Chapter 23

According to Sloane and Adele, Barstow Gardens was regionally famous. The Barstow family had run the homegrown, ten-acre botanical garden for generations, all of the design and care currently curated by Vivian Barstow herself, who, even at sixty-seven years old, was still rarely seen in town without dirt on her jeans.

And for the holidays, they covered every single tree, plant, and flowering shrub in lights.

"Holy shit," Manish said as the group stepped out of the car in the small parking lot. The space was already packed with cars, and plowed snow was piled on the sides like tiny white mountains.

Charlotte had to agree with Manish's assessment—the scene before her was like something out of a Hallmark movie, yes, but also Disney, Pixar, and DreamWorks all rolled into one. Honestly, she very nearly considered getting her sunglasses out of her bag—it was that bright.

The garden entrance was guarded by a pair of giant nutcrackers covered in red and blue and gold lights. A lit sign arched between the two soldiers, the words "Barstow Gardens" glittering in every color. Beyond that, a sort of sugar-shocked glow filtered over everything—flashes and blinks and sparkles, and happy holiday music echoed through the luminaria-lit pathways. Lights curled around every tree branch in sight, creating snakes of color against the black sky. There were more subtle signs of the snowstorm here, but the sidewalks were clear, and the fresh snow only added to the winter wonderland vibe, the lights glinting off the mounds of white.

Normally, Charlotte wouldn't step foot in a place like this. First, there was the saccharine nature of the entire gig, and second, she could absolutely imagine herself somehow getting tangled in a strand of lights, or knocking down a partridge in a pear tree and sending a disastrous domino effect through the entire "Twelve Days of Christmas" display.

But.

Brighton slipped her gloved fingers through Charlotte's, and somehow everything looked different. Felt different. Tasted, smelled, sounded different.

When they'd returned from Greenbriar Ridge, freshly released from their snow prison, a kind of shyness had overtaken Charlotte. In front of everyone, with Manish's sly smiles and Sloane's curious glances—particularly in light of Sloane's declaration the day of the storm about Charlotte and realness , which the two of them were apparently pretending hadn't happened—she wasn't sure she knew how to act or what to do. She'd never been with anyone in front of her quartet before, never held someone's hand, never smiled at someone the way she couldn't seem to help smiling at Brighton.

Hell, she probably didn't smile this much at all around her quartet, postcoital glow notwithstanding.

But then, Brighton had made it so easy. Taking her hand as they stood around the kitchen talking about the storm with Nina. Leaning her arm against Charlotte's at lunch. Lying her head on Charlotte's shoulder while they read on the couch. With those tiny movements, Brighton took them back years, like New York had never happened—no ruined wedding, no ruined future—and they were simply them again. Easy and natural and right.

Brighton had a knack for making overwhelming things—okay, feelings— seem manageable. Always had, from the very beginning. Whenever Anna skipped out on a parent-teacher conference, an end-of-year concert, a holiday, Brighton would simply take her hand, dance her around on the beach, like everything was made of light and air and water, even as she admitted things sucked.

That was just the way Brighton was.

She was light and air and water, while Charlotte was the solid earth.

Charlotte still couldn't believe the entire last twenty-four hours with Brighton had really happened. She had no idea what it meant, couldn't even really process that it was her , Charlotte Donovan, who was in bed with Brighton Fairbrook after all they'd been through, kissing her, touching her, gazing at her with actual stars in her eyes when Brighton wasn't looking. It was as though some foreign invader had taken over her body.

Or, rather…it was as though she'd come back to herself. A Charlotte she'd forgotten. A Charlotte she'd lost so long ago, she felt like a stranger to herself.

Lola .

Still, as Brighton stood next to her in the Barstow Gardens parking lot, that red plaid coat buttoned snug around her body, Charlotte couldn't help but want to be reintroduced, even if she couldn't quite see how Lola could function in the world Charlotte had built in New York. How she'd ever see over all the walls she'd constructed brick by brick.

After .

A terrifying word.

