Chapter 22

Brighton never thought she'd be happy about being trapped in a tiny cabin with only a single roll of Ritz crackers left to eat and exactly zero pairs of clean underwear left, but she was.

She was euphoric.

Charlotte— Lola— was in her bed. Laughing. Smiling. Kissing. Talking. She felt like they were seventeen again. Twenty. Even twenty-two during the good days in New York, the Saturdays when Lola didn't have to teach and Brighton convinced her to stay in bed half the day, having sex and watching shows on her laptop.

"So," Lola said, cracking open the roll of Ritz and popping one in her mouth, "we start in London, then go to Paris, Barcelona, Prague, and we end in Vienna."

She was sitting up in bed, naked and gorgeous, Brighton's plaid duvet wrapped around her but haphazardly, so Brighton could still see plenty of skin. Her silver hair was sex-tousled and perfect.

Everything was perfect.

"That sounds amazing, Lola," Brighton said, taking a cracker too. She lay on her stomach, feet in the air, a sheet barely covering her ass. "I've always wanted to go to Prague. All those places, really. How long will you be gone?"

"A month," Lola said, tapping another cracker against the plate. She didn't eat it, though, and silence spilled between them for the first time since they'd gotten out of the shower and fallen into bed. Brighton's mind flitted around a word, a terrifying word, and she assumed Lola's did too.

After .

Because despite everything they'd talked about in the last few hours—the Fairbrooks, Anna, Lola's music and how she'd met everyone in the quartet, all the wild things that had happened on this trip—they hadn't touched that topic.

They hadn't touched New York. Or Nashville. Or what would happen after Lola's tour.

And maybe that was okay. They'd only just reconciled, after all, and Brighton didn't want to ruin it by forcing them headfirst into the exact same problems they'd had five years ago.

She wanted to be happy.

She wanted Lola and Bright back, just for a little while.

Lola cleared her throat and took the tiniest bite of her cracker. Brighton was about to tease her for her rabbit eating, something she always did when she was pondering things, but then Lola looked at her.

"About the Katies," Lola said.

Brighton groaned and flopped her head into her arms, hiding in the dark cocoon they created. She didn't want to think about after , and she sure as shit didn't want to think about the Katies.

Not now, not ever.

"It's not even about them, Bright," Lola said. "It's about you."

Brighton didn't move.

"Brighton Katherine."

She arched her head up. "Pulling out the middle name."

"At least you have one."

Brighton cracked a smile, but sadness clouded her chest like it always did when she thought about how Lola didn't have a middle name because, well, Anna Donovan sucked.

"I'll give you a middle name," Brighton said, pushing up to her knees and shoving the plate of crackers to the side. She crawled toward Lola.

Lola's eyes widened, flicking down to Brighton's naked chest, breasts swaying as she came closer.

"Oh yeah?" Lola said, deftly peeling back the duvet to reveal her own full nakedness. She folded her arms. "Like what?"

Brighton had made it to her side of the bed now, and she slid her hands up Lola's shins, over her knees to her thighs. Stopped right at their tops, reveled in the goose bumps she felt under her fingers.

"Charlotte…Mildred Donovan."

"Over my dead body," Lola said.

Brighton laughed, curled her hands toward each other. Lola sucked in a breath.

"Charlotte…Millicent Donovan."

"What's with the M names?"

Brighton's hands stilled, and she straddled Lola's legs, pulling herself closer until their torsos met, Lola's hands going to her hips.

Brighton looked at her—at her Lola—pupils wide, swollen mouth open a little.

"Charlotte…Beautiful," she said, leaning down to kiss her.

"Now that's just silly," Lola said, but her voice was raspy and low.

"Charlotte…Sweet." Another kiss.

"Who'd believe that?"

"Charlotte…Brilliant."

"Obviously."

Brighton laughed, then grew serious. "Charlotte Rosalind."

Lola blinked for a second, her fingertips pressing into Brighton's waist. Rosalind, for her violin, her quartet, the Shakespeare heroine who made her own way, adapted, fought for what she wanted no matter what.

"Charlotte Rosalind," Brighton said again, a whisper against Lola's mouth.

Lola met her kiss, then another, and soon there were no more words, just breath and sweat, Brighton's body wrapped around Lola's, moving, seeking. Lola slipped her hand between them, curled her fingers, and Brighton was crying out in a matter of seconds, Lola's name on her lips.

When she recovered, Brighton climbed off and pushed Lola's legs apart, then settled between them, not wanting to wait another second to taste her, tease her, slide her tongue right where Lola wanted it. Lola grabbed Brighton's hair, tugging hard as she came, her cries so loud that Brighton felt a swell of pride, of pure elation that she could make this reserved woman sound so wild and frantic.

