Chapter 11

Five Years Ago

Brighton stared at the ceiling fan in her childhood bedroom, a thin layer of dust dotting the white blades. Outside her window, the morning had just started to break through the night, a blue-purple glow slowly unfurling into pink.

She sat up and rubbed her face, sent a hand through her tangled hair. She didn't think she'd gotten even two hours of sleep, nerves keeping her thoughts and stomach roiling all night long.

That was all it was.

Nerves.

Proverbial cold feet.

Still, when she thought about spending her life with Lola, it wasn't the forever part that scared her.

She thought about their apartment in Chelsea, how much Lola loved it. It was tiny—barely bigger than the bedroom Brighton grew up in—but it was theirs. That's what Lola kept saying.

It's ours .

And yet, six months into their life there, Brighton still had no idea how she was going to make her share of the rent every month. She worked at a restaurant, for god's sake, and while waiting tables in Greenwich Village was decent money, it wasn't nearly enough to cover her expenses, especially if she was keeping a few nights a week free for gigs.

Gigs she hadn't booked.

Gigs she honestly couldn't even stir up the courage to look for in earnest. She'd sent some emails to no avail, gone to a couple of places to talk to the booking manager with her demo, but she was no one, a twenty-two-year-old Michigander who was scared of the subway and had graduated from Berklee with a C average. Her biggest claim to fame so far was that she'd once held the door open for Sufjan Stevens as he'd come out of a coffee shop in Grand Haven one summer, his arms laden with cold brew and his sunglasses firmly over his eyes, hair a mess.

He'd said thanks.

So unless her old pal Sufjan could call in a favor, New York City would mostly likely keep its back to Brighton Fairbrook.

And yet…

Lola loved it so much.

Brighton had never seen Lola more alive—she'd unfurled at Berklee, sure, finally studying music properly, flourishing, excelling, winning every director's award and landing spots in orchestras all over New England every summer. But Lola in Manhattan…it was everything Lola had ever wanted. She'd been offered a spot in the Chelsea Symphony right after graduation, had been invited to play on several more established musicians' studio albums, and had been a guest soloist with the Chamber Orchestra of New York and the New York Philharmonic.

Lola was thriving, just as Brighton knew she would, just as everyone knew she would.

The only problem was, Brighton felt like she was drowning.

She groaned, dropped her head into her hands.

No. She wasn't drowning. She was adjusting, that was all. That's what she'd been telling herself for months, what she'd told her parents when they'd expressed concern, when she'd called her mother a few weeks ago at two in the morning, quietly sobbing in the bathroom while Lola slept, and her mother had whispered, so quietly that Brighton had barely heard it.

Come home, honey.

But she couldn't.

Lola was her home now.

Lola had always been her home.

And she'd been Lola's.

Now the morning of their wedding was here, an event they'd been planning for a year, an event Brighton had convinced herself would change everything, make her life click into place with Lola's.

Brighton kicked her covers back, the cold December morning biting at her bare legs. She walked to the window, pulled back the sheer curtain to let in the winter sun. The sky was clear blue, perfect, Lake Michigan all icy waves curling frozen onto the frosty sand beyond the backyard. She loved the lake in winter, loved everything about December and Christmas and the cold. Always had. It was why they were getting married in December, why they'd rented out Simone's restaurant downtown for the day, covering the dining room in white lights and dozens and dozens of white candles in glasses of all sizes, white manzanita branches arching over the makeshift aisle and forming the centerpiece at each table.

It would be a small wedding, only fifty people or so, but it would be beautiful. A winter wonderland, the kind of wedding Brighton had dreamed of. As they'd planned it, Lola definitely had her opinions, but she'd always deferred to what Brighton liked the best, the things that made Brighton's eyes widen, made her heart beat a little faster.

Just thinking of walking down that beautiful aisle they'd created toward Lola…it was a dream. Breathtaking.

"It's what I want," she whispered to the window, her breath fogging the glass. She turned to look at her dress hanging from her closet door. Sleek and white. Long sleeves and a high neck, lace covering the entire thing, fanning out at the thigh like a trumpet.

It was perfect.

Everything was perfect.

It was .

She just needed to see Lola. This feeling in her stomach was simple nerves, and if she saw Lola, held her, kissed her, maybe even confessed some of her anxieties and let Lola's calm surety soothe her, she'd be fine.

She'd be ready.

She pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a blue Grand Haven High sweatshirt, found her coat hanging over a chair in the kitchen. Her boots were harder to locate, but she finally found them just outside the back door, so they were freezing when she slipped her feet inside.

The winter wind whipped her hair into her face, and a hat certainly would've been helpful, but it was a short walk to Lola's, and she nearly ran, kicking up the snow that had fallen three days ago as she went.

Lola's back door was locked, but Brighton had a key and let herself in quietly. As she sloughed off her boots and tiptoed through the all-beige-and-white living room toward the stairs, she hoped to god that Anna was still tucked away in her room with her sound machine on full blast.

A single Tiffany lamp lit her way, the only splash of color in the whole Donovan house.

Upstairs, she paused by Lola's door. It was early, barely seven o'clock, but Lola had always been an early riser. Brighton pressed her ear to the white wood, listening.

It was quiet, and when she eased the door open, she found Lola still in bed, curled underneath her white duvet, her long salt-and-pepper hair in a ponytail on top of her head, the ends fanning over the mint-green sheets. Brighton stood there for a second, just watching her fiancée, letting her heart settle around Lola.

This was right.

This was them , Lola and Bright.

And yet…

Even as Brighton took in Lola—her beauty and secret softness, Brighton's heart swelling at the sight—her stomach wouldn't relax. Her chest. Everything from her navel up felt tight, coiled, her heart working too hard to get everything else inside her in line.

She slipped fully into the room, closed the door behind her. She shucked off her sweatshirt and pants, then pulled back Lola's covers and slid into bed beside her, wrapping her arms around Lola's waist, pulling Lola's back against her chest. Lola murmured a little, and Brighton pressed her nose to the back of Lola's neck, breathing in her clean linen scent. She could stay like this forever.

Why couldn't they just stay like this forever?

Brighton drew Lola even tighter against her, as though she were afraid Lola might slip away if she loosened her grip.

Or that Brighton herself might slip away.

"What…?" Lola said, her voice muzzy with sleep. She stirred, lifted her head, then arched her neck to see Brighton behind her. "Baby, what are you doing?"

"Hi to you too," Brighton said softly, resting her chin on Lola's shoulder.

"Hi," Lola said, pressing her knuckles into her eyes. She always did that—rubbed her eyes with full fists like a little kid. It was adorable. "And also, what are you doing? It's bad luck to see me before the wedding."

Brighton made a face. "I think we're a little bit past traditional conventions, don't you?"

"It's December," Lola said. "I'm not taking any chances."

Still, she turned in Brighton's arms and placed her hands on Brighton's face.

"Hi," Lola said more softly.

"Hi," Brighton said. "Will you kiss me good morning?" She just needed closer , the space between them getting smaller and smaller.

Their mouths touched, that familiar press so perfect. Brighton took Lola's bottom lip between hers and tugged a little, the way she knew Lola liked.

Lola whimpered, opened for her. Their tongues touched, softly at first, but then things grew heated fast. Brighton slipped a hand under Lola's thin tank top, her breast perfect and warm. She rolled Lola's nipple between her fingers, and Lola let out a moan.

"We can't," Lola panted, but she spread her legs as soon as Brighton slid a hand down her thigh. "It's our wedding day."

"All the more reason," Brighton said, finding that inviting warmth between Lola's legs. She needed this. Needed Lola, her body, the sounds she made, the way she kissed like Brighton was a cup of cold water, the way Lola always came so fast for her, like she'd already been dreaming about Brighton's fingers inside her before they even touched.

Lola tilted her head back, a sigh escaping her throat, and laughed. "Well, I do want my bride to have everything she wants."

"You," Brighton said, shoving off the covers to reveal Lola's perfect body—curvy and soft and hers . "I want you."

She slid down between Lola's legs, looked at her for a second. God, she was gorgeous. Her underwear wasn't anything special—pale-yellow cotton—but Brighton could see that Lola was already wet for her, and she couldn't resist pressing her mouth to that wet spot, sucking at Lola through the cotton.

"Oh my god, Bright," Lola said, and fuck yes, this was what Brighton needed, Lola's hands in her hair and her name on Lola's lips.

Brighton kissed her, lapped at her perfect pussy through her underwear, but it wasn't enough. She needed more, needed to taste Lola, feel her fully. She pulled her underwear off—it got stuck on her ankle, and they laughed, but soon Brighton was back in position, and Jesus Christ, that first touch. First taste. It never got old, never got so familiar that Brighton wasn't in awe of Lola every time she buried her face between her legs like this, reveled in her smell and taste and feel.

