Well, good.
“And then,” Charlotte went on, “she took my hand and she said…Do you know what she said?”
Brighton didn’t say anything.
“She said, ‘Honey.’ That was it. Just one word, a little press of my hand, and I knew. I knew it, but I didn’t, you know? I couldn’t believe you’d actually leave me, but deep down, I knew you had. If you hadn’t, Bonnie wouldn’t have been standing in front of me. You would have. But you weren’t, and I…I just…”
She couldn’t finish. It was all too much, reliving that day, “December Light” playing while Charlotte’s whole world fell apart. The musicians kept going, unsure of what to do when it was clear that Brighton, the other bride, wasn’t coming. So Charlotte had not only walked down the aisle to that song, she recessed to it too, Bonnie leading her back up the white tree-lined aisle, candles flickering warmly, her own mother just sitting there in the front row with her lips pursed, as though she’d suspected this might happen all along.
Somehow, Charlotte had ended up in the Fairbrooks’ kitchen, a cup of tea in her hands, Bonnie sitting in front of her with a concerned look on her face.
I’m so sorry, honey.
And Charlotte hadn’t even cried.
She hadn’t cried then, and she hadn’t cried when she got up,tea untouched, and went back to her house and locked herself in her bedroom, the very room she and Brighton had just had sex in, cuddled in, whispered in not ten hours before. She hadn’t cried when Brighton texted, called, left voicemails a few days later. She hadn’t cried as she deleted them all without even listening to them.
She hadn’t cried when she packed up Brighton’s stuff in their New York apartment. She hadn’t cried when she slipped the engagement ring Brighton had picked out for her—gold with a geo-cut blue-green sapphire in the middle—off her finger for the last time and tossed it into a box full of Brighton’s sweaters before shipping everything back to Grand Haven. She hadn’t cried when Brighton stopped calling, stopped texting.
She hadn’t cried through any of that. She’d moved on, lived the life she meant to. And she loved her life. Shelovedit, didn’t miss this woman standing behind her, this woman who’d betrayed every single piece of her heart, this woman who’d left her like she was nothing.
She’d never cried over her.
Never needed to.
But now she couldn’t seem to stop the flow—it was like a dam breaking, a river set loose. Her face flooded, eyes spilling over. She pressed her hands to her face, cold fingers trying, trying, trying to push everything back inside, but it didn’t work, and her sobs echoed through the sleeping forest.
Then…hands on her wrists.
Soft. Familiar.
“Lola.”
A whisper, gentle, her own name curling around her in a way that pulled more tears from deep inside her, dissolving her anger. She was tired, so tired, after five years of holding herself up, andit suddenly felt like she hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep in all that time, rest only coming in fits and starts.
Brighton pulled Charlotte’s fingers free, replacing them with her own hands. They were freezing but somehow still felt warm as her thumbs swiped the tears from Charlotte’s cheeks, her palms cradling Charlotte’s face. Then her forehead was against Charlotte’s, whose hands somehow circled Brighton’s wrists, holding her there instead of pushing her away.
Their breaths mingled, Brighton whispering “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” over and over, but Charlotte barely heard the words. They would never make it right anyway, and they both knew it, but still, Charlotte couldn’t seem to put space between them. Brighton was so close, so familiar—she smelled the same, like summer, like warm breezes and mint, even in the middle of winter.
The snow fell a little harder, as though the weather were reacting to the pull between them. Charlotte felt herself curl closer, their noses bumping. They were nearly the same height, Charlotte only about half an inch taller, and she remembered now how perfect that was, how perfectly they fit together, like they were made to be close, to kiss, to melt into one.
And, god, it had been so long.
Five years, nearly to the day, since Charlotte had been kissed. Been held like this. She’d planned to move on sexually, romantically, but she never had time, never wanted it badly enough to go through the effort of meeting someone, feeling comfortable. And she’d been fine. She could take care of herself in the pleasure department, and she had her music, her work, her quartet.
But now Brighton was here,here, holding her, and everything in her wanted to shove Brighton away and at the same time swallow her whole. She wanted to disappear into her, the desire so strong that she couldn’t fight it, didn’t want to, and then theirmouths brushed, the gentlest whisper of a touch, and Charlotte fell.
Into.
Under.
Against.
Brighton’s mouth closed around her bottom lip, and god, it felt so good, so right, like nothing had gone wrong between them, like it had only been five minutes since they’d last kissed instead of five years. Charlotte pulled Brighton closer, hands going from Brighton’s wrists to wrap around her waist, under her coat, while Brighton threaded her hands into Charlotte’s hair, pushing off whoever’s knit hat she was wearing. Brighton’s teeth tugged at Charlotte’s bottom lip, so gently, right before their tongues met, sending a swell of warmth between Charlotte’s legs. She opened to Brighton, and Brighton opened to her, a letting in or a letting go, she didn’t know—because all that mattered was that moment, that second, Brighton’s breath and tongue and teeth and the little sounds rolling from her throat, tiny whimpers Charlotte had always loved.
Charlotte found the hem of Brighton’s green sweater, slipping her hands underneath, discovering Brighton’s warm skin as if for the first time, the shock of softness and goose bumps. She pulled her closer, licked at Brighton’s top lip, making her gasp.
“Lola,” Brighton said, then tilted her head so Charlotte could trail her mouth down her neck.
