Chapter 24
"I've never seen you smile this much," Sloane said to Charlotte as she attempted to roll a piece of slimy bacon around a fig. "I'm not sure how to handle it."
They were at Elements the next evening, Wes and Dorian's restaurant in downtown Winter River, with the rest of the Two Turtledoves crew. The space was gorgeous—rustic and elegant all at once—with round wooden tables, brushed-nickel light fixtures casting an amber glow over the room, wooden beams crossing the ceiling, and shots of forest green and navy worked in through local artwork on the walls. The restaurant had shut down for the night—Wes and Dorian's donation for Two Turtledoves—and Wes was giving them all a cooking lesson.
"A romantic cooking lesson," he'd said at the start of the evening. "A sure way to impress any first date, tenth date, or the love of your life."
Everyone had chuckled at that, but Charlotte hadn't missed the way his eyes had found Sloane.
And the way Sloane's eyes had found him.
Charlotte's eyes had very carefully and purposefully not found Brighton at that moment, but she'd also been watching Sloane and Wes all evening, wondering at Sloane's body language, her expressions, even her tone. She'd never seen Sloane in love before, and something about that fact left her unsettled, as though she'd forgotten something but couldn't remember what.
Still, that didn't keep her heart from picking up its pace at Sloane's comment, her mind working back through her and Brighton's time at Greenbriar Ridge and the gardens, as well as most of this past afternoon, which Charlotte and Brighton had spent entwined on the couch in the basement while everyone else watched Scrooged upstairs.
Charlotte didn't think she'd stopped smiling since they'd left the ski lodge, to be honest. And right now, working next to Sloane, she smiled again—her facial muscles were legit a little sore—and finished up adding a dollop of goat cheese to her figs. "I don't know," she said. "I'm just…" She shrugged, glanced at Brighton at the next table, where Brighton had paused her work on her own figs and was deep in conversation with Wes.
She was so gorgeous, Charlotte literally lost her breath for a second.
"Jesus, okay," Sloane said, laughing. "So you're in love."
Charlotte froze, goose bumps erupting over her whole body, and not in a pleasant way.
In love .
"I'm not," she said, looking down as she started to wrap her figs. "I'm just…"
But she wasn't sure how to finish that sentence.
In lust?
In like?
Nothing fit when it came to Brighton, including Charlotte's denial to Sloane, but she didn't know how to explain that without getting into their whole messy, ugly, humiliating history. So she just shrugged and changed the subject.
"What about you?" she asked.
Sloane snorted. "Me?"
Charlotte stayed silent. She suddenly realized she had no idea how to really do this—inquire about Sloane's innermost feelings. That was usually Sloane's role, asking questions or offering stories. Charlotte usually just listened.
When Sloane said nothing else, Charlotte took a deep breath and tried to imagine what Brighton would say. Or, even better, what Bonnie Fairbrook would say.
"I just think Wes is really nice," she finally said.
Sloane laughed. "You too, huh?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean my entire family thinks I fucked that one up," Sloane said.
"Did you?"
Right away, Charlotte knew it was the wrong thing to say. Sloane stilled, blinked down at her plate of bacon and figs, her jaw tight.
Charlotte pressed her eyes closed for a second. "Sloane, I—"
"No, no, I get it. You're Team Wes."
"I'm not," Charlotte said. "I can just see he cares for you, and—"
"You can see it?" Sloane said, starting to slap her appetizer together, goat cheese leaking from her rolls. "Charlotte, you don't see anything but your own—"
Sloane closed her mouth, but Charlotte heard the end of her sentence anyway. Charlotte's face flushed with shame, with something deeper than any emotion she could name. Her chest tightened, thinking back through her entire relationship with Sloane, how one-sided it had all been.
Sloane asked all the questions.
She offered the stories.
And Charlotte just…
What? Nodded. Shrugged. Smiled even when she didn't feel like it. Moved them on to work, work, and more work.
God, she was so bad at love.
Bad at people in general.
And what was worse, she knew she could fix it, or at least start to mend this huge gap in their two-year friendship by sharing something, anything, about herself. But everything about herself—from her relationship with her mother to her failed engagement—felt unlovable. Leavable and forgettable, the real heart of Charlotte Donovan.
She didn't want Sloane to see how completely inconsequential she was.
She wanted to be seen as strong, as immovable, untouchable. Because if that's how people saw her, that's what she'd be. And she'd never have to feel inadequate again, never have to feel that innate something that was missing inside her, that something that made people leave her and forget her so goddamn easily.
Even though she knew that what had happened between her and Brighton wasn't that simple, that she shared blame—what of Anna? What of her own mother, who barely looked at her, barely talked to her, even when she was a child?
She should say all of that now. She wanted to, she did, but she couldn't get the words to form on her tongue, all those ugly truths about herself.
"I'm sorry" was all she managed to say.
She couldn't wait for what Sloane would say back either. Instead, she simply turned and hurried to the back of the restaurant, through the kitchen, where Dorian and Manish had stolen away to talk with their heads bent close. Manish frowned when he saw her.
"Hey, Char, you okay?"
"I'm fine," she said, an instinct. She kept moving and burst out the back door, the cold like a slap in the face but welcome.
She breathed and breathed and breathed, desperate for air, for something, anything, to soothe this ache in her chest, but all she got was dizziness. She leaned against the brick, put her head between her legs.
Breathe .
You're okay.
You're Charlotte Donovan.
Charlotte…Rosalind…Donovan.
"Hey," a voice said, the heavy metal door opening next to her and slamming shut.
Brighton. Of course it was Brighton.
"Oh my god, it's freezing out here," she said.
Charlotte felt a coat—her own, by the scent of it—slide over her shoulders.
"Put this on," Brighton said, tugging her to standing.
Charlotte complied, her breathing still a little fast, her body trembling. Brighton helped Charlotte get her arms into her coat, then buttoned her up and slid her own hands into Charlotte's hair.
"Hey," she said again, her voice so soft. "What's wrong?"
Charlotte shook her head, but "Nothing" felt like the wrong answer. She couldn't stop thinking about Sloane, about the last two years, about how she'd done everything wrong. Sloane had so easily summed it all up in a sentence she hadn't even finished. But Charlotte didn't know if she was brave enough to fix it. Didn't even know how to stand here with Brighton without a million questions and doubts and geographical issues crowding into her mind.
She didn't want her mind right now.
She just wanted her heart.
She just wanted fresh and new . With everyone.
"Kiss me," she said to Brighton. "Please."
And Brighton did.