Chapter 25

Brighton slipped in her earbuds and pressed "Play" on her phone.

For the millionth time in the last few days, "December Light" filtered into her ears. The first notes hit like a punch, her heart rate climbing, then settled into her blood like an old lover, wistful and achy and lost.

It was Christmas Eve, and they'd all just finished the Berrys' traditional holiday meal of chicken saltimbocca—prosciutto-wrapped chicken—with homemade mashed potatoes, green beans, and peppermint chocolate cake. The house was warmly lit, snow fell outside, and Lola was nestled next to Brighton on the sectional in the living area, her feet tucked under her as she perused some emails on her phone. Everyone else sat around, sipping spiked hot chocolate and talking about Christmas Eve traditions—opening one gift or saving them all for the morning, reading "?'Twas the Night Before Christmas," watching It's a Wonderful Life , sleeping under the Christmas tree.

It all made Brighton miss her mother, miss her home at Christmas. She leaned her head against Lola's and started the song over again, turning up the volume a bit more to drown out the hum of conversation.

Winter lake, December light,

tears on your face, but I'll make it right.

An empty house that I want to fill,

ten years later this is still what's real.

She closed her eyes, reliving those ten years, and before she knew it or could stop it, her mind was on after . She tried to picture New York, their apartment, which she knew Lola didn't live in anymore. She tried to see herself on the streets—maybe Brooklyn was a better fit for her. Soon her fingers were moving in her lap, creating the chords she'd written for "December Light," and she saw herself on a dimly lit stage, a crowd in front of her, small but rapt.

Listening.

To her.

To her stories, her words, the way she saw the world.

But she was in Nashville. At the 5 Spot or the iconic Bluebird Cafe. She tried to force her performance into New York, but it just wouldn't fit, like a puzzle piece being shoved into the wrong place. She'd been doing this more and more lately—daydreaming about shows, about stages. New York. Nashville. Chicago. She couldn't seem to stop them, the images behind her eyes, all that she still wanted for herself swirling in her mind with Lola, with after , with her nearly crippling fear about trying it all again.

But daydreams were safe, watercolor pictures, fading as soon as she—

"Brighton."

Her eyes flipped open, the daydream vanishing once again, to find Lola standing over her, bent slightly to shake her shoulder. Adele was staring at Brighton too, that old guitar of hers sitting between her legs. Brighton frowned at Adele, but then Elle, Manish, and Sloane came up from the basement, their instruments in their hands. Manish carried Rosalind in her case, set her gently on the coffee table.

"Sorry," Brighton said, "I was lost in thought. What's going on?"

"Nina wants us to play some Christmas music," Lola said.

"Oh, that's a good idea," Brighton said, taking out her earbuds and slipping them into a pocket of her jeans along with her phone.

Lola nodded, squeezed her shoulder. "I want you to play with us."

Brighton froze, her eyes going to Adele's guitar. Adele held it out, and Brighton felt herself shrinking into the couch.

"What? Lo—" She stopped, swallowing as she remembered that Lola didn't want anyone to know about their past. "Charlotte, I…I can't. You all know how to play together. I'll just mess it up."

"You won't," Lola said, her voice gentle.

Brighton knew that Lola wouldn't make her play. They'd been extra soft with each other since last night, since Brighton had found Lola outside Elements practically hyperventilating. Sloane had wordlessly given up her bedroom, moving in with Adele so that Lola and Brighton could share a room during the time they had left, and Brighton had never been so grateful. Just falling asleep with Lola. Waking up with her. The slow, quiet sex they'd had last night…then again this morning. It all felt like medicine in Brighton's veins. But a medicine that woke her up too. She'd felt restless all day, her fingers drumming on countertops, her thumbs running over the calluses that were very nearly gone.

She figured it was all because of after , because she and Lola still hadn't talked about it, hadn't talked about what had upset Lola at Elements, and every time Brighton thought about New York, she felt just like she had five years ago—trapped, giving away some part of herself…but that part of herself was gone anyway.

Wasn't it?

The Katies had destroyed her hopes of playing music. And yeah, she'd let them, but all those daydreams, they were just that. Dreams. As much as might want to, she wasn't sure she could make it alone.

She closed her eyes, saw herself again on a dimly lit stage. Just her…but then there was Lola, the two of them, just like they'd been at Java Blues and that tiny bar in Boston when they'd been at Berklee.

She shook her head, opened her eyes.

Impossible dreams. That was all those images were.

Still, when Adele stood up and handed the guitar to her, her heart rate picked up, her stomach fluttering, as though she'd just caught sight of an old lover after years and years apart.

Brighton stared at the instrument for a second—the shiny lacquered surface, the worn strings in need of changing.

"Take your time," Lola said, then kissed her on the forehead and turned away from her, opening Rosalind's case and lifting the violin out with a reverence Brighton remembered. Her chest tightened, then loosened, a dizzying dance that she couldn't seem to stop.

"Baby girl," Adele said, still holding out the guitar.

