“Agreed,” Manish said, then waved a hand around Charlotte’s form. “You’re like Elizabeth Scrooge over here.”
“Ebenezer,” Charlotte said.
“Exactly,” Manish said, sipping on his wine.
Charlotte looked to Elle for help, always the sweet one of the group, the peacemaker.
Elle just winced. “Sorry, Char, but they’re right. I really think you should come.”
“This is ridiculously unfair,” Charlotte said.
“Think of it this way,” Sloane said, standing and setting her hands on Charlotte’s shoulders. “The two weeks off I was taking so I could go home for Christmas? Well…now you get it all back.”
And that did it. Sloane knew it, they all knew it. If Charlotte went to Colorado, they’d all be together. Sure, maybe she’d have to engage in some Christmas cookie baking and sing a few carols, and she’d definitely have to avoid accident-prone situations—skiing? Absolutely not. But she’d get to rehearse for the tour. She’d get to work, and her work had always saved her in the past.
“Fine,” she said. “Now can we please play a fucking concerto?”
Chapter 2
Brighton Fairbrook wiped down thelacquered bar, glaring as that night’s live musician crooned a twangy version of “Silver Bells” into the tiny stage’s microphone. The singer wore a jean skirt and cowboy boots and had long strawberry-blond hair, her pale fingers plucking deftly at her Taylor guitar—a three-hundred series by the looks of it—while she sang about city sidewalks.
“She’s not bad, huh?” Adele said, nudging Brighton’s shoulder. Adele folded her brown arms, the sleeves of her button-up rolled to the elbow, a deep-green vest cutting the perfect fit, just like always. Her dark braids fell over her shoulders, black glasses perched on her nose as she listened to the act she herself had booked. Adele was Brighton’s boss, owner of Ampersand—the bar where Brighton worked—and her only friend in this godforsaken city.
“Mesmerizing,” Brighton said flatly, nodding at a customer lifting their empty gin-and-tonic glass for another.
“Oh, come on,” Adele said. “She’s good.”
“And hot,” Brighton said, grabbing a new bottle of Beefeater gin from the amber-lit shelves behind the bar.
Adele smirked. “Aren’t they all?”
Brighton had to laugh. Adele, a passionate lesbian, had yet to meet a woman she didn’t appreciate. Although, wisely, she never “slept with the talent,” as she put it—the myriad singer-songwriters who came through here each month, searching for any stage that would have them and a willing audience. This was Nashville—stages abounded, as did audiences, but finding listeners who actually gave two shits…well, that was the real challenge. Everyone was a musician here, which meant everyone was good, everyone was competition, and no one was ever, ever impressed.
Brighton placed a fresh gin and tonic in front of her customer, telling herself she was glad to be free of Nashville’s hamster wheel. She was glad to have steady work and decent tips at Ampersand. She was glad she didn’t have to constantly restring her guitar, worry about humidity and the wood of her own Taylor getting warped. Didn’t have to chase gigs, email bookers who would never email her back, and spend hours every night pouring out her heart and soul and blood into her songwriting notebook, only to be told she wasn’t good enough, didn’t have what it took, and face betrayal by the very fuckers she’d brought together as a band in the first place.
“You’ve got that look on your face again,” Adele said. She was now sitting on a stool at the corner of the bar, the light from her iPad a blue glow reflecting on her glasses.
“What look?” Brighton said, slapping down a towel and wiping at a spot that wasn’t even dirty.
“That look that means you don’t give a shit about tips.”
Brighton lifted a brow. “Are you telling me tosmile?”
“I would never. But maybe, you know, try to at least look like you’re not out for blood.”
Adele had a point. Brighton was just barely making ends meet with her tips as it was—she couldn’t afford to be grumpy. Her roommate, Leah, had been pretty flexible on the rent lately, but it came with caveats. Last week, Brighton had found herself at an ornament exchange party for the singles group at Leah’s church. After being late with the rent three months in a row, Brighton hadn’t felt like she could say no to the invite, so she’d ended up with a plastic Christmas pickle ornament and fake smiling for an hour at a guy in khakis and boat shoes while he talked about the album he had just released, a folked-up version of sacred Christmas music, because of-fucking-course he was a musician too.
Leah had asked her about Boat Shoes for the next three days, but Brighton couldn’t even remember his face, to be honest. Brighton liked cis men sometimes, but it took a lot to catch her attention, and Boat Shoes had done nothing but bore her, despite Leah’s insistence he wasthe greatest guy. Leah was twenty-four and a conservative Christian, a tiny detail she’d neglected to include in her Craigslist ad for a roommate six months ago. The resulting partnership had made for an interesting living situation, considering Brighton was not only agnostic but also very, very queer.
Suffice it to say, Brighton was desperate to make the rent on time this month. Leah was perfectly nice, but whenever Brighton got roped into some church event, she ended up stuck in a conversation that was, essentially, some version of “hate the sin, love the sinner,” and Brighton preferred to leave the wordsinout of her identity altogether.
So she put on a smile and fluffed her dark bangs until they fellover her forehead just so. At least she’d get out of this town in a few days, heading home to Michigan for Christmas. Brighton couldn’t wait. She wanted her mom’s cinnamon hot chocolate and her family’s traditional lineup of Christmas movies playing every night, always starting withHome Alone. She wanted to walk along Lake Michigan’s snowy shore, icy waves locked in midcrest so that the whole world looked like another planet.
She and Lola used to—
She froze midstir of a dirty martini, shook her head to clear it. She and Lola…there was no she and Lola. Not anymore. Not for five years now, but Lola still crept into so many of her memories, like a habit, especially at Christmastime. Five years was nothing compared with the ten before that. Still, Lola might as well be a ghost, might as well not even exist at all, and Brighton didn’t care to think too deeply about why.
About how it was all her fault.
