Brighton set a trash can next to the bed in case Charlotte got sick, then tucked in the sheets around Charlotte even tighter. “We’ve got to get some water and Tylenol in you before you can sleep, okay?”
Charlotte nodded like a little kid, her eyes wide and still gluedon Brighton, as though she were working on a mental math problem. And then—Brighton couldn’t help it—she crouched down and smoothed Charlotte’s hair back from her forehead, the silver strands a little coarse yet so familiar under her fingers. Charlotte’s eyes fluttered shut, then back open.
Brighton felt shaky, a little drunk herself, though she didn’t think it was the tequila anymore. She forced her hand back to her side, forced herself to stand all the way up, forced herself to take a step back toward the door.
“Don’t,” Charlotte said, reaching out to take her hand. “Don’t go.”
And god, those two tiny words, spoken on a whisper with Charlotte’s amber eyes fixed on Brighton’s, they felt like a revelation. A nugget of truth, finally, after so many hours spent building up facades.
“Okay,” Brighton said, sitting down on the bed, Charlotte’s hand still curled into hers. “I’ll stay as long as you need.”
Charlotte smiled, blinked heavily. “You’re so good to me.”
Brighton laughed, shook her head. “I’m not.”
“You are. Youwere. Always, every day. Until…”
Brighton looked down, shame warming her cheeks. Silence settled between them for a while, long enough that her shame receded as Charlotte squeezed her hand, a few deep breaths working into her lungs and blood.
“I miss you.”
Charlotte said it so quietly that Brighton wondered for a second if she’d imagined it. But a ghost of the words swirled between them, Charlotte still looking at Brighton, still gripping her hand.
“You do?” Brighton asked, her eyes already stinging.
“Every day,” Charlotte said. Her own eyes didn’t fill, but her voice shook a bit, a rasp to the consonants revealing her emotion. “I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. Never will.”
Tears spilled over Brighton’s cheeks, and she leaned down, tucking Charlotte’s hand to her chest, pressing their foreheads together.
“Lola,” she said, and that was all she could get out, Charlotte’s declarations taking up every other space in her brain.
“I miss that too,” Charlotte said. “My name.”
Brighton nodded against her. “I…I want to make it right. Make us right.”
“You—”
“There are so many things I need to explain,” Brighton went on, “if you’ll just let me.”
“Bright—”
“We can go slow. As slow as you want. Just please let me try.”
Brighton knew she was starting to babble, her adrenaline pumping at Charlotte’s words, Charlotte’ssweetness, which Brighton hadn’t realized she’d desperately wanted, needed, for years. She took a deep breath, trying to slow herself down. She didn’t want to scare Charlotte off, didn’t want to fuck up again. Charlotte trembled, and Brighton held her tighter, their mouths brushing.
“Lola,” she whispered.
Then, suddenly, Charlotte shoved her away so violently that Brighton nearly slid off the edge of the bed. Brighton gasped, clinging to the duvet as Charlotte bent over the bed, grabbed the trash can, and proceeded to hurl up the contents of her stomach.
Brighton blinked, taking a second to realize what had happened, then scrambled up to hold back Charlotte’s hair, which was falling precariously around her face while she puked.
“It’s okay,” Brighton said, securing Charlotte’s hair with one hand and rubbing her back with the other.
Charlotte groaned.
“So we’re at that stage,” Sloane said, appearing in the doorwayarmed with a huge glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol. She set both on the nightstand.
“We are,” Brighton said.
