There was no anger anymore.
No bitterness.
Last she checked—and she checked at least once a week—the Katies had removed “December Light” from their discography. There was a lot of speculation online as to why the song had vanished, but Brighton didn’t care about that. She just cared that it was gone.
That it was hers again.
Still, she hadn’t played it onstage. She was doing well, but she wasn’t made of steel, and that song…it was just too much.
Too close.
She strummed the last chord of “Good At Falling,” smiling as applause broke out.
“Thank you and hello, Nashville!” she said. More hoots and hollers, the best sound other than actual good music. She talked with the audience for a few seconds, then started another song. She went on like this for a good thirty minutes before she decided to slow it down. At this point, she usually employed the stool that lived onstage, loving the more intimate feel of just sitting around with friends. She turned, reached out to pull the stool toward her, and froze.
There was something set atop the cognac pleather of the stool.
She blinked, stepped closer.
It was a stone.
No…beach glass.
Turquoise and in the shape of a heart.
No, silly, you need a special name. A secret name.Brighton could feel the wet sand between her fingers, smell the mineral scent of the lake.A name just for us.
The stone was the most perfect piece of beach glass she’d ever found. Smooth and vibrant, that heart shape unmistakable, nonreplicable.
I’ve got it.She set the stone in Charlotte’s palm.Lola.
Now, with the audience quiet behind her, she picked up the glass, held it in her own palm. It was the same one. She was sure of it. She whipped her head toward the crowd, eyes searching, but everyone was in shadow, their faces dark.
“Um,” she said, pocketing the glass and managing to get her ass on the stool without falling off. “I’m going to slow it down a bit.”
But her mind was blank, the song she was going to play just a blur of words in her brain. Her eyes still searched, darting through the room for a glimpse of silver hair, a black turtleneck.
She clutched her guitar, trying to focus on what the hell she was doing, trying to get her heart to slow down.
A song…a song…
“How about ‘December Light’?”
Brighton’s head turned in the direction of the voice from the audience, near the left wall.
A familiar voice.
Brighton held up her hand to shade her eyes and could just make out her form.
Lola.
Leaning against the exposed brick wall, the dim lights just catching the silver in her hair, which was loose and long, waves tumbling over her shoulders.
And there, dangling casually in her hands, as though she carried violin cases everywhere she went, was Rosalind.
“Only if you join me,” Brighton said quietly into the mic. Heads turned, murmurs rippling through the room, but Brighton couldn’t play this off, get the audience laughing about a surprise guest. She could barely breathe as Lola stood still for one…two…three…
Then Lola pushed off the wall and made her way to the stage.
