Alice had grinned. “I sure as hell am.”
And she was—brilliant and passionate and driven. Soon the three of them were sharing an apartment in Germantown, and when they discovered they all shared the same middle name, same spelling and everything—Katherine—the Katies were born.
That was four years ago. Four years of struggle, gigs that paid nothing, tiny regional tours to audiences of ten or less. Still, itwas everything Brighton had ever wanted. Being in this band, part of something that she’d made, something that felt likeher, had been worth it all. Emily and Alice had been a lifeline during a time when she was sure she’d ruined her life, ruined every good thing she’d ever had. They’d reminded her that she still hadherself. Still had what it took to create and perform. At least she’d thought so at the time, when those dreams were still possible. Still alive.
Now Brighton couldn’t help but smile at a photo of Alice smirking at a topless Emily, Emily’s bare back to the viewer. The two of them had always had chemistry, though they’d never officially gotten together. Brighton wondered if they were now, this silly photo evidence that they might have taken the leap.
Then she read the post’s caption—a shoot forNMEmagazine.
And on Emily’s other side, there she was.
Sylvie.
Even her name sounded musical. Red hair like a Siren, feathery bangs like a rock star. Emily and Alice had discovered her in some bar in East Nashville nearly a year ago, when Brighton had been home for Christmas. Emily had wanted to bring her into the group as another singer and songwriter, a suggestion Brighton did not take very well. The three of them had been clashing on their sound at the time—Emily and Alice wanted to go more King Princess–style pop, while Brighton clung to angsty folk-rock as her inspiration.
Sylvie, of course, was pop all the way, funky and fresh and sexy as hell. Even Brighton could admit that. Then, this past March, it had all come to a head when Emily invited Sylvie to a Katies practice without even running it by Brighton first. Sylvie played one of her own songs on her guitar—“Cherry Lipstick”—andBrighton hated it. Said as much, which Sylvie took with an annoying amount of grace.
“This is the direction we’re going, Brighton,” Emily had said. “If you don’t like it, maybe this isn’t the best fit for you anymore.”
Brighton had left rehearsal before she really started crying, then went home to Michigan for a week, figuring everyone would calm down with some time off. But the day before she flew back, Emily had called her, told her she was out.
And that was it.
Nearly four years of friendship and struggle and creative work finished in a single phone call, all for a redhead with a talent for writing bops.
Brighton knew she should swipe out of Instagram—her own account was currently set to private with all of 120 followers, so there were no notifications for her to check. For Brighton, social media was now nothing more than a catalog of her failures, everything she was missing out on. Still, she couldn’t help but type another name into the search bar, another account she didn’t dare follow but couldn’t seem to leave alone either.
@RosalindQuartet
The grid was much different than the Katies’—muted colors and the deep wood of stringed instruments, four beautiful, very clearly queer musicians in the throes of their art in various auditoriums and theaters.
One woman in particular drew Brighton’s eye, always did. Salt-and-pepper hair and gorgeous, quintessential red lipstick, black attire. Lola’s style never changed, not that Brighton ever expected it to. Lola had started going gray at twenty-one, and Brighton was glad to see she’d just let her hair silver, never oncedyeing it, as far as Brighton could tell. It looked beautiful—regal and ethereal, just like Lola.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Adele’s voice piped up from behind her. Brighton clicked her phone dark. Adele knew about Lola…Well, she knew that Brighton had been engaged and it hadn’t worked out, but that was about it. Brighton left out the smaller story points, including Lola’s name and the fact that she was pretty much a world-famous violinist now. She was simply known to Adele asthe fiancée, like some mythical creature who only existed in legend. Brighton left all the finer details—as well as the particulars surrounding her and Lola’s disastrous wedding day—to her own torturous musings.
“Just getting some air,” she said to Adele now.
“It’s freezing,” Adele said, rubbing her arms.
Brighton nodded, goose bumps texturing her own bare arms. She hadn’t even noticed, honestly. Too busy being a sad sack.
“Hey,” Adele said, nudging her shoulder, “do you need to go home?”
“Do you want me to?” Brighton asked. God, she really was a sad sack—her own boss was pretty much begging her not to work.
Adele pressed her mouth flat. “You’ve got to move on at some point, baby girl.”
She said it so softly, so gently, Brighton nearly started crying right there. Trouble was, she felt like she’d beenmoving onfor the last five years, and she hadn’t gotten anywhere.
Before she could say anything else, her phone vibrated in her hand with a call. Only one person ever called her, so her heart already felt ten times lighter when she sawMomflashing across the screen.
“Mama, hey,” she said, her throat thickening as she pressedthe phone to her ear.Mamaonly slipped out when she was feeling really sorry for herself.
Adele gestured to the door, but Brighton shook her head, grabbed onto Adele’s arm. She didn’t want to stand out here alone anymore, even with her mom on the phone.
“Hi, darling,” her mother said. “I’ve got Dad on the line here too. You’re on speaker!”
“Hey, Rainbow,” her dad said, employing the name he had used for her ever since she was four and latched on to a Rainbow Brite doll. The nickname became even more fitting when she came out as bisexual when she was thirteen. “How are you?”
