Brighton tried to breathe as the first notes of “December Light” started up. The audience cheered, then quieted as Emily played the opening on keys. Brighton stared right at her. She didn’t think Emily had seen her yet, but god, she needed it to happen.
Needed it to happen now.
The song was quiet, mellow, and the audience had quieted with it. Just before she knew Sylvie would come in with the lyrics, Brighton clapped.
Three times, and that was it.
But the venue was small, the crowd hushed in anticipation, so the sound of her clapping echoed enough that Emily’s eyes sought the source.
And found it.
Brighton watched the color drain from Emily’s face, watched her mouth drop open slightly. Her fingers even faltered on the notes a little, drawing a look from Sylvie as she started to sing.
Winter lake, December light,
tears on your face, but I’ll make it right.
“You got this,” Adele said quietly, and Brighton just nodded, kept staring. She’d never looked at anyone so hard in her life. It might’ve been slightly comical, the way Emily seemed to start sweating more, her expression one of pure panic as she struggled through the notes. Brighton didn’t necessarily want her to choke during a performance. That wasn’t her goal here. But she had to admit, this was a little satisfying, if only as evidence that Emily knew what she had done, and knew it was fucking wrong.
As hard as it was, Brighton maintained her serene expression as she continued to watch Emily. She watched her sing harmonies and get the words wrong, watched her blow a curl off her forehead, watched her swallow so hard Brighton could see her throat moving with the effort.
Three and a half minutes, the longest two hundred and ten seconds of Brighton’s life, and it was over. The Katies moved on to “Cherry Lipstick,” getting the crowd hyped again, but the damage was done. For the rest of the show, Brighton stood in front of Emily, and Emily kept glancing at her, a worried expression filtering up through her smile every time she did.
When it was finished, the last note sung, Emily took a bow, waved, and scuttled offstage before the other two, but Brighton was ready. She tugged Adele along, heading for the door to the side that led to the backstage area. There was a guy there—a bouncer for all intents and purposes, a barrier to the artists Brighton hadn’t considered.
“Shit,” she said, stopping a few feet from him while the crowd demanded an encore. “I need to get past this guy.”
Adele waved a hand. “I’ve got this.” Then she walked up to the man, hands in her pockets, completely chill. “Jack, is that you?”
He frowned at her. “I’m Sam.”
Adele clapped, then shot a pair of finger guns at him that would make any bisexual proud. “Sam, that’s right. God, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
Sam tilted his head, studying Adele to place her, totally oblivious to Brighton scooting past him in the dim light. Adele was a literal goddess, and Brighton couldn’t help but smile as she hurried down a small hallway, searching for the greenroom.
It wasn’t hard.
On the left was a small room with a leather couch and an armchair, a coffee table covered in magazines, and a stainless-steel mini-fridge.
And right there, sitting on the couch and packing her bag, was Emily.
“They’re calling for an encore,” Brighton said, leaning against the doorframe.
Emily’s head shot up, her eyes wide.
“Brighton.”
Brighton just smiled, no teeth. She felt wild inside, her pulse in her throat, emotions just at the surface. Adrenaline kept her moving, kept her focused on her goal.
“It’s been a while,” she said.
Emily nodded, stood up. “It has.”
“Things are going well for you.”
Emily just nodded again, stuck her hands into her back pockets. “Brighton, I—”
“Emily, what the hell are you doing?” Sylvie called, and Brighton turned to see the redhead barreling down the hall, hair licking at the air behind her like flames. “We’ve got to get back out there.”
