Sloane crossed her legs, turned toward her like they were two girls at a sleepover. “Just tell me one detail. Anything you want.”
“Why?” Charlotte asked.
Sloane rolled her eyes. “Because I’m your best friend.”
Something bloomed inside Charlotte’s chest, an emotion shecouldn’t name, and it pushed at her and shoved and pinched. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to keep it in, but then she started talking.
“There was a girl…” Charlotte said.
“Oh, here we go,” Sloane said, grinning. “Now we’re getting to it.”
Charlotte paused, the whole storyright there, swirling and brimming like a river in a downpour. She inhaled, exhaled, imagined herself saying everything, the weight of it all leaving her lungs, her bones.
She imagined Sloane’s reaction.
Sloaneknowing.
And then Charlotte felt it happening—the dam’s doors closing—and she let them, because even now, the humiliation of being left by the one person who had promised to love her no matter what was so visceral. Charlotte could still smell the wood sage and sea salt perfume she’d bought especially for that day, perfume she’d never worn since. She could still see her mother sitting at the first table at Simone’s, Bonnie Fairbrook’s restaurant, which they’d rented out for the wedding. Anna had chosen a blush-colored suit for the event. She looked perfect and refined, but all Charlotte remembered was the bored expression on Anna’s face as it became clear Brighton wasn’t going to show.
Charlotte could still hear the music too.
Their song.
She hadn’t played her violin part since, but the melody, the whimsical notes Brighton had woven together the day they’d gotten engaged played in her dreams sometimes. She’d wake up with the song in her head like a ghost stalking her through sleep.
No, Charlotte couldn’t possibly tell this story. Couldn’t admit it all to Sloane, who would undoubtedly try to comfort her, joinher in hating Brighton, even. But underneath all that, Sloane wouldknow.
She’d know Charlotte. Really know her. And letting someone in like that had never worked out very well for her.
“She just…she was my best friend,” Charlotte said, schooling her expression into something unaffected. “We grew apart, that’s all. But I guess I wasn’t a complete hermit.” She laughed, smiling in a way she thought was convincing.
Sloane frowned, clearly disappointed. “Did this girl help you figure out you were bi?”
Charlotte blinked.
“For me, it was Gemma Villanueva.” Sloane’s eyes took on a dreamy quality. “Tenth grade. I’d known her forever, but one day, it was like a lightning strike. I noticed her butt in this certain pair of jeans, and god, I can’t even tell you. I thought I just, you know, wanted my butt to look like that, but then, one day, we were in the orchestra room together after school, and—”
“It wasn’t her,” Charlotte said.
Sloane snapped her mouth shut.
“It wasn’t my friend,” Charlotte said again, the denial coming too quickly, some lie about who actually did bring about her bi awakening coming too slowly, so she said nothing else. Just fiddled with the edge of the lavender sheet.
Sloane looked away, then sighed. “Right.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Charlotte said, which she knew wasn’t exactly true. She’d panicked. She hadn’t realized how close she’d come to sharing her saddest story. Sloane’s own story had simply felt like too much.
Too much like the kind of closeness she’d promised herself she’d never fall into again.
Sloane only nodded in response, her eyes distant on thedresser in front of her, a jewelry holder still full of friendship bracelets taking center stage. “Well, we should probably get ready for this horror show you’ve all agreed to.” She flung off her covers, grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweater from her closet, and left the room without another word. Charlotte heard the bathroom door click shut, and she flopped back onto the bed, her head still screaming at her, a horrible mix of guilt and relief humming just under her ribs.
Chapter 8
The horses were monsters.
Beasts.
Veritable behemoths.