Brighton took it, her fingers tingling as she touched the wood. Adele sat next to her while she watched the quartet tune and warm up, laughter on their lips, a camaraderie that Brighton missed so much she could cry. Nina sat on the other side of the sectional, her mug in her hands and Snickerdoodle's head lying in her lap, her eyes a little glossy as she watched Sloane at her craft.

The guitar felt hot in Brighton's lap, her hands barely holding on to it, like it might actually burn her. It was facing the wrong way. She flipped it, carefully, her left hand settling on the neck, her right draping over the body. Still, she let her hands hang there, barely pressing on anything.

"?‘The Holly and the Ivy'?" Elle asked, their fingers ready on their cello. They'd pulled in dining chairs, now situated in a semicircle in front of the Christmas tree.

"Must we start with the Jesus stuff?" Manish asked, scooting to the edge of his chair, holding up his viola with his chin alone.

"It's festive and not that Jesus-y," Elle said. "And it's instrumental. Make up some words in your head about Dorian's long-ass eyelashes."

Manish sighed happily. "God, I could write a tome."

Lola laughed. "I don't doubt it. Does that song sound good to you, Sloane?"

Sloane just nodded. Didn't look at Lola. In fact, there'd been a lot of not looking between the two of them all day, Brighton had noticed.

Lola swallowed, then glanced at Brighton. She winked so surreptitiously that Brighton nearly missed it. But god, her wink was devastating. Sexy and badass and comforting all at once. Lola counted them off, and soon the most glorious sounds Brighton had ever heard filled the space. Even the quartet's movements were like a dance, their bodies bending and working to coax their instruments into singing.

Brighton felt herself moving with them, her fingertips full-on buzzing now with energy. She hugged the guitar closer to her, hearing where she could fit this particular stringed sound into what the quartet was playing. Her heart rate was wild, pulsing in her throat, her temples, her toes.

She bent her head close to the guitar and plucked a single string, the bottom E. It was horribly out of tune, just like she had expected it to be, and before she could overthink it, muscle memory took over, her ears pressed close to the sound hole, her fingers on the tuning pegs, turning and plucking until the guitar was as it should be, each string singing like it was meant to.

She didn't look at Lola. Didn't look at anyone. She just listened for a second. The key was in A, she could hear that much. She formed her fingers where they needed to be, just working through the chords first. She felt dizzy, her breathing heavy, but as the quartet played on, crescendoing and then coming back down for a quiet third verse, she started playing.

Her fingers plucked at the strings, playing along with the melody at first, then creating a sort of echo to what the violins were doing. As the song curled into the fourth verse, the violins fell away.

Everything fell away except for Elle, who kept up a low rhythm on their cello, and…Brighton.

Her notes unfurled over everything else, the melody now twisting through the room, the violins and viola joining as a soft pulse underneath her. Her fingertips burned, unused to the press of the strings, but she didn't care. Her hands flew like birds released from a cage, the motions so natural as she wove a story about love and family and friends, a story about the fucking joy of telling stories like this. She laughed out loud, even as she played on, winding her melody down softly, then joining everyone in a symphony of strings for the last chorus.

Brighton watched Lola, whose head moved to slow everyone down, then made a circular motion to cut them off.

The final notes rang through the room for a second. Brighton's right hand hovered in the air after her last strum, her chest heaving up and down as though she'd just run a race.

"Now that," Manish said, "was the ode to Dorian's lashes they deserve." He beamed at Brighton.

In fact, everyone was smiling at her. Adele reached over and squeezed the back of her neck. Brighton's eyes stung, just a little, and she couldn't get the smile off her face. Lola's eyes looked a little shiny too. Brighton's blood felt heated, like water coming to a boil—music always made her feel wild, feral, like something set loose that was always meant to be free.

Right now, she just wanted to play.

"Another?" she said, and strummed out a strong E, the chord reverberating through the room.

The next morning, Christmas morning, Brighton woke up cold. She blinked at the bright white light, remembering that she was in Sloane's bedroom. Remembering that she'd stayed up so late, playing with the Rosalind Quartet.

She pressed her thumb to the fingertips of her left hand. They were sore, red from the strings, grown tender from so many months of not playing. She smiled at them, knowing it would take a few months to build her calluses back up. But…

She wanted to.

She actually wanted to.

She had no clue what that meant or how it would all come together, what being a solo artist even entailed or if she wanted to look for other people to play with. Then there were the Katies, "December Light," and she knew she had to deal with that somehow too.

The thought overwhelmed her, immediately making her feel small, incapable. Like it wasn't worth the trouble if she'd just fail anyway…

She moved her arm to the other side of the bed, searching for Lola's warmth.

But Lola wasn't there, her side of the bed cold, like she hadn't been there in a while. Brighton sat up quickly, eyes scanning the room, but she was alone.

She could hear voices downstairs, could smell coffee and cinnamon, along with the salty bacon of the breakfast casserole Nina said she made every Christmas morning since the girls were born.

Just like Brighton's own mother did every year.

Her throat went tight at the thought of finding herself in this strange bedroom, in a stranger's house, for Christmas. She flung her covers back, needing Lola's familiar face, needing her arms, her smile. She put on sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee before heading into the hall, ready to tromp downstairs to find Lola, but a sound coming from the bathroom stopped her.

