“I’m trying,” Brighton said, patting her horse’s flank awkwardly. “You could help by not being such a coldhearted bitch.”
This time Cinnamon huffed and sped up a bit.
“I think I’m entitled,” Charlotte said when she’d calmed her horse.
“Okay, so I’m the bad guy here, I get it, but—”
“I don’t think you’re the bad guy, Brighton,” Charlotte said. Her mind cleared, a stoic calm settling into her bones, any and all arousal vanishing like a puff of smoke. She knew she should shut up, just swallow what she was going to say next, but it was necessary. She had to let Brighton know, in no uncertain terms, that any kind of camaraderie between them during this trip wasn’t going to happen. They weren’t going to kiss and make up. They weren’t going to fake a cutesy little romance for these ridiculous Two Turtledoves events.
They weren’t going to do anything.
Up ahead, the trees broke and the path widened, spilling out into the backyard of a green two-story farmhouse with a wraparound porch and twinkle lights in the bushes. Tables were set upwith hot chocolate and pastries, a fire crackled in a stone firepit, and a Bluetooth speaker played “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”
“I don’t think you’re the bad guy,” Charlotte said again as she turned Cinnamon to the right and kicked at his sides with her heels to speed him up. “I don’t think about you at all.”
And with that, she moved Cinnamon into a faster canter away from Brighton. She waited for a wash of triumph, her parting words delivered perfectly—indifferent, quiet, calm. Surely, that would be it. Surely, Brighton would take the hint.
She pulled Cinnamon to a stop and slid out of the saddle, boots crunching on the snowy ground, then took a second to get herself together, brushing her gloved hand over Cinnamon’s neck. He huffed, angled his head to nuzzle her hand, and she leaned against him.
The feeling of triumph didn’t come.
She waited, heard the rest of the group dismounting and chatting, exclaiming at the picturesque winter scene, but the only thing she felt was a knot in her throat, the desire to press her face to Cinnamon’s flank and cry.
A few deep breaths helped, and she rolled her shoulders back, ready to get the rest of this shit show over with. As she turned, though, she found herself face-to-face with Brighton again, her face a storm of emotion.
Brighton had never been good at holding back, holding it all in.
“You want to blame me for what happened?” she said quietly. “Fine. I get it.”
“Brighton, don’t—”
“No.” Brighton held up a hand. “You don’t get to deliver your Anna Donovan one-liners and walk away. You don’t get to do that.”
“I get to do whatever I want,” Charlotte said, her jaw tense.
“Why? Because I made a mistake when we were twenty-three?”
“A mistake?”
“Yes, I fucked up,” Brighton said, lifting her arms and letting them fall back down to her sides. “I panicked and fucked up, and I should’ve done every single thing differently on that day five years ago. I should’ve done a lot of things differently.”
Charlotte flattened her mouth into a straight line. If she spoke, she’d scream, calling attention to them. But leaving your best friend—your fiancée, your everything—alone at the altar in a white suit, everyone watching, waiting, wondering, was not some simple mistake. It was not something to reflect on and wish for a do-over.
It was catastrophic.
A world-ender.
And Brighton was kidding herself if she thought it was anything different.
Brighton stepped closer, her dark eyes a little shiny. “But I was right.”
Charlotte scoffed. “You wereright?”
“I handled it badly. Really,reallybadly. But we should not have been getting married that day, Lola, and you know it. You just didn’t want to see it. You didn’t want to seeme.”
Charlotte’s mouth fell open. She knew she should let it go, but defensiveness swelled. The absolute fucking nerve of this woman. “How in the hell did I not—”
“How are the lovebirds doing?” Jenny appeared next to them, slapping them both on their backs so hard they lurched forward a bit.
