And that’s what broke the dam, stripped away whatever barrier she’d put up that was holding the tears back. Because they’d already talked.
And talked and talked and talked.
And every time, Lola had convinced her. Every time, Lola saidYou and me, and Brighton believed it was enough, for a month, a week, a day.
A few hours.
That was what had happened earlier this morning, and that’s exactly what would happen now. Lola would come into the bathroom, looking gorgeous in her white suit, her lips full and red. She would take Brighton’s face in her hands, whisper, kiss, do all the right things, and Brighton would nod and say, again, that it was enough.
And they’d get married.
And they’d go back to New York.
And Brighton would…
Brighton dropped her head into her hands. She’d what? Because everything after that was fuzzy, a smeared watercolor portrait of her possible future. There was Lola, and Lola was perfect and beautiful, and god, Brighton loved her so much, but she couldn’t findherselfin the image.
Outside, the music shifted, the musicians they’d hired starting a song that Brighton knew all too well. But instead of excitement, of happiness, she felt only dread. Pure panic knowing that Lola was walking down the aisle, as they’d planned for her to go first, then turn and wait for Brighton.
Suddenly, before she could think, talk herself out of it, or into it, again and again, Brighton was moving. Tears clouded her vision as she gathered her toiletries and makeup from the counter, then stuffed it all into the suitcase she was supposed to take to Paris on their honeymoon. Later, she didn’t even remember stepping into the dimly lit hallway and heading for the back door in the kitchen, Bonnie’s staff preparing the reception meal. She didn’t slow down until she flung herself into her old Toyota Corolla, which she’d left in her parents’ care when she moved to Manhattan. She only remembered motion, cold winter air biting through the lace of her dress, snow soaking her delicate off-white shoes, the purr of the engine starting, and the relief she felt when the gas gauge needle soared up to three-fourths of a tank.
She’d forgotten her coat, her scarf, her snow boots. Forgotten a lot of shit, most of which she wouldn’t even realize until a couple of days later, when she finally got out of bed at the roadside hotel just outside Indianapolis where she’d eventually stoppeddriving. The frizzy-haired receptionist who’d checked her in had eyed her wedding dress with a thousand questions.
On her wedding day, though, in that exact moment, none of it mattered. Logic, the repercussions, a different path—none of it existed. The only thing that existed was the wide road in front of her, Grand Haven shrinking in her rearview mirror.
Chapter 12
When Brighton finished her tale,Adele didn’t say anything for a long while. When she finally spoke, “Well, shit” was the only thing that came out of her mouth.
Brighton laughed, though the sound was bitter, brittle. “You can say that again.”
“Iwillsay that again. I mean, good goddamn, Brighton.”
“I know.” Brighton rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. She felt empty, the husk of a runaway bride. She hadn’t told that story to anyone, not even her mother, who had just intuited what Brighton had been feeling. It had been so much easier that way. Thetellingof the whole ordeal was fucking exhausting. Granted, Brighton had kept the finer details about the last time she and Lola had had sex from Adele, only mentioning that it had happened. But this hadn’t stopped every moment of that last morning from blooming in Brighton’s own memory, leaving her now with a confusing swirl of guilt and longing and lust.
“You haven’t seen her since then?” Adele asked. “Not even a glimpse at Christmas?”
“Not a single silver hair,” Brighton said. “I don’t think she’s been home since then. I called her after everything settled down. Called her a lot. Texted. God, I texted so much, it’s embarrassing.”
“And let me guess.”
Brighton blew out a breath. “Yep. A big silentfuck you.”
“And now she wants to pretend like she doesn’t even know you.”
Brighton shot finger guns Adele’s way, clicking her tongue. “Bingo.”
“Maybe that’s what you need to do too,” Adele said.
“How am I supposed to do that? I just want to…” But she trailed off, becausemake it rightwas never going to happen. She knew that much, at least. But it wasLola. She could never act like Lola didn’t exist. That she wasn’t who she was—or used to be—to Brighton.
“You might have to, just for your sanity,” Adele said. “You can’t make her talk to you. You can’t make her forgive you either.”
“I know that.”
“You need a distraction.”
“I tried that with Gemma.”
