Chapter 26

Over the years, Charlotte had perfected the fake smile.

Not too broad.

Not too small.

Show some teeth.

Make sure her eyes crinkled in the corners.

In fact, she'd had so much practice with disingenuous smiles, she'd nearly forgotten what a real one felt like—the ache in her cheeks, the effortlessness to it. These past couple of days with Brighton, short as they had been, had reminded her how easy it could be, how easy it was to just be happy.

But easy and happy were fleeting, practically mythical concepts in her life, a fact made all the more real the second she realized, right there in the middle of Watered Down with a cheap Manhattan in her hand, that her perfect Charlotte Donovan Smile? had once again settled on her face.

"I think I'm about to do something totally insane," Wes said, plopping into the chair next to her. The room was almost overly warm and loud. The small stage was brightly lit, everything else dim and moody, a single microphone and stool ready and waiting for the Two Turtledoves attendees to profess their love, lust, or like.

"Oh?" Charlotte said, sipping on her drink. She was not touching the pitcher of Mistletoe Margaritas at their table, nor was she planning on consuming more than one Manhattan. Her mind was already whirling with thoughts about Brighton and music and New York and Europe and whatever came after that — she needed every single wit she had in place.

Wes nodded. "Like, real, real dumb."

"It's not dumb," Dorian said, sitting down on Wes's other side. "It's necessary."

Charlotte tilted her head. "What is this real, real dumb yet necessary thing you're about to do?"

Wes blew out a breath, his eyes drifting to where Sloane sat a few chairs away, chatting with Elle.

"Oh," Charlotte said. "Really?"

Wes covered his face with his hands. "I don't know."

"Yes, really," Dorian said, clapping Wes on the back.

Charlotte assumed Wes had finally taken Dorian into his confidence regarding his feelings for Sloane. "What's your plan?" she asked. Her own eyes scanned the room, looking for Brighton, who had ridden to Watered Down separately with Adele, claiming she was running late when the rest of their group was ready to leave Nina's for the bar. This wasn't unusual—Brighton had never been the most punctual person, but Charlotte had yet to see her, a fact that made Charlotte's already anxious mind feel even more on edge.

"Well, I can't sing," Wes said.

"He's awful," Dorian said.

"I can't act or write poems," Wes said.

Charlotte circled her free hand. "So…?"

"So…I convinced Manish to let me use his viola."

Charlotte nearly choked on her drink. "His viola?"

"I know," Wes said. "But remember how I joined orchestra for Sloane back in high school?" His eyes were so wide, and he was so totally gone on Sloane Berry, even Charlotte's cold heart melted a little.

But only a little.

"Wes, his viola is expensive," she said. "And we have a tour coming up."

"I know, I know, I'll be gentle, I promise. Just a few horrible notes."

"Enough to make a total fool of himself," Dorian said.

"What are you going to play?" Charlotte asked.

Wes laughed. "?‘Play' is a stretch."

"Just be careful, please," she said. "That instrument is at least fifty years old."

"No pressure," Wes said, then tilted his head at her. "What about you?"

"Me?" she asked.

"Yeah. Any love songs for Brighton?"

"It's not like that," she said. An instinct. The first thing that popped into her head, which meant it must be true…didn't it? But even as she thought this, her chest tightened, fingertips tingling the way they did when she was nervous.

"It's not?" Wes asked, his tone flat.

She just shook her head, took another sip to keep herself quiet. Because the truth was, she still didn't know what it actually was, this thing with Brighton.

Great sex.

A relief.

Perfect.

…a mistake?

As her tour loomed—the quartet's departure just two days away—she was having a harder and harder time parsing what she was feeling. Christmas Eve had been magical, seeing Brighton come alive like that again, a guitar in her hands, just where it belonged. She could tell that night—from the second Brighton finally took the leap and played the first note—that Brighton was born to play, to create.

And how could she do that in New York, a city she hated?

That was the question Charlotte kept rolling over and over and over again in her mind, the question without an easy answer, the question that had sent her into the bathroom on Christmas morning to cry, just to get some relief. Charlotte couldn't remember Brighton writing a single song while they lived in Manhattan, and that was before the entire Katies ordeal.

She wanted Brighton to thrive.

She knew this much, and that alone was such a monumental change from all her bitterness and resentment, it nearly felt like enough.

