Brighton grunted in frustration and tapped the red button on her phone’s screen a little more vehemently than necessary. Called again.
Hi, this is Bonnie! Leave—
“Fuck!” Brighton whisper-screamed, then flung herself onto Adele’s bed and promptly burst into tears. She’d been holding them in for long enough—since Lola had so eloquently declared Brighton wasn’t even worth her passing thoughts—a feat that only became more difficult when Lola and Wes spent the rest of the morning giggling and smiling at each other.
After all of this, their group spent the afternoon driving around Winter River, with Brighton stuck in the third row of Nina’s Ford Expedition next to Adele. Her thighs were killing her, which apparently was normal after a day of horseback riding and,of course, made worse by her rogue adventure with Cupcake. So she not only endured her friend’s constant worried glances but also had to hold back grunts of pain as she kept digging herself out of the car so they could tour Winter Berry Bakery, a general store called Matilda’s Market, and a bookstore that sold only romances and thrillers and was cleverly dubbed Kiss-Marry-Kill.
By the time they arrived back at the Berry house for a late lunch, she was exhausted and just wanted some time alone, but then the quartet had disappeared into the finished basement for a rehearsal—led by Lola, whose cheeks were flushed with cold and whose smile and banter had seemed to come so easily all morning—which left Adele and Brighton to help Nina with the meal. Of course, Brighton didn’t want to be rude, didn’t want to call attention to her near nervous breakdown at all. So she’d pasted on a smile and stirred tomato soup on the stove, humming along to the steady stream of Christmas music playing from Nina’s Bluetooth speaker.
But all of that only made her miss her mother even more, which was how she now found herself creating a puddle of saltwater tears on Adele’s navy comforter, clutching her phone and willing her mother to call back, all while trying to keep her sobbing at a low volume.
This proved challenging. When Brighton cried, she rarely did so with any sort of grace—flowing snot, heaving gulps of air, whimpers that sounded like a dying animal rolling out of her throat. She really gave it all she had.
Her phone vibrated in her hand, and she shot upright, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand so she could see the screen.
You good?
A text from Adele.
Very muchnother mother, a disappointment that pulled forth a fresh wave of tears.
All she wanted right now was her mother’s calm voice, her soothing tone, simple words likeIt’ll be okay, which always seemed to mean much more when they came out of Bonnie Fairbrook’s mouth, as though she twisted some magic through usually useless phrases.
That was all Brighton needed, really.
To know it’d be okay.
Thateverythingwould be okay.
She sat there hiccupping as more tears came. She was determined to get them all out now—wring herself dry before she left this room again.
And she knew exactly what would do the trick: a good pour of salt over her open wounds. She flopped back onto the bed and rolled onto her stomach, a pillow tucked under her chin and her phone in her hands.
Then she opened up her Photos app.
She had to scroll back a bit, the tiny squares of color blurring past old Katies rehearsals, pics of her and Emily and Alice sticking their tongues out at the camera after a show, images of her parents and their cats, the lake at the height of summer, random shots of Nashville streets when she’d first moved there.
And then it was like clouds parting, revealing a different world underneath. A different time, a different dimension, even.
Lola and Bright.
It had been years since Brighton had let herself scroll this far back in her photos, and the images in front of her felt like a splash of cold water. She tapped on one photo they’d taken at their rehearsal dinner at Simone’s restaurant, a selfie, Brighton holdingthe camera up and looking at it head-on as Charlotte’s nose pressed against Brighton’s cheek, a real smile on her perfect mouth. Brighton searched her own face, looking for signs of the doubt she’d been feeling for months by then, but all she saw was a girl in love.
Because with her and Lola, it had never been about a lack of love.
Her throat tightened, and she moved her thumb over the screen, found a photo she knew her mother had taken of Brighton and Lola playing together at Java Blues, a coffee shop in Grand Haven. It was one of the last times they’d played together before their wedding, performing a song Brighton had written back when she was fifteen called “Warm When I’m Cold.” She’d written it out of love for Lola before she even realized itwaslove.
She zoomed in on their faces, both of them at a microphone. Lola had never considered herself a singer, but she had a lovely tone perfect for harmonies. She knew how to blend, how to cut off consonants at the end of phrases when needed, how to match Brighton breath for breath. The tune played in Brighton’s head—a simple song and certainly not the best thing she’d ever written, but it was true.
It wasthem.
She kept scrolling, not even bothering to stop the tears now as she took in the entirety of her and Lola’s life together—first days of school and the black-and-white dresses they’d worn to senior prom, days at the lake and fireworks in the sky and cold autumn nights around a bonfire in the Fairbrooks’ backyard.
The day they left for Berklee.
The day they left for New York.
The morning of their wedding.
