Brighton stared at her, then flung the K-Cup onto the butcher-block counter. She rounded the peninsula, looking ridiculous in her two sweaters and baggy sweatpants and hat.
“You know what?” she said, getting right in Charlotte’s face. Charlotte backed up, but Brighton kept moving until Charlotte’s back hit the wall. “You’re right. I did want this. I do want to talk, want to make it right, because yes, god, I’m so fuckingsorry.” She flung off her hat, her dark eyes filling. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I destroyed us. I’m sorry I left you. I didn’t want to leaveyou, but I didn’t know what else to do. You were so happy in New York. It was where you belonged, and I wanted you to have that. I wanted you to…I don’t know. Beyou.”
“You could’ve just talked to me,” Charlotte said, her voice now a whisper, her anger snuffed out, replaced with…she wasn’t even sure what it was. A tightness in her chest, a tug around her heart as Brighton’s apology spilled out, tears escaping down her cheeks. “You could’ve just said.”
“Itried. So many times, Lola.”
Charlotte closed her eyes at that name. Opened them again.
“I told you that morning I was unsure about New York,” Brighton said.
“Unsure doesn’t mean miserable,” Charlotte said. “It takes time to figure out your place in a new town, to settle in…” But even as she said all of this, the same things she’d said to herself and Brighton so many times after they’d moved to New York, she knew they were just that—words.
Because she’d known Brighton was unhappy in New York.
Fine.
There.
She could admit it now. Nothing else to do. No other excuses worked anymore.
She’d known.
And she’d ignored it. All the signs. The way Brighton went quiet when Charlotte talked about how much she loved New York. How Brighton talked to her mother more and more often as the weeks went by, sometimes multiple times a day, her voice quiet like a child’s. How she seemed lost on the streets, overwhelmed and small. How she cried in the shower, thinking Charlotte didn’t know.
But Charlotte had known.
Known and done nothing more than hold Brighton tighter at night, bring her flowers after a day of teaching or rehearsing. She’d convinced herself Brighton just needed time.
Buttimeturned into six months, and then it was December, and they were heading to Michigan to get married, and still, Brighton’s light had dimmed. Still, neither of them had talked about it. Neither of them had said anything explicit, the truth.
Until right now.
“I know I handled everything wrong,” Brighton said. “The wrongest thing I’ve ever done. But you—”
“I didn’t see you.”
Charlotte’s confession hung between them, thick and real. Brighton tilted her head, pain washing over her expression.
“But I did,” Charlotte said, her own tears swelling. “I did see, Brighton. I just didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to fix it. And I…”
She closed her eyes, tears spilling over. This next part was hard to say. Hard to admit. Hard to let be true.
“I was so scared to lose you,” she said, “because you were all I had. You were all I’d ever had.”
“Lola,” Brighton said, stepping even closer and framing Charlotte’s face in her hands. “You never lost me. Never. I’m still—”
But Charlotte didn’t let her finish. Couldn’t. Didn’t want any more words, any more explanations, not right now. She wanted Brighton, her only love, and she was so goddamn tired of pretending like she didn’t. So tired of pretending at all—so many things she kept in, kept hidden and secret, scared to let anyone see her.
But Brighton had seen her.
All of her.
Always had.
Charlotte pushed through the space between them, their mouths colliding. Brighton let out a surprised gasp but opened to Charlotte, and it was like the sun breaking through a thick layer of clouds. They grabbed at each other, hands in hair, under sweaters and tops, yanking at waistbands. It was fumbling and desperate and messy. Charlotte felt like a teenager, just needing skin and friction and more. She pulled up Brighton’s sweater, only to findanother sweater, and they laughed when a button on the second one got caught in Brighton’s hair.
“There you are,” Charlotte said when Brighton was finally free. She took Brighton’s face in her hands, Brighton’s dark hair going everywhere, tangling between her fingers.