"You," Lola said as Brighton kissed her thigh, Lola's fingers still tangled in Brighton's hair. And that was all she said. Just you , but somehow those three tiny letters felt like the world, like five years evaporating.

"You," Brighton said back, pressing her cheek to Lola's leg, peering up at her.

She'd just decided she could stay like this forever, food and the outside world be damned, when both of their phones went off.

Brighton groaned. "Don't. Don't look."

Lola laughed and grabbed her phone off the nightstand, then sighed wearily at the screen. "Looks like we're free."

"I refuse to admit defeat," Brighton announced, sliding off the end of the bed, then walking to the nightstand to get her own phone.

Adele: Our front doors are clear, roads are plowed!

Manish: Thank god. I was about to eat my own leg

Sloane: Meet at the cars in ten?

Elle: Make it five, Manish is baring his fangs at my admittedly delicious-looking arms

Manish: Listen, I didn't ask for a snowpocalypse. We do what we must

Adele: We should hit up the lights tonight at Barstow Gardens. Mom said the storm didn't hit as hard in Winter River, so it should be open. I hear they're serving hot toddies this year

Manish: I'll endure a root canal for a hot toddy

Wes: I have to work. Gotta prep for that Two Turtledoves event at the restaurant on Thursday

Adele: Jesus, the Turtledoves. On Christmas Eve Eve?

Sloane: At least this one will be fun

Wes: Thanks, Sloane

Adele: Just one more after that, right?

Sloane: Yeah. Except it's the open mic where everyone confesses their love through bad poetry and even worse covers of Celine Dion songs

Wes: At least our hearts will go on with margaritas

Sloane: Ah yes, it's all coming back to me now

Wes: I know you're not disparaging the power of love

Sloane: I'd rather be all by myself, to be honest

Adele: I hate you both

Brighton chuckled at the banter but tilted her head, something from the day before tickling her brain. "So…are Sloane and Wes—"

"Totally in love?" Lola said, eyes on her phone.

"Um, I was gonna say flirting."

Lola blinked and glanced at Brighton wide-eyed. "Oops."

Brighton laughed. "Oh my god, really? Like love love?"

"He's in love with her, at least. They were high school sweethearts and everything until they broke up so she could go to New York."

Brighton felt a twinge somewhere near her heart. "How do you know all this?"

"He told me. The day of the horseback riding event."

Brighton shuddered. "Please, we do not speak of such things."

Lola laughed. "It's hush-hush, though. He's actually kind of cute about it."

"My lips are sealed," Bright said, miming zipping her mouth, then cleared her throat. "So…do you think she still likes him?" Somehow the answer felt monumental, personal.

Lola frowned, then opened her mouth only to close it again. "I don't know," she finally said.

Brighton nodded casually, but the silence that spilled between them felt heavy, like they weren't really talking about Wes and Sloane at all. Then Brighton put her hands on her hips, brows furrowed, mouth twisted dramatically like she was thinking really hard.

"So wait," she said, lifting a single finger into the air.

Lola groaned. "Yes, okay, yes. You were right. Wes and I were in cahoots."

"Cahoots."

"He's nice, okay? And I needed a distraction."

Brighton preened. "From me."

Lola just laughed, then smiled at her. "Turns out, you're hard not to notice."

Brighton smiled back, and they stayed like that, grinning like two sex-addled lovers for a few seconds. Soon enough, though, reality forced its way between them.

"Back to real life, I guess," Brighton said. Maybe they didn't have to deal with after , but they had to deal with right now .

"I don't want to go back," Lola said, sighing and rubbing her temples.

"Me neither."

Their phones buzzed again.

Manish: Don't think we haven't noticed the silence from cabin 1. Still accepting bets as to whether Brighton and Charlotte spent their time fucking or killing each other

Sloane: Manny, for god's sake

Manish: You're all thinking it!

"Well," Brighton said, tossing her phone on the bed. "Did we fuck or kill?"

Lola laughed, then groaned into her hands before glancing up at Brighton. "Fucking is much more fun."

Brighton grinned. "It is."

"So…"

"So…"

Lola took a deep breath. "So we fucked."

Brighton nodded. "Okay. We fucked."

"And…we might fuck again."

"Thank god for that."

They smiled at each other, their cheeks still flushed from all the, well, fucking they'd been doing for the last eight hours. Finally, though, Lola grew serious.

"I still don't want them to know," she said. "About our history."

Brighton frowned. "Why?"

"I just don't. Is that okay?"

Brighton swallowed, looked down, felt shame wash over her for reasons she didn't quite understand. But if that's what Lola needed, she'd give it to her.

"All right," Brighton said. "We're fresh and new."

Lola nodded, then got to her knees and crawled to the side of the bed where Brighton was still standing, still naked. She put her hands on Brighton's hips. Kissed her on the mouth softly, and just once. "Fresh and new."