Charlotte frowned, confused. Her mother had named her Charlotte, and that’s what everyone called her.
“Um…Charlotte?” she said.
Brighton laughed. “No, silly, you need a special name. A secret name.” She squatted down to dig into a wet patch of sand. “A name just for us.”
Us.
The word reverberated in Charlotte’s chest. She’d never really had anus. She and her mom were a sort ofus, she guessed, but that was by default. A forced relationship, an obligation. She had friends in school, but no one who ever lasted past the school year. No one who called her and invited her to sleepovers or Skoops for afternoon ice cream.
“It’s got to be a good one,” Brighton said. “Lottie?”
Charlotte made a face, and Brighton laughed, the sound like the wind chimes already hanging from the Fairbrooks’ back porch.
“I’ve got it,” Brighton said, standing up with a smooth pieceof beach glass. It was turquoise and, if you turned it just so, shaped like a heart. She placed it in Charlotte’s hand. “Lola.”
Charlotte closed her fingers around the glass, bits of sand gritting into her palm, and smiled.
Lola.
And that’s who she was for the next ten years.
Whotheywere.
Lola and Bright.
Now, fifteen years later in Colorado, she tore her eyes from Brighton, hurrying up the steps, her violin case clutched to her chest, doing her best not to care why Brighton was walking into the house ten minutes after everyone else, her eyes slightly watery. She was no longer Charlotte’s problem or concern. Hadn’t been for five years.
At the top of the stairs, she paused, then pressed herself against a wall so Sloane could pass and lead them down a hallway filled with framed family photos and mountainesque art.
“Manish and Elle, you’re at the end of the hall in the guest room. Brighton is in Adele’s room just there on the left, and Charlotte, I put you in here with me.” She motioned to the first door on the right.
Sloane just stared at her, the reality sinking in. Of course. The Berrys didn’t live in a mansion—she saw now how absurd she was to assume she’d have her own room, but in her defense, she hadn’t been thinking clearly for the last half hour or so.
“Right,” Charlotte said, more to herself than anyone else. Manish and Elle bumbled past, already arguing about who got the left side of the bed, which they both wanted for some unknown reason.
Sloane tilted her head at Charlotte, then nodded toward the door. Charlotte followed her inside to find a lovely room with aqueen bed covered in what looked like a handmade quilt crafted out of T-shirts, fluffy pillows wrapped in crisp lavender sheets. There were posters of famous violin players all over the walls and shelves packed with trophies and ribbons from music competitions and festivals. Both Sloane’s and Charlotte’s suitcases were tucked into a corner by the bed.
“My mom hasn’t changed much in here,” Sloane said, laughing as she sat on the cushioned window seat at the far side of the room. “Which I kind of love, honestly. It’s sort of nice, coming home, remembering how things—”
“Where’s the bathroom?” Charlotte asked.
Sloane blinked, her smile dipping. “Right. Sorry, you’re not feeling well. It’s just across the hall.”
Charlotte mumbled a thanks, ignoring the way guilt bubbled up in her chest—she suspected she was being a bit of an asshole—and all but threw herself into the bathroom. She pressed her back against the door, her violin case still in her arms.
She waited for the tears to come, almost wanted them, wanted the relief. But her body was in full fight-or-flight mode, and they wouldn’t release, like water held back by a dam.
She set her violin case on the toilet lid, draped her soiled coat over the clawfoot tub and set her hat on top, then ran the water in the sink. It came out freezing cold, but she left it like that, cupping it into her hands and splashing her face, hoping the temperature would shock her into…
What?
She had no idea what to do here. Pretending like she and Brighton didn’t know each other had just happened, an instinct, her hand flying out in a stoic greeting before she’d really thought it through.
But it was the right instinct.
She couldn’t possibly get through this trip with Brighton if they actually acknowledged their history. And their specific history? Completely untenable. Acting like they’d never met before was the only way to go.
It was either that or leaving.