To simply let Brighton go.

Let her live.

But every time she readied herself to tell Brighton as much, she couldn't get the words off her tongue. They tangled there, mottling into nonsense, into a kiss, a tumble into bed. She knew Brighton wanted to talk about their future too, but she couldn't seem to let Brighton get the words out either.

She was scared of both options—letting go and trying again—and the only response was to stand still.

But she knew she couldn't stay in that space forever.

"Okay, lovebirds, we're about to start!" Eli, Watered Down's host for events, said as he hopped onto the stage.

Cheers went up around the room. Next to Charlotte, Wes sunk down low in his seat.

"I might throw up," he said.

"You don't have to do it, you know," she said.

He frowned at her, tilted his head. "You're not much of a romantic, are you?"

She laughed. "An understatement."

But even as she said it, she knew it wasn't true. She used to love romance. She would bring Brighton flowers and write her actual physical notes in high school before they even got together, because even then Charlotte had loved her.

She sighed, glanced at Sloane. "But you're right—you should do it," she said to Wes.

"Yeah?" he said, brows lifted.

Charlotte smiled at him, and this one was real. "Yeah."

He grinned like a little kid, and it was so cute that Charlotte couldn't help but laugh and pat him on the leg.

"Hey," Brighton said, walking up to Charlotte's other side, bringing a wash of cold air with her. "What'd I miss?"

"Oh, just my impending humiliation," Wes said.

Brighton frowned, but he turned to say something to Dorian.

"Where've you been?" Charlotte asked, both relief and panic surging as Brighton settled into a chair.

"Just running late," Brighton said, but she didn't make eye contact. Charlotte studied her as she took off her red coat, revealing a lacy black blouse with a black bra underneath, dark jeans, and hunter-green boots. Light-pink gloss sparkled on her lips, and her eyes were rimmed dark, lashes as long as a day.

"You look nice," Charlotte said, another understatement. Brighton looked ethereal, magical.

Brighton smiled before she leaned in, pressed a kiss under Charlotte's ear, and whispered, "Thank you."

"All right, all right," Eli called into the mic. "First up is Jameson with an ode for…well, we'll let him tell you!"

The crowd cheered, and Brighton pulled away, still smiling softly at Charlotte.

Charlotte smiled back, but her brain snagged on how crinkly her eyes were, and then she was overthinking her smile, overthinking why it was fake, overthinking every thump of her heart.

Jameson hopped onstage and proceeded to perform a truly horrific rendition of John Mayer's "Your Body Is a Wonderland" for someone named Rita, who beamed at him from the audience with her hands clasped to her chest.

"If he starts hip thrusting," Wes said, "I'm going to—oh, oh god, there he goes."

Charlotte tried to laugh, tried to get her stomach to relax. "Isn't he the glue eater?"

"The very same," Wes said, "though I hope, for Rita's sake, that he's moved on to more mature delicacies."

"Hey, there's someone for everyone," Dorian said.

"Yeah, like viola-playing South Asian men from London," Wes said.

Dorian just smirked as Jameson finished and proceeded to make out with Rita right there in the front row, tongue and all. A few more acts passed, even fewer of them decent, including Gemma performing original slam poetry for a person named Ash, whom Charlotte remembered seeing at the events. It was pretty incredible, actually, and Charlotte couldn't help but genuinely smile as the two of them kissed at the end to a chorus of snaps.

"Cute," Brighton said, sliding her hand into Charlotte's.

"Very," Charlotte said, her fingers closing around Brighton's and squeezing.

"And now, a song for a songstress by a songstress," Eli said. "Please welcome to the stage Brighton Fairbrook!"

Charlotte blinked, Eli's words falling into place slowly. "Wait, what?"

But Brighton just smiled at her, pulled her hand to her lips, and kissed her knuckles. Then she let her go and wove through the tables to the stage. She grabbed a guitar that was sitting on a stand to the side—Adele's guitar, now outfitted with the strap Charlotte had given her—and slid it over her shoulder.

Adele wolf-whistled as Brighton settled on the stool, and Charlotte could feel Manish's and Elle's eyes on her. She could only stare at Brighton, though, the girl she'd met at twelve, kissed at seventeen, and promised to marry at twenty-two.

Loved always.

