Chapter 13

Charlotte couldn't believe what she was hearing.

It was their song.

The one Brighton had written while lying in bed with Charlotte the day they got engaged seven years ago, tucked away just for them. The one she and Brighton had never played anywhere publicly other than the recording studio session Charlotte had booked, Brighton on guitar and lead vocals, Charlotte on violin and harmonies, laying down the version that was supposed to play as they walked down the aisle.

The version that did play as Charlotte walked down the aisle, then turned to face her mother and the smiling faces of Brighton's family, waiting for her bride to appear.

And waited and waited until—

She squeezed her eyes shut, her throat aching, and yet this goddamn song played on, someone's voice she didn't even know singing her own story.

This winter love, this December dream.

This winter love, you don't have to be

alone anymore…alone anymore…alone anymore…

She had to get out. Had to get away.

"I'm going for a walk," she said to no one, anyone, didn't care if they heard or not. She headed for the mudroom, then shoved her feet into her boots. She found her still-soiled coat on a hook, grabbed a hat—it wasn't even hers, but she didn't care—and all but flung herself outside.

The sun had just set, coating the world in a purplish twilight glow. The cold bit through her black sweater, wrapped a hand around her neck. It was snowing lightly, giving the lavender air an ethereal quality. She buttoned her coat as she walked, no clue where she was going. The Berry property was pretty expansive—she could see another house to the right, but it was at least two hundred yards away. To the left, there was nothing but snowy woods.

She turned left, her boots crunching through the snow, moving her quickly away from the house. She didn't slow down until she was deep into the shelter of the trees, the pines closing like a curtain around her. She stopped and put her hands on her hips, her heavy breaths curling into white wisps in front of her. Tipping her head to the sky, she blinked at the snow-covered canopy above her, then closed her eyes.

There.

Quiet.

Sweet, blessed quiet.

Too quiet.

Her mind wandered, nothing to grab on to but thoughts of Brighton, the way they used to play together at coffee shops in high school and when home from Berklee, sitting on stools while the patrons glanced at them skeptically, unsure anything decent would come out of these two girls holding their instruments.

And then…that first note. The first word Brighton sang into the mic. The first moment Charlotte joined her in harmony. Eyes would widen, brows lifted as a delighted shock settled on people's faces, an experience that usually pissed Charlotte off and made her feel proud all at once. The kind of music they'd made together had always been good. Even before it was great , it was theirs—new and real and theirs.

"December Light" was theirs.

As she watched the sky grow darker, her throat thickened with memory, with music. Tiny snowflakes fell on her face, and she closed her eyes and breathed in the frigid air, let it numb her lungs, her heart. Let it push out the song, Brighton, everything that—

"Lola."

She flipped her eyes open. "Are you fucking kidding me?" she said without turning around.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," Brighton said.

Charlotte laughed, a bitter sound. "So you're not fucking kidding me."

"Lola."

She whirled around, her anger finally reaching its limit and spilling over. "Don't you dare call me that. Stop fucking calling me that!"

Her yell echoed through the trees, reverberating like a warning.

Brighton's mouth dropped open, that ridiculous red plaid coat hanging unbuttoned around her frame. She didn't have a hat on, no scarf or gloves. Typical Brighton. She stepped forward slowly, as though trying not to spook a wounded animal, and pressed her hands together. "Just let me explain."

Charlotte shook her head and turned around, then took off through the trees without another thought, walking fast enough that she hoped Brighton would give up. She walked and walked and walked, but she heard her ex behind her, footsteps keeping up, tracking her like a hunter.

"Goddammit," she said, finally slowing to catch her breath. She didn't turn around, but she knew Brighton was there, a damn leech sucking at her blood.

"Lo—Charlotte," Brighton said through her own gasps for air. "Please. Just let me—"

"You gave them our song," Charlotte said. "You gave it away like it was nothing."

