Sloane winced as Charlotte retched again. “She’s gonna hate herself in the morning.”
Brighton certainly didn’t envy the headache and nausea Charlotte would probably endure. Still, even as she heard Charlotte’s sick hit the plastic-lined wastebasket and wished she could magically make Charlotte feel better, she smiled.
Charlotte’s confessions filtered through her brain, settling around her heart.
And Brighton knew. Right then, with the smell of vomit wafting around her. She knew Adele was right—she loved Charlotte Donovan.
Her Lola.
And Charlotte loved her too.
“Want me to take over?” Sloane asked.
Brighton shook her head. “I’ve got it.”
Sloane nodded, tilted her head at Brighton. “You’re pretty devoted for having just met her.”
Brighton opened her mouth but then closed it. She simply smiled, shrugged. She didn’t want to lie to Sloane, who’d been nothing but wonderful to her, but she knew their history was Charlotte’s to tell.
“Okay, well, let me know if you need anything,” Sloane said.
“I will. See you in a bit.”
Then Sloane left, and Charlotte eventually emptied herself out, flopped back onto the bed with sweat on her brow. Brighton helped her drink some water and take the pills, then turned her on her side and rubbed her back, humming “December Light” as Charlotte fell asleep.
Chapter 17
Charlotte opened her eyes andimmediately regretted it.
The room was bright, painfully so, the sheer curtains doing very little to block out all the white. She could hear the gentle hum of voices coming from downstairs, but Sloane’s bedroom was empty but for her. Her stomach roiled, and it felt like a tiny person with a jackhammer now lived inside her head.
She didn’t dare sit up.
Instead, she closed her eyes again, took some steadying breaths, tried to piece together the events that had landed her in this state.
Trivia…she remembered trivia. She remembered winning and getting a lot of questions correct herself. She remembered margaritas—tequila. So much tequila. The drinks had gone down easily, and they’d tasted amazing. More blurry images floated through her sluggish brain—the parking lot, the ride home, Sloane’s bedroom, Brighton, puking in the—
She bolted upright, immediately regretting it and pressing her fingers into her pulsing temples, but she stayed where she was.
Brighton.
Brighton had taken care of her. She was sure of it—Brighton’s hand on her forehead, smoothing over her back as she got sick, the gentle hum of a song as she finally drifted off.
But there was something else, something that Charlotte—
I miss you.
Oh god.
I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.
Oh, holy shit.
Never will.
Oh, fucking hell.
Had she really…? Did she…?
