Charlotte was about to loseher shit. And that was the thing about Charlotte Donovan. She didnotlose her shit.
Ever.
She walked into the Berry house, warmth curling around her. She tried to focus on keeping her expression placid, which was proving difficult because Christmas decorations were everywhere, so many she couldn’t even process them all—garland twining up the staircase banister, a giant winter village spread out on the console table in the hallway, bells hanging from doorknobs, and the biggest Christmas tree she’d ever seen in the living room right in front of her, sparkling with white lights and homemade ornaments, right next to a large stone fireplace, complete with a crackling fire. The air smelled like some kind of savory spice, with a breath of sugar underneath.
It smelled like the Fairbrook house.
She stopped beside the large leather couch, full of Christmas-themed pillows, a red-and-green plaid blanket folded neatly overthe back. Breathe in for four…out for four. She’d learned about mindfulness through her meditation app, but right now,feelingher feet on the floor and her fingers on the cool dark-brown leather wasn’t really doing the trick. She needed…hell, she wasn’t even sure. The last thing she’d expected to encounter on this holiday was her former fiancée, who literally left her at the altar and never looked back.
She squeezed her eyes closed, breathed. Voices filtered in from around the corner, Sloane’s being one of them. Charlotte needed her room, and she needed it now, just a moment alone. Or maybe many moments. Her chest felt tight, her eyes ached, and she swore to god, she wouldnotcry in front of these people.
“Can we talk about your latest Facebook post?” Sloane was saying.
“Oh, this should be good,” Manish said as Charlotte stepped farther into the living room to see a large, open-space, kitchen-dining-living combination. At the far end of the house, the kitchen area was cozy, despite its size, with teal cabinets and butcher-block countertops, and a large center island covered in all manner of chopped veggies and crackers and cheese. Christmas decorations covered every available surface here as well, everything from fresh garland curled around the window over the farmhouse sink to red-and-green ceramic canisters labeledSugarandCoffee. Nina stood at the stove stirring something steaming in a large silver pot.
Sloane was already pouring glasses of red wine, while Elle and Manish munched on gherkins and cubes of pepper jack cheese from a charcuterie board. Adele got a brown bottle of beer from the large stainless-steel fridge and cracked it open.
“What Facebook post?” Adele asked.
“Excuse me, Sloane?” Charlotte said.
“Hey, come join,” Sloane said, waving Charlotte closer. Snickerdoodle, who’d been lying at Nina’s feet, got up and trotted over to Charlotte. “We’ve got snacks and chili coming up.”
“Actually,” Charlotte said, petting Snickerdoodle’s head, “I was—”
“You want to tell Deli, Mom?” Sloane said, looking at her mother.
Nina frowned as she opened a cabinet and took down a stack of white ceramic bowls dotted with red and green snowflakes. “Tell her what?”
“Sloane,” Charlotte said again, but Sloane’s attention was fixed on her mother. Elle placed a glass of wine in Charlotte’s hand, then nudged it toward her mouth with a wink.
Charlotte looked down at the deep-red liquid, her stomach churning too much to take a single sip.
“Mom, you’re still using Facebook?” Adele asked. “It’s where souls go to die.”
“Oh, it is not,” Nina said, laying a handful of large spoons next to the bowls.
“And I quote,” Sloane said, taking her phone out of her back pocket, then tapping at the screen, “ ‘If anyone knows any single queer darlings, ages twenty-five to thirty-five, please do let me know.’ End quote.”
“I mean, I’m a fan of queer darlings,” Manish said.
“Same,” Elle said.
“Exactly,” Nina said. “I’m just putting out some friendly social feelers for you all while you’re here. Want you to feel, you know,seen.”
“Seen,” Adele said, her voice deadpan. “Mom, you’re the only cishet person in this house. I think we’re good.”
“Sloane,” Charlotte said, setting down her glass of wine, “could I—”
“I’ll have you know, I kissed a girl or two in my day,” Nina said, moving to the stove and stirring the chili.
“Mother, oh my god,” Sloane said, her jaw slack.
“Wait, wait,” Adele said. “What day? You married Dad when you were, like, nineteen.”
Nina went to the fridge to retrieve a stick of butter. “Twenty. And I was in college for two whole years before that.”
“Sloane?” Charlotte tried again.