Her heart sprinted under her ribs. God, Brighton looked amazing up there, under the lights, on a stage. But this, now, knowing what Brighton had been through with the Katies, how long it had been since she'd taken this kind of leap…

She was luminous.

"Hi, everyone," Brighton said, and more cheers and whistles erupted. She smiled. "This is a song I…well, yeah, I wrote. You may have heard it already, but that's another story."

Charlotte stopped breathing.

Brighton laughed, looked down for a second. "Anyway, I wrote this song a long time ago for the girl I loved then." She met Charlotte's eyes. "The same girl I love now. Lola, this is for you. This has always been for you."

Charlotte felt rather than heard whispers undulate through her quartet, felt Wes turn to look at her, felt Sloane's eyes boring into her. She couldn't process any of it, because Brighton.

Because the first notes to "December Light" were starting to unfurl under Brighton's fingers, more whispers moving through the audience at the now-familiar tune. Brighton didn't seem to care, though. She kept playing, her eyes on Charlotte, and then…

She started singing.

Charlotte hadn't heard her voice in five years.

Not like this, not with their song on her lips.

It was breathtaking, pure magic, sultry and soft, her tone like a swirl of dark chocolate.

Winter lake, December light,

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

The song wrapped around her, around all of them. Charlotte couldn't tell if her heart was breaking or mending.

That Tiffany lamp, a rainbow on the floor,

pieces of glass holding your whole world.

Whatever was going on in her chest right now felt like both life and death, a becoming and an undoing. Onstage, Brighton slowed down, quieted, her eyes closed as she sang softly, sang words Charlotte had never heard before.

December light, here we are again

standing together, come snow, come sand…

Her eyes opened. Looked at Charlotte. The entire room held its breath, waiting for what came next.

December light, it's you and it's me,

dressed all in white, the start of a new story.

Breaking. Charlotte's heart was definitely breaking. Because Brighton was magnificent. A true storyteller, weaving simple words with magic, captivating her audience, casting a spell. Everything felt soft, languid, everyone moving closer to one another, their eyes softly blinking at this love story unfurling from the stage.

Charlotte's love story.

And she knew.

She knew all she had to do was ask.

That's all it would take, and Brighton would come back to New York. She'd try again. Not at the expense of her own music—Charlotte could see the passion there, the drive sparkling in her eyes again—but she'd do it all in New York.

She'd do it for Charlotte.

She'd try and try, and hell, maybe it would actually work. Maybe Brighton would find a community of other singer-songwriters, find places that loved having her onstage.

But it wouldn't be for herself.

It'd be for Charlotte.

And she couldn't let Brighton do it. She couldn't watch them fall apart again, couldn't let Brighton choose Charlotte over herself again. Because that's what Brighton had always done, wasn't it? Berklee, New York—she'd always put Charlotte first, because she was the only person in Charlotte's life who would , and they both knew it.

And where had all of that gotten them? Brighton had been miserable, pushed so far to the edge of her own needs that she'd literally snapped and done the thing neither of them ever imagined she'd do.

And Charlotte couldn't do it again.

As Brighton finished the song, as the crowd leaped to its feet, shouting and clapping, Charlotte knew it was the right decision.

To let go.

She stood too, tears swelling for only a second before she wiped them away and a cool calm settled over her, like floating in deep, dark water. Peaceful. She slid her coat off the back of her chair and slipped it on, buttoning it slowly, methodically. She met Sloane's eyes for a split second. Sloane wasn't clapping and stood with her arms folded, a look that could only be described as hurt settling on her face, a million questions in her gaze.

Charlotte pulled her eyes away, then turned and started for the side entrance, slipping through the patrons like a ghost, everyone so enchanted with Brighton, they forgot all about her subject.

All the better, Charlotte thought.

She was nearly to the door, her phone ready to call a Lyft back to Nina's, when a hand grabbed her elbow.

"Lola."

Charlotte pressed her eyes closed, took one deep breath before turning to face Brighton.

"Hi," Charlotte said.

Brighton frowned. " Hi ? Where are you going?"

Charlotte managed a smile, a small, barely adequate bend to her lips. "That was lovely, Brighton. Really."

Brighton shook her head. "Okay, what the hell are you doing? I thought—"

"This is over, Brighton."

The words were soft, barely audible inside the bar, but they fell like a guillotine's blade. Brighton said nothing.

