“Yeah,” Charlotte said, such a simple answer to a simple question, but the effect was world-changing. Charlotte realized, right then, that they’d been dancing around this for years. She’d always thought Brighton was beautiful, talented, funny, smart. But she was her best friend.
And best friends didn’t kiss.
They didn’t dream of a romantic future together.
Or did they?
In that moment on the paintball course, while the baseball bros whooped around them in victory—she wasn’t sure aboutanything except that her fingers ached to pull Brighton even closer.
To get rid of all the space between them.
So that’s what she did.
She slid her hand from Brighton’s cheek to the back of her neck and pulled, slowly, giving Brighton plenty of time to stop the whole thing, but Brighton didn’t and soon they were kissing—their first kiss—covered in a rainbow of paint, not caring that the baseball guys had stopped hooting about their win and started whistling at two girls kissing in the grass.
None of it mattered.
Nothing mattered but smiles against each other’s mouths and hands in paint-streaked hair.
Now, in the cold Winter Berry Bakery restroom, walls a pale blue and adorned with vintage black-and-white photographs of Winter River’s small downtown, Charlotte opened her eyes. Brighton was looking right at her, though her eyes flicked to her work every now and then, still swiping glitter from Charlotte’s neck. Her breathing sounded a bit shallow, her cheeks a bit flushed, as though she, too, had been reliving the same memory.
And goddammit, Charlotte missed her. Suddenly, after days of fighting it—no, five years of fighting it—she could admit it. And it was a relief just to let the feeling have its way.
She missed her best friend, her best everything.
She missed Brighton Fairbrook.
She felt dizzy, confused by the swirl of different emotions, because no matter how much she missed Brighton and what they’d shared, she was still angry.
So, so angry.
And hurt. Devastated, even, still, after all these years. But the last few days since they’d collided in the Berrys’ driveway had feltlike decades, a lifetime of wear and tear on Charlotte’s heart. Ignoring Brighton’s existence, who theywere, wasn’t working.
Not one bit.
She felt unhinged by the effort, exhausted in a way she hadn’t felt since the first few days after their wedding. Still, she wasn’t sure how to move forward. If she kept on going this way for the next week, she worried she’d be a complete mess for tour, but she couldn’t risk opening herself up to Brighton like she had in the woods.
She could never let her guard down like that again. That’s how she’d gotten here, adrift in a dizzying mix of lust and anger and longing and sadness. No, she had to get ahead of this. And one didn’t get ahead of things by pretending they didn’t exist.
One got ahead of them by planning.
By being the one in control.
For the past few days, things had just beenhappeningto her, and she didn’t like it. She felt small and helpless, like she had when Brighton had left her, incapable of changing anything.
But it didn’t have to be like that now.Shemade things happen. That’s who Charlotte Donovan was. Who she’d always been, how she’d always combatted the shitstorm of her mother, her childhood, her loneliness. She could do the same now—control her interactions with Brighton. Do them on purpose. If she planned a friendship of sorts—or at least a cordial coexistence—she would never again find herself in the middle of the woods stress-kissing her ex.
She stilled Brighton’s hand on her neck, took the cloth from her. Brighton let go of it easily, but her eyes never left Charlotte’s.
“I think we need to start over,” Charlotte said. She made sure her voice was steady, her fingers deftly folding the cloth to hide the glittery mess on the cotton.
Brighton tilted her head. “Start…over?”
Charlotte nodded. “We’re stuck with each other for the next week, and I think we should use it.”
“Use it,” Brighton said. “For…?”
“For moving on.” Charlotte’s voice cracked a bit on the last word, a thickening in her throat she didn’t expect, but that was the whole point here. Exposure therapy—spend enough time with Brighton so that the mere thought of her didn’t feel like wood splintering under Charlotte’s fingernails.