She kept her back to Brighton. Couldn't turn around. Couldn't let Brighton see how her eyes were filling, her cheeks trembling with the effort of holding everything in, keeping everything together. But she couldn't stop the words, the accusation. It flowed out of her mouth on its own, needing freedom.

"I…I didn't," Brighton said, her voice small, thick with tears. "I promise, I didn't."

Charlotte didn't respond. She didn't care how the song got to the Katies—at least, she told herself she didn't care. Couldn't right at that moment, because it was all rushing back.

The day they got engaged.

Their wedding day.

All the times in between when Brighton had played that song for her, just for her, whenever she was stressed or feeling lonely.

"Do you have any idea," Charlotte said after a few moments, "what it felt like to stand there by myself, waiting for you?" Tears crawled up her throat. She tried to swallow them down, but goddammit, they were relentless, five years of words she'd never said finally tired of being held inside. "What it felt like to stand there and smile and wait for the love of my life to come and join me, and seeing your mother instead? Your mother , with pity in her eyes as she walked toward me, a fake smile on her face for all the guests."

"Charlotte," Brighton said, and Charlotte knew she was crying.

Well, good.

"And then," Charlotte went on, "she took my hand and she said…Do you know what she said?"

Brighton didn't say anything.

"She said, ‘Honey.' That was it. Just one word, a little press of my hand, and I knew. I knew it, but I didn't, you know? I couldn't believe you'd actually leave me, but deep down, I knew you had. If you hadn't, Bonnie wouldn't have been standing in front of me. You would have. But you weren't, and I…I just…"

She couldn't finish. It was all too much, reliving that day, "December Light" playing while Charlotte's whole world fell apart. The musicians kept going, unsure of what to do when it was clear that Brighton, the other bride, wasn't coming. So Charlotte had not only walked down the aisle to that song, she recessed to it too, Bonnie leading her back up the white tree-lined aisle, candles flickering warmly, her own mother just sitting there in the front row with her lips pursed, as though she'd suspected this might happen all along.

Somehow, Charlotte had ended up in the Fairbrooks' kitchen, a cup of tea in her hands, Bonnie sitting in front of her with a concerned look on her face.

I'm so sorry, honey.

And Charlotte hadn't even cried.

She hadn't cried then, and she hadn't cried when she got up, tea untouched, and went back to her house and locked herself in her bedroom, the very room she and Brighton had just had sex in, cuddled in, whispered in not ten hours before. She hadn't cried when Brighton texted, called, left voicemails a few days later. She hadn't cried as she deleted them all without even listening to them.

She hadn't cried when she packed up Brighton's stuff in their New York apartment. She hadn't cried when she slipped the engagement ring Brighton had picked out for her—gold with a geo-cut blue-green sapphire in the middle—off her finger for the last time and tossed it into a box full of Brighton's sweaters before shipping everything back to Grand Haven. She hadn't cried when Brighton stopped calling, stopped texting.

She hadn't cried through any of that. She'd moved on, lived the life she meant to. And she loved her life. She loved it, didn't miss this woman standing behind her, this woman who'd betrayed every single piece of her heart, this woman who'd left her like she was nothing.

She'd never cried over her.

Never needed to.

But now she couldn't seem to stop the flow—it was like a dam breaking, a river set loose. Her face flooded, eyes spilling over. She pressed her hands to her face, cold fingers trying, trying, trying to push everything back inside, but it didn't work, and her sobs echoed through the sleeping forest.

Then…hands on her wrists.

Soft. Familiar.

"Lola."

A whisper, gentle, her own name curling around her in a way that pulled more tears from deep inside her, dissolving her anger. She was tired, so tired, after five years of holding herself up, and it suddenly felt like she hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in all that time, rest only coming in fits and starts.

Brighton pulled Charlotte's fingers free, replacing them with her own hands. They were freezing but somehow still felt warm as her thumbs swiped the tears from Charlotte's cheeks, her palms cradling Charlotte's face. Then her forehead was against Charlotte's, whose hands somehow circled Brighton's wrists, holding her there instead of pushing her away.

