeans, and hunter-green boots. Light-pink gloss sparkled on her lips, and her eyes were rimmed dark, lashes as long as a day.
“You look nice,” Charlotte said, another understatement. Brighton looked ethereal, magical.
Brighton smiled before she leaned in, pressed a kiss under Charlotte’s ear, and whispered, “Thank you.”
“All right, all right,” Eli called into the mic. “First up is Jameson with an ode for…well, we’ll let him tell you!”
The crowd cheered, and Brighton pulled away, still smiling softly at Charlotte.
Charlotte smiled back, but her brain snagged on how crinkly her eyes were, and then she was overthinking her smile, overthinking why it was fake, overthinking every thump of her heart.
Jameson hopped onstage and proceeded to perform a truly horrific rendition of John Mayer’s “Your Body Is a Wonderland” for someone named Rita, who beamed at him from the audience with her hands clasped to her chest.
“If he starts hip thrusting,” Wes said, “I’m going to—oh, oh god, there he goes.”
Charlotte tried to laugh, tried to get her stomach to relax. “Isn’t he the glue eater?”
“The very same,” Wes said, “though I hope, for Rita’s sake, that he’s moved on to more mature delicacies.”
“Hey, there’s someone for everyone,” Dorian said.
“Yeah, like viola-playing South Asian men from London,” Wes said.
Dorian just smirked as Jameson finished and proceeded to make out with Rita right there in the front row, tongue and all. A few more acts passed, even fewer of them decent, including Gemma performing original slam poetry for a person named Ash, whom Charlotte remembered seeing at the events. It was pretty incredible, actually, and Charlotte couldn’t help but genuinely smile as the two of them kissed at the end to a chorus of snaps.
“Cute,” Brighton said, sliding her hand into Charlotte’s.
“Very,” Charlotte said, her fingers closing around Brighton’s and squeezing.
“And now, a song for a songstress by a songstress,” Eli said. “Please welcome to the stage Brighton Fairbrook!”
Charlotte blinked, Eli’s words falling into place slowly. “Wait, what?”
But Brighton just smiled at her, pulled her hand to her lips, and kissed her knuckles. Then she let her go and wove through the tables to the stage. She grabbed a guitar that was sitting on a stand to the side—Adele’s guitar, now outfitted with the strap Charlotte had given her—and slid it over her shoulder.
