Lola’s jaw tightened.
“All right, looks like we have the first match of Two Turtledoves!” Jenny announced, clapping her gloved hands together. The rest of the group joined in, and Brighton heard Adele’s signature whistle over the crowd.
Lola still continued to stare at her.
Brighton didn’t look away. Didn’t dare. Lola wanted to play games with her? She’d play them right the fuck back.
Chapter 9
Charlotte wanted to scream.
She wanted to kick at Cinnamon’s sides again and take off through the woods, her middle finger raised in farewell as she went.
Really, she wanted to go back in time and simply observe Brighton fly by her on the path, dark hair flapping in the frosty air, doing nothing whatsoever about her ex-fiancée’s brush with death.
Oh, wow, poor thing. I hope she’s okay.
But no, of course she had to play the hero, had to swoop in and clean up Brighton Fairbrook’s mess, just like she’d always done—holding Brighton’s hair back so she could puke up all the Jägerbombs she drank at their first party their freshman year at Berklee, pretty much dragging her across the finish line of their music theory class because Brighton had always relied on her ear far too much, covering for her when she skipped AP English theirsenior year of high school to stand in line for tickets to see Florence + the Machine.
The list went on and on, ten years of half-baked plans and impulsivity that Charlotte had tried her best to hold together, make cohesive.
Make last.
Let’s get married.
That had been Brighton’s biggest impulse of all.
Let’s get married.
Whispered on the lakeshore when they were twenty-two years old. They’d just arrived home from Berklee for Christmas break of their junior year. The Fairbrook house was glowing and alive with soft lights and wreaths, with candles and hot toddies and presents under the Christmas tree—some of them with Charlotte’s name on them—while Charlotte’s house was dark.
Closed up, even.
When Charlotte had slid her key into the front door, a blast of cold, stale air had rushed out to meet her, nothing but the single Tiffany lamp on the front hall’s console table to light her way, casting watery blue and red shadows on the wall.
The lamp Charlotte’s mother only left on during the day if she was out of town.
Charlotte had called Anna then, pressing her phone to her ear, her heart thrumming under her ribs, but she already knew, even before her mother picked up, voice casual and crackling over the distance, that Anna Donovan was not at home to greet her daughter with Christmas cheer.
“I’m in London,” Anna had said. “I didn’t tell you?”
“I’m sure you did,” Charlotte had said, even though she knew her mother hadn’t said a word to her about a trip to London over the holidays.
“It’s a research trip for that Jack the Ripper copycat book I’m working on,” Anna said. “I’ll be back New Year’s Day. See you then?”
“See you then.” Charlotte had ended the call before her voice split, tears clouding into her chest and up her throat. She allowed herself to break, overwhelmed by the stress of the fall semester and her upcoming spring show, by this constant desperation for Brighton to do well too, even as she felt Brighton’s interest in classical training waning more and more. It was too much, December closing in on her, reminding her she was nothing, no one. She sat on the bottom of the stairs, the Tiffany lamplight pooling at her feet, and cried.
Brighton had found her like that. Charlotte hadn’t meant for her to see. While Brighton was the safest place, Charlotte’sperson, she didn’t like losing her shit quite that much in front of anyone, even her one true love, who she knew would take her in her arms and whisper in her ear how much she loved her, how beautiful she was, how perfect.
And that’s exactly what Brighton did.
She held Charlotte and whispered and kissed her tears away and then led her out to the snowy beach where the sun was setting over the frigid water, icy waves frozen in time.
“So Anna’s a narcissistic bitch,” Brighton had said, her fingers laced with Charlotte’s as they walked. “This we know.”
Charlotte nodded, but the tears started flowing again anyway, evidence that Charlotte still cared a little too much, still wanted Anna tonotbe the way she was.
“Hey,” Brighton said, stopping them and turning to face Charlotte. “Fuck her. It’s not you, it’s her, okay? Remember that.”