"I'm glad we reconciled," Charlotte said, releasing her words slowly, carefully, thinking on them before setting them free. "I am. But we both know this won't work."

"The hell we do," Brighton said, her voice a whisper.

Charlotte forged ahead. "I'm in New York. And you belong in Nashville. We have different lives now. We're not seventeen anymore. We're not even twenty-three."

"Lola. Don't."

"This was good, really," Charlotte said, knotting her hands together so they didn't shake. "So good. We've forgiven each other, and we can move forward, maybe even be friends. But I'm leaving for a month, and you—" She cut herself off. She couldn't say any more. The more she talked, the more her emotions threatened to surge, and they both needed her to be strong right now. Logical.

Practical.

"Goodbye, Brighton," she said. "And good luck."

And with that, she turned and shoved the door open, then ran a block south before she even called for a Lyft, just in case Brighton—or even Sloane or Wes—tried to come after her.

But no one did.

And when Charlotte stopped under a streetlight, Winter Berry Bakery's windows dark, the bookstore just closing up shop, she was alone. Just like she'd always been.

Charlotte sat on Sloane's bed, Snickerdoodle lying at her feet and her closed suitcase next to her. She'd come back to a dark house—even Nina had gone to the Two Turtledoves event with her friend Marisol—and slowly packed up her things. Only Snickerdoodle had been there to greet her, his unbridled adoration of Charlotte nearly making her cry. Sweet, naive Snick. Still, with every noise, every creak of the tree branches in the winter wind, she expected the group's return.

Or at least Brighton's.

No one came, though. Not for another two hours, which was a good thing. She had enough time to stop expecting anyone—she would not be that person who demanded to be left alone, then pouted when people did as she asked.

Plus, she was used to this—the silence. The solitude. Her own mother hadn't even called or responded to her text on Christmas Day, had never called or texted on any Christmas Day, really, not even the year Brighton left Charlotte at the altar.

By the time Sloane opened the door to her bedroom, Charlotte had arranged an earlier flight to London, leaving near dawn from the Colorado Springs Airport. It was exactly what she needed—a couple of days to roam London by herself and get her head on straight for the tour.

Sloane stopped short when she saw Charlotte on the bed, her own dog still cuddled at Charlotte's feet. She closed the door without a word, took off her coat, and opened the closet with her back to Charlotte. Charlotte didn't say anything but worked on what she could say.

What she should say.

"Did Wes play you a song?" is what she settled on, and she could tell by the way Sloane's shoulders tightened that it was the wrong thing.

"You've got to be kidding me," Sloane said.

Charlotte sighed, pressed her fingers into her eyes until she saw bursts of color. "Sloane, I—"

"So you've been lying this whole time?" Sloane said. She didn't turn around.

Charlotte stayed silent.

"This whole fucking time," Sloane said, "you knew Brighton. No, no, wait. Not only knew but nearly married ." She whirled around then, her coral-colored scarf in her hands, her dark eyes shiny and flashing. "And Adele knew. Fuck, Wes knew."

Charlotte just shook her head, her mouth open, words tangling on her tongue.

"For two years, I've been trying," Sloane said. "I've been trying to know you. Trying to be there for you."

"Sloane."

"Because god knows you're the saddest person I've ever met."

Charlotte frowned, her heart cramping under her ribs.

"You think you've convinced everyone around you that you're this self-sufficient stalwart of work and creativity, unemotional, don't need friends, don't need love, but that's bullshit," Sloane said. "And everyone knows it, Charlotte. Everyone but you."

Charlotte looked down at her lap.

"And I tried," Sloane said. "Because you're brilliant at what you do. Because I actually fucking liked you. I cared about you. And I thought, Hey, if I can just crack that shell, just give her a little, she'll give something back. But that's bullshit too, isn't it?"

"Sloane, I…" Charlotte took a deep breath, forced herself to look at her friend. "I'm sorry. I kept all this from you because I…I just—"

"You know what?" Sloane said, putting up a hand. "I can't do this right now. I've got to go deal with Wes, and since we both know you don't really give a shit about a reciprocal friendship, I'll leave you to your thoughts. Come on, Snick."

Sloane went to her dresser, grabbed a sweater and a pair of plaid pajama pants from a drawer, and was gone—Snickerdoodle trotting behind her—before Charlotte could even think of what to say next.