She slid her tongue inside, just like she knew Lola liked, closed her mouth over her clit.

"Fuck," Lola said, opening even wider for her. "God yeah."

Brighton increased the pressure, felt her own arousal building. She wrapped her arms around Lola's thighs, swirled her tongue, and then tilted her chin upward, sucking on Lola's clit as she went.

Lola tensed, her hands pulling at Brighton's hair, a whispered yeah, yeah, yeah falling from her mouth. Brighton didn't let up until Lola did, kept her mouth in place even after Lola softened onto the mattress, then giggled when Brighton's touch became too much for how sensitive she now was.

"God," Lola said, laughing as Brighton crawled back up her body. "You're trouble."

"You love it," Brighton said, her own need at a crisis point now. She was in no hurry, though. She wanted this moment to last forever.

"I do," Lola said, then tugged at Brighton's underwear until Brighton removed them, leaving her bare with only a T-shirt on. Lola smirked and dragged a thumb up Brighton's center, causing Brighton to hiss a breath. Then Lola pulled one of Brighton's legs over her so that she was straddling Lola's stomach. The feel of Lola's skin on Brighton's was almost too much. She arched her head back and nearly came right there, just from the initial touch.

"That's right, baby," Lola said, her hands on Brighton's hips, urging them to move over her stomach. Brighton knew Lola loved this just as much as she did, loved Brighton on top, loved the feel of Brighton's own wetness on her skin.

Lola slid a hand up Brighton's torso, underneath her T-shirt to cup her breasts. She tugged on Brighton's nipples.

"Harder," Brighton said, and Lola complied, twisting so that Brighton nearly had to cover her mouth to keep quiet.

"Shh," Lola said, a teasing lilt to her voice, knowing that telling Brighton to be quiet only made her more desperate to be loud. Brighton leaned forward, forearms on either side of Lola's head, and kissed Lola feverishly as she moved her body, pumping her hips for more friction.

"That's my good girl," Lola said, kissing her, because fuck, Brighton did have a praise kink. "That's my perfect girl."

Brighton moaned, burying her face in Lola's neck, her orgasm building. She was so wet, Lola's stomach no doubt soaked as well, and the thought made her even more desperate to come.

"Let me see," Lola said, kissing Brighton's neck before pushing her upright. Brighton knew what Lola wanted, so she leaned back even more, bracing her hands on Lola's thighs behind her, baring her pussy for Lola. Lola's eyes were fixed on Brighton's center, watching as she dragged it over Lola's skin, over and over.

"You're so good," Lola said, her hands on Brighton's thighs. "You gonna come for me?"

Brighton nodded, her hips moving faster. Lola's hands slid up Brighton's thighs, closer and closer to her cunt, callused fingertips pressing harder and harder the closer she got.

"Fuck," Brighton said. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please, god, make me come. Lola."

"Yeah? You're ready?"

Brighton could only nod.

"I don't know if you're ready," Lola said, the top energy in her surging.

Brighton whined. "Please, baby, please."

Lola tilted her head, then slid one hand closer and closer until it touched Brighton's cunt, her thumb dragging up her lips teasingly until settling on her clit.

Brighton imploded. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her body still undulating over Lola, the pressure of Lola's thumb paired with the slide of her pussy over Lola's skin so fucking perfect that Brighton felt tears spring to her eyes. She came, and then when Lola pushed her back even more and got two fingers inside her, she came again, Lola's name a ragged gasp on her tongue.

"Jesus," she said, untangling herself and collapsing next to Lola.

Lola laughed and pulled her close. "Good, huh?"

"God yeah."

Lola pressed her mouth to Brighton's neck. "We get a whole lifetime of that, baby. Starting today."

Brighton froze. She wanted everything Lola just said. All of it. Except her brain kept getting caught on one word.

Today.

"You and me," Lola said, exhaling. "New York. Music. Everything we've always wanted."

Brighton nodded, but even as Lola said it, she felt herself shrinking. It wasn't everything she'd always wanted. Yes, she wanted Lola, wanted a life with her, but she needed her own life too, and that still evaded her. She couldn't catch her breath in New York, couldn't seem to make her feet fit on those sidewalks the way Lola's did.