A word she knew Brighton must have been thinking about too, but neither of them wanted to bring it up. And maybe, right now, she didn't have to. Right now, she just wanted to be Lola.

"You okay?" Brighton asked her, shoulder pressed into hers.

Charlotte smiled and nodded, then kissed Brighton's forehead, her knit hat fuzzy and tickling Charlotte's lips. She breathed Brighton in, cold air and citrus from her face cream.

After they approached the nutcrackers and paid their fee to a pair of teenagers with matching lavender hair, they collected their hot toddies and started off down the path as a group.

But Charlotte didn't want a group. Selfishly, she wanted Brighton all to herself for as long as possible—for as long as they could keep after just a concept and not a reality looming on the snowy horizon. She wanted to kiss her between lit-up trees, get lost in the display of poinsettias, daydream about what this place looked like in the spring, brimming with real color and life.

"Come with me," she said, tugging Brighton off the main path and onto an almost cave-like walkway, illuminated by what seemed like a billion blue-white lights that looked like icicles dripping down from the trees above them.

"Wow," Brighton breathed, her face like a twilit evening as she gazed upward.

"Beautiful," Charlotte said, but she wasn't even looking at the lights.

Brighton caught her eye and laughed. "I forgot how romantic you can be."

"Did you?" Charlotte asked, pressing a kiss to the back of Brighton's hand.

Brighton laughed. "Okay, no. I haven't forgotten anything."

"Me neither." And god, she hadn't. She thought she had—selective memory loss as a type of self-preservation—but as they walked, sipping on the lemon and honey and whiskey mixture, holding hands, she realized she hadn't really forgotten anything. She'd just trained herself not to think about any of it, like she'd put every memory, every feeling, into a box and locked it tight.

But Brighton had the key.

"Tell me something," Charlotte said.

"Like what?"

"Something about you. About your life now."

It was unsteady ground, their lives for the last five years apart, but Charlotte couldn't help it—she just wanted to know Brighton like she used to. Know everything she could. Know what Brighton had been too unsure of five years ago to tell her.

Or what Charlotte had been too self-absorbed to see.

She swallowed around the knot in her throat, forced herself to focus on Brighton. Focus on right now.

"Well," Brighton said slowly, "I live in Nashville."

Charlotte laughed. "You don't say."

"I work at a bar. A great bar. Ampersand."

"Adele seems really great."

Brighton took a sip of her drink, then dropped her foam cup into the trash bin along the glowing path. Charlotte tossed her cup in as well. As it turned out, she didn't like hot toddies all that much. She'd have much preferred a boozy hot chocolate if they were going to get liquor involved.

"She is," Brighton said, taking Charlotte's hand again. They rounded a curve, the lights shifting from blue-white to golden, like in a fairyland. "The best. Has a real eye for talent too."

"Does she?"

Brighton nodded.

"So Ampersand has live music?" Charlotte asked.

Brighton's expression darkened, as though she realized the trap she'd just walked into.

"It does," she said coolly.

"Brighton, I really think—"

"You want to dance?"

Charlotte blinked as Brighton brought them to a halt, facing her and taking her other hand. Nat King Cole's "The Christmas Song" played through the garden, and the golden light, sparkling in Brighton's dark eyes, made everything feel soft and lovely. Charlotte squeezed Brighton's hand. She knew this was Brighton's way of begging her to drop the subject of music.

And Charlotte wanted to give Brighton everything she wanted.

She knew after would come soon enough. She wasn't stupid, wasn't naive. But she was…happy. Right now, Charlotte Donovan was happy, and she couldn't remember the last time she had truly felt like this, just a moment where everything in her life felt aligned.

Felt right.

And she wanted to take it and run.

Run as fast as she could before everything else caught up with them.

And maybe, probably, Brighton did too, and that included leaving the Katies behind for right now.

"Okay," Charlotte said, then lifted Brighton's hands and placed them around her neck before settling her own fingers on Brighton's waist, then pulling her close…closer…until their foreheads touched. They started swaying, the song moving them along. Others walking along the path smiled at them, angled around them, but Charlotte barely noticed anyone else.

"Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe…," she sang softly. Her voice wasn't as magical as Brighton's, but she held her own. She leaned closer and sang into Brighton's ear. "…help to make the season bright."

Brighton laughed and tossed her head back, exposing her lovely neck before looking at Charlotte again. "It's my song."

"It is." Charlotte smiled. This classic Christmas song had always been Brighton's favorite for those lines alone.

Brighton wrapped her arms tighter around Charlotte's neck. "So."

"So."

"I have a fundamentalist Christian roommate named Leah."

Charlotte's eyes widened. "Do you now?"

"She sets me up with guys who wear boat shoes and tells me Jesus loves me even though I'm bi."

"Wow, how loving."

Brighton laughed. "Let's see…I want a cat, but Leah's allergic. I still have Carla."

"What?" Charlotte couldn't believe it. "You still have that old Corolla that Bonnie and Hank got you at sixteen?"

"Corollas last forever."

"They don't even sell them anymore."

"All the more reason to preserve Carla's vintage status."

Charlotte laughed and spun Brighton around in a circle once before slowing down again.

"What about you?" Brighton asked. "Tell me something."

Charlotte tilted her head, feeling like there was so much to catch Brighton up on and, at the same time, nothing at all.

And somehow she didn't want to say the words New York .

"I play violin" is what she settled on.

Brighton laughed. "I had no idea."

"And I…"

Her throat went a little thick. She played violin. She led the Rosalind Quartet. She taught at the Manhattan School of Music. She…

Charlotte looked down, took some surreptitious deep breaths. It wasn't like she was ashamed or that what she'd accomplished musically wasn't important. It was. She was impressive, and she knew it. She was proud of what she'd done, and in most ways, she wouldn't change any of it.

She loved her life.

She just…

Maybe…

Maybe there was more to life than just music. More than just work and practice and arranging and more practice. There was a time when she knew that. She'd forgotten, somehow, even when Brighton had been in her bed in their Manhattan apartment. Somewhere along the line, she'd forgotten…

"I missed you," she said. The words just slipped out. True and real and scary and right.

Brighton's smile dimmed, but her eyes went soft. Her chest swelled against Charlotte's, and she pulled them even closer together. "I missed you too."

Then they simply danced, turning in slow circles under the lights, the dreamy music shifting from Nat singing about chestnuts to Judy making promises about next year's troubles.

"Lola?" Brighton said after a while, lifting her chin from Charlotte's shoulder to look at her, eyes searching Charlotte's. "I…I need to know something."

"What is it?"

Brighton blinked a bit, her mouth opening and closing before her question finally made it out. "Do you forgive me?"

Charlotte's own mouth dropped open. Closed. She hadn't been prepared for that question.

The question, really.

She'd spent the last five years being angry at Brighton, not to mention the last several days, letting that anger keep every other feeling at bay. It was a cleansing fire, keeping her moving, keeping her upright.

And god, she just wanted to lie down.

Because the truth was, she didn't think she'd ever get over what had happened with Brighton five years ago. She wasn't sure if that was healthy or not, but she did know this—she shared in their ruining.

She'd been tunnel-visioned and selfish and scared. She'd been career obsessed, and she'd taken Brighton for granted. Brighton had crushed her when she left their wedding…but she'd crushed Brighton too. By simply not seeing her for months and months. Or, rather, choosing not to see her, which was even worse.

Forgiveness wasn't forgetting. But it was just as real. Just as healing.

"Yeah," she said softly, framing Brighton's face in her gloved hands. The truth. "I do. Do you forgive me?"

Brighton's eyes filled, and she was nodding before the question was even fully free. "Yes."

"Good."

Brighton laughed. "Yeah. Good."

And then they kissed, opened to each other, and it felt like the end of something, the start of something, every kind of something that Charlotte couldn't name, couldn't understand, and for now, under the canopy of lights in Colorado, that was enough.