Breathing didn’t get any easier as she got closer, black turtleneck and all, soft-pink lipstick instead of red. A million questions burgeoned in Brighton’s mind about why Lola was here, why she’d brought her violin along, why she’d placed the glass on Brighton’s stool. But there was only one plausible explanation.
Lola was here for her.
“Hi,” Brighton said as Lola stepped onto the stage.
“Hi,” Lola said back, smiling softly.
She was so gorgeous. Brighton still struggled to breathe properly as Lola set her case down at the back of the small stage, flipped the buckles, placed her violin on her shoulder. She zipped her bow over the strings, tuning.
It had been so long since they’d played together, just the two of them. Brighton felt an elation she’d only ever felt in such moments—Lola and Bright on a stage or in her bedroom or sitting around the living room. Anywhere, everywhere, as long as it was them, their instruments, their music.
Lola grinned at Brighton, nodding that she was ready, and the fact that they were onstage in front of at least a hundred people came flooding back into Brighton’s consciousness.
“Um, hey, you’re still here,” she said to the crowd. They laughed. “Sorry for the delay. This”—she held out an arm to Lola—“is Charlotte Donovan of the Rosalind Quartet.”
The audience clapped, and Charlotte bowed her head, ever the picture of elegance. Brighton didn’t know how she did it—inside, Brighton was crying, screaming, throwing up.
“You’re all in for a real treat,” she said. “And this song…” She looked at Lola. Lola looked at her. Smiled so softly that Brighton’s throat went a little thick. “This song is called ‘December Light.’ ”
They didn’t talk much atall in the car on the way to Lola’s hotel.
But they did hold hands.
Right over the gearshift, fingers tangled, Brighton doing her level best to steer one-handed, as though if she let go, this whole night would end up being a dream.
She was still buzzing from the performance—after the awkward pause caused by shock and elation at Lola’s presence, it was the best show she’d ever put on.
Lola stayed onstage for the rest of Brighton’s set, adding her inimitable talent to her songs, even those she’d never heard, as well as playing a couple of her own pieces, violin solos that had left the crowd in hushed awe.
She was fire.
And she was water and air and earth.
She was everything as a musician.
Everything to Brighton.
Now, after talking a bit with Adele and a few enthusiastic audience members, Brighton tried to process what the hell had just happened. The whole night felt both crystal clear and like an emotional blur. She wasn’t even sure how they’d ended up in her car, Lola’s hotel on her navigation app. She wasn’t clear on how they’d entered the lobby of the Graduate Nashville on Twentieth Avenue North, a colorful splash of pink and white and red, a giant portrait of Minnie Pearl behind the retro wooden desk.
“Wow,” Brighton said.
“Yeah,” Lola said, the only words they’d spoken since leaving Ampersand.
Still, Lola kept hold of Brighton’s hand, and Brighton let her.
Lola’s room was just as wild—pink-and-white-striped walls, a four-poster king bed with a mint-green chintz canopy, and a smiling portrait of Dolly Parton over the padded purple headboard.
Brighton had heard this hotel was kitschy, a truly unique Nashville experience, and the reality did not disappoint. Honestly, though, Brighton couldn’t give two shits about this room.
She sat on the edge of the bed, watched as Lola slipped off her red heels.
Watched as Lola walked closer to her.
Watched, neck arching upward, as Lola came close enough to touch.
“Hi,” Lola said.
“Hi,” Brighton said back.