She'd told Lola more than once about how much she liked Nashville, how after she'd taken a trip there with her mother for a chef's convention when she was fifteen, she'd felt that spark for the city, knew it was a great place to be for singer-songwriters. And Lola had listened whenever Brighton spoke of it, had nodded and said they'd make it happen. But as the years passed, New York loomed as the only option for Lola, Nashville receding into the background.

And Brighton didn't know how to stop it or change it. The last thing she wanted was to keep Lola from anything she wanted—Lola had grown up with a cold mother, a quiet house in a town that afforded few opportunities for someone of Lola's talent. All Lola had ever wanted since the day they'd met on the beach was Brighton—a family of her own—and a career as a musician in New York City.

Brighton couldn't take that away from her. Didn't want to.

And yet…

She inhaled, closed her eyes, let out her breath slowly. Maybe if she just told Lola the truth. She'd always been able to tell Lola everything, anything.

Everything except this.

"I…I think I'm a little nervous," she said.

She felt Lola freeze up, her arm going stiff around Brighton's middle.

"Not about us," Brighton said quickly. "Just…I don't know."

Lola propped herself up on her elbow, her ponytail now halfway falling over her bare shoulder. "About the wedding?"

Brighton swallowed, searched Lola's brown eyes. She just wanted Lola to know , to see the fear she couldn't give voice to, the unhappiness she felt in New York that she couldn't put into words.

"Maybe," she said.

"It's going to be beautiful. Your mom has been such a help, putting all of this together and planning everything. And with her food at Simone's? Immaculate."

"No, I know, I just…"

Brighton exhaled, took a tress of Lola's hair and wrapped it around her finger, smoothing the silvery strands. Took a second to get her thoughts together.

"I think," she finally said, releasing her words slowly, carefully, "I'm just not as settled in New York as I want to be."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, everything in her felt lighter. Just to finally say it. She'd wanted everything about their transition to New York to be so perfect for Lola that she hadn't really realized just how small she'd become. How much she hadn't said.

Surely now that she'd finally admitted it—even with that mild statement—she and Lola could talk about it. Figure out what kind of life was really them instead of just her .

"What do you mean?" Lola said.

"I just…" Brighton looked Lola right in the eyes, pulled on her hair a little to get her closer…closer. "I think I feel a bit lost."

Lola's brows pushed together, her lovely mouth turning down a little. She smoothed a hand over Brighton's hair, drifted her fingers down Brighton's cheek. Brighton felt her eyes close, felt herself loosen.

"I think that's normal with a big move," Lola said.

Brighton opened her eyes.

Lola cleared her throat. "I mean, New York is a lot. I get that."

"Yeah."

"But, baby, it's only been six months," Lola went on. "That's not nearly long enough to get used to a place, especially Manhattan. You just need some time. It'll be amazing, just give it some time. You'll find your place, and it'll be everything we always dreamed of. You and me."

Brighton felt herself nodding, even as tears swelled behind her lids. She looked away, because right then, she felt like she was showing as much of herself as she could, and Lola wasn't seeing what Brighton needed her to see.

Either that or Lola didn't want to see it.

"Yeah," Brighton said. "You're right." There was a quiver to her voice she couldn't have hidden even if she'd tried, and she turned back to look at Lola, because maybe that little quiver, just maybe—

"That's my girl," Lola said, her expression relaxing. "You and me, right?"

Brighton could only nod. Lola kissed her neck, then blew a raspberry into her skin, and Brighton laughed. Twenty minutes later, after they'd taken a selfie of themselves curled up in bed together and kissed a bit more, Lola kicked Brighton out so they could both start their morning and get ready for their five o'clock wedding. Brighton sneaked back through the Donovan living room and out the back door, taking deep breath after deep breath, telling herself over and over again that Lola was right.

She just needed time.

Brighton stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the fancy gender-neutral bathroom door at Simone's.

She looked perfect.

Her dress fit like a dream, sliding down her body to skim the floor, the lace covering every inch except the open back. Her hair was coiled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, tendrils framing her face, her bangs freshly trimmed and falling to her brows. Her makeup was subtle, just a little mascara and eye shadow paired with a bold red lip to accent the white-and-red winter wedding theme.

Yes, she looked perfect. Everything was perfect—the winter-blue sky, the snow on the ground outside, the hum of wedding guests in the beautiful, softly lit dining room, stringed music playing as they all took their seats.

