Sloane finally glanced up, a slight smile breaking through her determined expression. “Winter River.”
“Same thing,” Manish said, pouring more wine.
“It’s actually really lovely at Christmastime,” Sloane said, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. “Our town square has this huge tree—the biggest one west of the Mississippi—and there’s music and skiing and lights and food. Plus, my mom owns a bakery, been in our family for generations, so there’s always something buttery and sugary around. There’s even this horrific event they have every year called Two Turtledoves, which is basically a series of holidates for single people to get drunk and hook up. Everything culminates the day after Christmas with an open mic at a bar for people to declare their love…or lust, as the case may be.”
“I mean,” Manish said, “that doesn’t sound awful.”
“Shut your mouth,” Sloane said. She leaned forward and whispered, “My mother will hear you.”
“Come on, Two Turtledoves?” Elle said. “That’s fucking cute.”
Sloane shook her head. “Forget I mentioned it. My point is that Winter River is Christmassy and homey and my mom is the best cook in the entire world. Plus, my dad and his wife just renovated her family’s ski lodge in the next town over. My sister and I always spend a night or two over there—ski all day, cozy up by the fire at night. It’s magical.”
“Sounds fake. Like a Hallmark movie,” Elle said.
Sounds like a Fairbrook Christmas, Charlotte thought. She swallowed, looked out the window at the twilit city.
Sloane laughed. “Exactly. Except with more queer people and extremely liberal politics.”
Manish pressed a hand to his chest. “Such a winter wonderland does not exist.”
Sloane lifted one brow. “I dare you to prove that.”
Manish twisted up his mouth, eyes narrowed. Manish loved dares—reveled in them, concocted them all the time for the quartet. One night this past April, they’d ended up playing in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge at ten o’clock, the result of a bet between him and Elle as to how much money they could make busking. Charlotte had tried to squash this tendency in Manish when he first joined their quartet, but she’d learned it was best to just ride the wave—they got back to work quicker that way.
“Oh, challenge accepted,” he said. “I’ve got the miles for a plane ticket and a fierce need for a cheery, queery Christmas.”
Even Charlotte had to crack a smile at that one.
“A cheery, queery Berry Christmas,” Elle said, adding Sloane’s last name. “But, Slo, is there room for all of us?”
“Totally. We might have to share rooms, but my mom says the more, the merrier,” Sloane said, tapping away at her phone. “So we’re all set. Elle?”
Elle ran a pale hand through their hair. “Yeah. Sure. Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”
“Yes!” Sloane said, pumping her fist into the air. “Plus, with you all there, the less my mother will harass me about my perpetually single status.”
“No, but I might,” Manish said. Elle elbowed him in the ribs.
“Wonderful,” Charlotte said, standing up. “It’s settled. You all will have a lovely time, I’m sure. Now can we please get back to rehearsal?”
Sloane’s smile vanished, quickly replaced with that take-no-shit look she got on her face whenever Charlotte got really grouchy. “Oh no. There is noyou all. There is onlywe.” She circled her finger around to include all four of them.
Charlotte blinked. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you fucking are,” Sloane said.
“Sloane, I don’t do Christmas. You saw what happened in that elevator. And we’ve still got three weeks to go.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sloane said.
Charlotte pressed her eyes closed. She couldn’t say she wascursed. They’d think she’d gone truly bananas. “Nothing. I just…I’m fine here. I promise.”
“You are not. You’re coming home with me, or I’m not playing another note until our first concert in London.”
Charlotte’s stomach plummeted. “You’re seriously going to manipulate me into spending Christmas with you?”
Sloane just folded her arms. “It’s for your own good.”
