Seen and heard and loved.
From then on, almost every holiday—every Christmas, every birthday—was spent with the Fairbrooks. The Fairbrooks loved Christmas, went all out in every possible way, their house bedazzled with lights, their kitchen always filled with something sweet and warm. And for ten years, Charlotte thought she’d finally beaten the December curse.
It made complete sense that Brighton had wanted a Christmas wedding. And Charlotte had wanted to give Bright anything she wanted.
Forever.
Except forever had turned into never, and now here Charlotte sat, five years later, more Christmas cursed than ever and trying to avoid confessing just how sad her life actually was to her fellow musicians.
“I’m just not a fan of Christmas,” she said. “I never really…for the past several years, I just…”
“What about your family?” Manish asked, and Sloane and Elle leaned forward a little, their curiosity piqued.
“I don’t really have a family,” Charlotte said firmly, trying to keep any and all emotion out of her voice. It was more or less true. Anna had emailed last week, sure, but just as part of her monthly “check-in,” something Charlotte felt her mother did to avoid being a completely horrible human being. The emails were usually filled with news of her latest book, a benign question or two about Charlotte’s music.
“You…you what?” Sloane said, pressing her hand to her chest.
Clearly, Charlotte was going about this all wrong, digging herself deeper and deeper into Sloane’s sympathies.
“No, I do have one,” Charlotte said. “But Anna—my mom—and I don’t really…”
Really what? Get along? They didn’t interact enough for even that to be true, particularly after everything with Brighton went to hell. Charlotte hadn’t been back to Michigan since.
“Hold up,” Elle said, holding out a hand. “Anna…Donovan? The author?”
“Yeah,” Charlotte said slowly. “You’ve heard of her?”
“Heard of her?” Elle said. “Fuck, I love her books.”
“Wait, she’s that thriller writer, right?” Manish said. “Her bookThe Wiveswas just made into a movie, yeah? Came out last year?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Your mother wroteThe Wives?” Sloane asked, her eyes a little glassy with hurt. “How…how did I not know this?”
Charlotte opened her mouth, then closed it again. She had no clue what to say.Because I never tell anyone anythingdidn’t really feel appropriate, though that was, essentially, the reason. Charlotte was painfully aware that her story—her past, her mother, her engagement to her childhood best friend that ended in the worst way imaginable—wasn’t exactly happy. She’d rather not dwell on it. She was a successful violinist. She was known because of her talent. Her mind. Her skill. Why couldn’t everyone simply focus on the now and move the hell on?
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte finally said. She didn’t want to hurt Sloane, didn’t want to hurt any of them. She just wanted to live her sad little life, thanks very much.
Sloane shook her head, eyes on her lap. Awkward silence reigned for a few seconds, Manish and Elle widening their eyes at each other meaningfully, Charlotte’s fingertips going white on her glass.
Finally, Sloane sat up straight, knocked back the rest of her wine, and all but slammed the stemless glass onto the ottoman. “You know what? No. This is not how you three are spending Christmas. I fucking refuse.”
She stood up and dug her phone out of her back pocket. “You’re all coming home with me.”
A shocked quiet hung in the air while Sloane tapped on her phone’s screen with enough vehemence to crack the glass.
“Wait, what?” Elle finally asked.
“Um, seconded,” Manish said.
Charlotte just sipped her wine, because surely “all” did not include her.
“You heard me,” Sloane said, still tapping away.
“To Colorado?” Elle said.
“Clarification: to Bumfuck Nowhere, Colorado,” Manish said.
