“Might as well be.”
“Goddammit, Brighton, this isn’tyou.”
Brighton’s spine straightened at Adele’s suddenly sharp tone, but Adele didn’t apologize. She rarely did. And it wasn’t like Adele was wrong. Brighton Fairbrook without a guitar—she barely recognized herself.
But Adele didn’t get it.
Brighton had left everything she loved, the person she loved most in the world, for herself. For a future that featuredherdreams,hersongs,hertalent.
And she hadn’t been good enough.
She looked at the guitar, wanting to give her best friend what she wanted, wanting to let Adele help her. She just wasn’t ready.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready.
“Okay,” she said, backing up on the bed, away from the guitar, until her back hit the headboard. She got out her phone and opened up Spotify. “A compromise.”
Adele lifted a brow, listening.
“Put that thing away,” Brighton said, waving at the guitar, “and I’ll listen to some Katies songs. Exposure therapy. Maybe it’ll dull the sting a little so that I can”—she flicked her eyes down to the guitar and back up to Adele’s face—“you know.”
“You’re so full of shit,” Adele said, but she put the guitar backinto the closet, then settled onto the bed next to Brighton, their shoulders pressing together. “Play ‘Cherry Lipstick.’ ”
“God, not you too.”
“It’s a bop, and I’m a simple queer.”
Brighton laughed, typingthe Katiesinto the search bar. She took a surreptitious deep breath as she did so. Yes, she’d suggested this little listening party to appease her friend, but honestly, this probablywasthe first step toward getting back to herself. She needed to figure out who she was apart from the Katies, who she was on her own. If she was ever going to be anything in the music world, she was solo now. That was the whole reason why she’d broken Lola’s heart in the first place, wasn’t it?
To be a major player in that world.
Not just a side character in someone else’s.
And right now she was a bartender who scared patrons when they expressed appreciation for certain songs and couldn’t even talk to a cute person without tripping all over herself.
Eventually, she had to get over it.
The Katies popped up—Brighton did her best not to flinch—a verified artist with nearly two million monthly listeners. She scrolled down to their songs, ready to hit play on “Cherry Lipstick,” when another song caught her eye.
“What is it?” Adele asked, leaning closer to peer at the screen.
“They just released a new single.” Brighton’s thumb hovered over the title, its letters blurring in her vision and rearranging. “What does that say?” she asked, not trusting what she was actually seeing. She held the phone out toward Adele.
“One sip of bourbon and you’re already seeing double?”
“Just tell me,” she said.
Adele sighed, then read the title. “ ‘December Light.’ ”
Brighton said nothing, and then her thumb seemed to move on its own, tapping those two little words.
Soft piano music filtered out of her phone’s speaker. Mellow, but it had movement to it, a guitar in the background and something else deeper. A cello, maybe. Then Sylvie’s buttery voice.
Winter lake, December light,
tears on your face, but I’ll make it right.
That Tiffany lamp, a rainbow on the floor,