Everything was perfect.

"You're shaking, love," her mom said as she fastened a pair of pearl dewdrop earrings to Brighton's ears, smoothing her hair back.

"Am I?" Brighton asked, but even her voice trembled. She gritted her teeth, twisted her fingers together in an attempt to get herself under control, but that only made everything worse, her body tensing until it felt ready to break apart.

"Hey, Rainbow, just breathe," her mom said, coming to stand in front of her.

But that didn't help at all. If anything, her mother's gentle voice and concerned brown eyes only made Brighton's tears swell, made her throat ache with the effort of holding them back.

"Honey," her mom said gently. Bonnie Fairbrook looked beautiful too, her curly brown hair pinned back, her ice-blue dress long and elegant. Brighton hadn't even told her how lovely she looked, hadn't even thought to yet because she couldn't stop her pulse from thrumming, her bones from feeling like they were about to crumble to dust.

Her mom took her hands, tucked her hair behind her ear. "Sweetheart, I think you need to talk to Charlotte."

There was no What's wrong? No Let's just slow down for a sec . No probing of any kind. Because Bonnie Fairbrook already knew. She had never been a huge fan of their getting married so young, even though she adored Lola and never questioned that they loved each other.

She had just questioned the timing.

More than once.

Gently and in a way that told Brighton her mother trusted her to do what was right for herself. And so Brighton had always smiled and rolled her eyes and said she and Lola knew what they were doing, knew what they wanted. But now, lately, god, Brighton didn't know.

She didn't know anything except that she loved Lola, but if this were enough, if timing didn't matter, then why was she shaking right now? Why was she struggling not to cry? Why could she not convince herself that this was right, right, right?

"I'll go get her," her mom said. "It's okay if we start late. You two are the stars—everyone else will wait, all right? They'll wait as long as you need."

Brighton nodded and watched her mother slip out the thick wooden door, then turned back to the mirror, staring at the bride before her.

She just needed Lola.

Just needed to talk.

And that's what broke the dam, stripped away whatever barrier she'd put up that was holding the tears back. Because they'd already talked.

And talked and talked and talked.

And every time, Lola had convinced her. Every time, Lola said You and me , and Brighton believed it was enough, for a month, a week, a day.

A few hours.

That was what had happened earlier this morning, and that's exactly what would happen now. Lola would come into the bathroom, looking gorgeous in her white suit, her lips full and red. She would take Brighton's face in her hands, whisper, kiss, do all the right things, and Brighton would nod and say, again, that it was enough.

And they'd get married.

And they'd go back to New York.

And Brighton would…

Brighton dropped her head into her hands. She'd what? Because everything after that was fuzzy, a smeared watercolor portrait of her possible future. There was Lola, and Lola was perfect and beautiful, and god, Brighton loved her so much, but she couldn't find herself in the image.

Outside, the music shifted, the musicians they'd hired starting a song that Brighton knew all too well. But instead of excitement, of happiness, she felt only dread. Pure panic knowing that Lola was walking down the aisle, as they'd planned for her to go first, then turn and wait for Brighton.

Suddenly, before she could think, talk herself out of it, or into it, again and again, Brighton was moving. Tears clouded her vision as she gathered her toiletries and makeup from the counter, then stuffed it all into the suitcase she was supposed to take to Paris on their honeymoon. Later, she didn't even remember stepping into the dimly lit hallway and heading for the back door in the kitchen, Bonnie's staff preparing the reception meal. She didn't slow down until she flung herself into her old Toyota Corolla, which she'd left in her parents' care when she moved to Manhattan. She only remembered motion, cold winter air biting through the lace of her dress, snow soaking her delicate off-white shoes, the purr of the engine starting, and the relief she felt when the gas gauge needle soared up to three-fourths of a tank.

She'd forgotten her coat, her scarf, her snow boots. Forgotten a lot of shit, most of which she wouldn't even realize until a couple of days later, when she finally got out of bed at the roadside hotel just outside Indianapolis where she'd eventually stopped driving. The frizzy-haired receptionist who'd checked her in had eyed her wedding dress with a thousand questions.

On her wedding day, though, in that exact moment, none of it mattered. Logic, the repercussions, a different path—none of it existed. The only thing that existed was the wide road in front of her, Grand Haven shrinking in her rearview mirror.