A soft sob.

She changed course, tiptoed to the bathroom door. Laughter filtered up from downstairs, "I'll Be Home for Christmas" playing softly from Nina's Bluetooth speaker. At the door, Brighton closed her hand around the knob but didn't turn it. She pressed her ear to the white-painted wood.

They were faint, but she heard sniffles. A sigh. Some soft muttering she couldn't make out, but she knew those sounds.

Lola.

Brighton swallowed hard, wondering what she should do. Five years ago, she would've knocked. She would've gone inside without even waiting for a response, taken Lola in her arms, wiped her tears away.

And god, she wanted to do that now.

But here she was, in the Berrys' hallway, the love of her life crying in the bathroom, and Brighton didn't know what to do.

Because Lola wasn't just crying in the bathroom—she was hiding. Whatever this was, she didn't want Brighton to see it, didn't want Brighton to try and fix it. If she had, she would've woken Brighton up, curled into her, asked to be held, like she'd sometimes done when they were together. Lola didn't always have the words, but she knew Brighton was her safe place—she knew she could just ask for a kiss, a hug, and Brighton would give it, no questions asked, that Brighton would take her out to the beach, twirl her around.

But that's not who they were anymore.

But you can never make it right…

What you did to me will never be okay, Brighton.

A helplessness spilled into Brighton's chest as Lola's words from the morning they were snowed in came back to her, sand pouring through an hourglass, unstoppable.

She shook her head. No. No, she hadn't ruined it. The last couple of days, she'd made Lola happy. She had, she knew she had. They'd forgiven each other. But Lola was leaving in three days. Leaving for a whole month. They hadn't talked at all about what they would do after the holidays, and as Brighton stood there listening to Lola cry, she knew she had to be the one to bring it up. She had to be the one to go after Lola, because she was the one who had left.

Inside the bathroom, the water turned on, and Lola cleared her throat. Brighton could almost see her washing her face, wiping at her eyes, pulling her hair back, then putting on that red lipstick that Brighton both loved and hated—loved because Lola was always beautiful, hated because she knew Lola wore it as a shield, a sort of armor against the world.

The water turned off, and Brighton hurried back to their room and sat on the edge of the bed. Her blood felt fizzy, carbonated, and she took a few deep breaths. Five minutes later, Lola came back into the bedroom, looking fresh and lovely, red lipstick firmly in place.

"Hey," she said, not looking at Brighton as she rifled through her suitcase, then sat next to Brighton on the bed and pulled on a pair of socks, tucking them under her sleek black jeans. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Brighton said, leaning her shoulder against Lola's. "Sleep okay?"

Lola nodded, but her smile was small.

"Lola," Brighton said, taking a deep breath. She could do this. She had to do this. "I wanted to—"

"Oh, hey, I got you a present," Lola said, shooting up from the bed.

Brighton frowned. "You did?"

Lola nodded and went back to her suitcase, her dark wardrobe perfectly folded in its place, of course. She lifted a pile of sweaters and pulled out a brown box hidden underneath, tied with a red-and-green-striped ribbon.

"For you," Lola said, setting it in her lap.

"Lola," Brighton breathed. "You didn't have to. I didn't—"

"I know," Lola said, waving her hand. "But I saw this the other day when I went to get some coffee downtown before the event at Elements. I just thought of you."

Brighton untied the ribbon, slowly, reverently, then lifted the box's lid and set it next to her. Inside, red tissue paper covered the contents. She peeled it back, and there, sitting on a bed of red and green crinkle confetti, was a leather guitar strap.

Brighton's mouth fell open. It was the color of maple syrup, the material buttery and perfect, so high-quality it was already worn in—she knew it would fit over her shoulder perfectly. She lifted it out, her fingers trailing over the embossed design pressed into the leather.

A sun.

Several suns, actually, spreading over the strap, rays curling outward, bold and bright and sure.

"For when you find your path," Lola said, but her voice sounded sad, far away. She leaned over and kissed Brighton on her temple, then whispered against her skin. "Because I know you will."

"It's beautiful," Brighton said, tears swelling. "Lola, I—"

But before Brighton could even say thank you, Lola stood up again, made her way to the door. "I'll see you downstairs," she said, and then she was gone, leaving Brighton holding her gift, those tears just starting to trail down her cheeks. She smoothed her hands over the leather and let herself cry for a few minutes.

But after she was done, she slipped the strap onto Adele's guitar, which she'd carried upstairs with her last night. She'd been hesitant to let it go. As though the entire evening of music, of playing , would vanish if she let the instrument out of her sight.

She stood, settling the guitar over her body, then looked at herself in Sloane's full-length mirror. Her sweatpants and tee notwithstanding, she didn't feel like an impostor, didn't feel like a stranger was looking back at her from the glass. She looked…good.

Natural.

She picked out the first few notes of a too-familiar song, an ache settling around her heart. But with that ache, there was a rightness too.

A realness.

And suddenly she knew exactly how to tell Lola what she was feeling—everything she wanted after .