Their breaths mingled, Brighton whispering "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry" over and over, but Charlotte barely heard the words. They would never make it right anyway, and they both knew it, but still, Charlotte couldn't seem to put space between them. Brighton was so close, so familiar—she smelled the same, like summer, like warm breezes and mint, even in the middle of winter.

The snow fell a little harder, as though the weather were reacting to the pull between them. Charlotte felt herself curl closer, their noses bumping. They were nearly the same height, Charlotte only about half an inch taller, and she remembered now how perfect that was, how perfectly they fit together, like they were made to be close, to kiss, to melt into one.

And, god, it had been so long.

Five years, nearly to the day, since Charlotte had been kissed. Been held like this. She'd planned to move on sexually, romantically, but she never had time, never wanted it badly enough to go through the effort of meeting someone, feeling comfortable. And she'd been fine. She could take care of herself in the pleasure department, and she had her music, her work, her quartet.

But now Brighton was here, here , holding her, and everything in her wanted to shove Brighton away and at the same time swallow her whole. She wanted to disappear into her, the desire so strong that she couldn't fight it, didn't want to, and then their mouths brushed, the gentlest whisper of a touch, and Charlotte fell.

Into.

Under.

Against.

Brighton's mouth closed around her bottom lip, and god, it felt so good, so right, like nothing had gone wrong between them, like it had only been five minutes since they'd last kissed instead of five years. Charlotte pulled Brighton closer, hands going from Brighton's wrists to wrap around her waist, under her coat, while Brighton threaded her hands into Charlotte's hair, pushing off whoever's knit hat she was wearing. Brighton's teeth tugged at Charlotte's bottom lip, so gently, right before their tongues met, sending a swell of warmth between Charlotte's legs. She opened to Brighton, and Brighton opened to her, a letting in or a letting go, she didn't know—because all that mattered was that moment, that second, Brighton's breath and tongue and teeth and the little sounds rolling from her throat, tiny whimpers Charlotte had always loved.

Charlotte found the hem of Brighton's green sweater, slipping her hands underneath, discovering Brighton's warm skin as if for the first time, the shock of softness and goose bumps. She pulled her closer, licked at Brighton's top lip, making her gasp.

"Lola," Brighton said, then tilted her head so Charlotte could trail her mouth down her neck.

But in that moment, that breaking of contact, the woods came rushing back in. Colorado. December. Five years later . Charlotte froze, her nose pressed to Brighton's lovely throat, reality a cold splash of water.

She let go.

She let go so suddenly that Brighton stumbled backward, the arms once holding her close no longer there.

Charlotte backed up, her breathing coming even faster than when they were entwined, panic replacing all arousal.

"I'm sorry," Brighton said. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and pink. "I…I don't know what happened."

Charlotte said nothing. Couldn't. Didn't want to talk about it, knowing Brighton would want to talk about it. She always wanted to talk about everything, every single feeling she ever had.

Well.

Every single feeling except one—whatever secret emotion had sent her fleeing from their wedding five years ago.

The bitterness swelled back to full strength. Charlotte wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, made sure Brighton saw her do it. She watched Brighton flinch, then flatten her lips into a thin line to hide it. Charlotte scooped the hat from the ground, dusted off the snow, and slipped it on her head, smoothing over the tangles Brighton's fingers had left in her hair. She was methodical, calm, using these movements to slow down her heart, to get her brain back in control.

"I'm heading back," she finally said, and turned away from Brighton without another word.

Except when she turned, there were only trees. She turned again—more trees, more fallen snow covering any tracks they'd left on the forest floor. She had no idea which way they'd come from. She glanced at Brighton, who was only looking at her, then closed her eyes and sighed.

She was lost in the Colorado woods with her ex-fiancée, because of fucking course she was.