Chapter 29

It was truly amazing how much a string quartet could accomplish without ever really speaking to one another.

Charlotte attributed the successful London leg of their tour—sold-out performances at the Royal Albert Hall, packed lectures at the Royal College of Music—to the fact that the four of them had been playing together for long enough that they instinctively read one another's body language, moods, cues. That, and they were stellar musicians.

Still, by the time a week had passed and they'd settled into their hotel in Paris, Charlotte had grown weary of Sloane's silent treatment. Mirian, their manager, had been able to procure sponsors for a lot of their trip, so they each had their own room, which Charlotte normally would have appreciated.

Now, though, as she rolled her bag into the crisp modernity of her room at La Belle Ville, the silence felt oppressive. Granted, she hadn't really tried to talk to Sloane about all that had happened in Winter River. She wasn't sure how to broach the subject, and she kept hoping things would naturally smooth themselves over.

After all, Charlotte was…Charlotte. She was reserved, stoic, even a bit prickly at times, and the entire quartet knew this. She rarely shared intimate details about her life, and that had always seemed to work just fine. But as Charlotte unpacked, trying to focus on their performance at the Paris Philharmonic the next day, she knew this time was different.

Sloane was hurt, and it was about more than Charlotte keeping things to herself. It was about Charlotte shutting Sloane out on purpose, when Sloane had done nothing but invite Charlotte in.

She set her toiletry bag on the bathroom sink, stared at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back at her was strong. Self-sufficient. She didn't need anyone's approval or help. She didn't need anyone's love or kindness, didn't need permission or forgiveness.

This was the Charlotte Donovan she'd become over the last five years—over the last twenty-eight years, really. A fortress. Impenetrable. Unflappable.

And she was miserable.

True, there were things in her life she loved—her work, her music, the beauty of creating, then hearing that creation unfurl with her quartet. She loved New York, loved Manhattan in the spring, the fall.

But she could love so many places.

She could love so much more than work.

She could love so many more people than just herself.

And what was more, she wanted to. God, she was so fucking tired of herself, of always and only keeping her own company, of swallowing feelings and fears and convincing herself that by doing so she was strong .

She wasn't strong.

She was a fucking coward.

With Brighton. With Sloane. With her mother, even. Desperate for love but convinced no one would ever fully give it, an insecurity that had only magnified after Brighton left her. Still, she knew it wasn't Brighton's fault—or not just her fault, at least.

Brighton had wanted to make Charlotte happy by staying in New York.

She'd always wanted to make Charlotte happy, and Charlotte had let her, over and over again, let her soothe Charlotte, let her make Charlotte feel secure, feel stable, feel loved, to the detriment of her own needs.

Charlotte braced her hands on the cool quartz sink, closed her eyes, and breathed, her forehead breaking out in a sweat.

Because she missed Brighton.

Fuck, she missed her so much. She'd told herself leaving was the right thing to do, a way to love Brighton when she'd failed at doing so before. Brighton was free to follow her own dream, without having to worry about Charlotte and New York and the past.

But, really, Charlotte was running scared.

Running away.

She knew it.

Everyone knew it.

She turned on the faucet, splashed some cold water on her face. Then she opened up her makeup bag and pulled out her red lipstick. Popped the cap off, twisted up the waxy tube. She stared at the fire-engine color, her eyes blurring on the bold crimson.

She twisted it back down, put the cap back on.

Covered her mouth with a clear gloss.

Let her hair down, silver-and-brown strands curling over her shoulder.

She straightened her black sweater, smoothed her hands down her black jeans, and left the room, turning to knock on the door right next to hers.

"Sancerre, s'il vous plait," Sloane said to the woman tending the hotel bar.

"Moi aussi," Charlotte said.

Silence spilled in between them. Charlotte told herself she was waiting until there were two perfectly pale glasses of white wine in front of them, and then she was waiting until they both took a sip.

Really, she was gathering courage. Forming words and sentences in her mind.

"Jesus," Sloane said, holding her glass up to the light. "Everything is better in Paris."

Charlotte laughed nervously, nodded, and sipped again. The wine was fantastic, but she had to force herself to even notice it. Sloane sat next to Charlotte on a stool, her forearms on the lacquered bar top, her eyes forward, as though she were completely content to let Charlotte buy her alcohol and never say another word.

And at this point, she just might be.

But Charlotte wasn't.

And knowing that, knowing that she actually wanted to connect, was a pretty huge thing for Charlotte Donovan. Best to dive in, start simple.

"Sloane, I'm sorry," she said.

Sloane angled her chin toward Charlotte, looking at her askance.

"I messed up," Charlotte went on. "I've been messing up for two years now."

Sloane turned on her stool, her body now facing Charlotte. Still, she didn't say anything. She waited, sipped her wine.

Charlotte took another drink herself, thinking through her next words. She didn't want to make excuses, but there were certain truths about her life—about her past, the effect it'd had on her present life and relationships—that she needed to explain.

That she needed to face herself.

"I'm not good at love," she said. "At any of it. Believing in it. Accepting it. Giving it."

Sloane tilted her head.

Charlotte's fingers pressed into the condensation on her glass. "My mother is…well, she's not a great mom. She had me as a sort of, I don't know, experiment? Then she didn't like motherhood all that much, I guess, and that's pretty much how my childhood went. She clothed me, fed me, but that was it. We didn't have any other family."

Sloane's eyes narrowed slightly, her chest rising with a deep breath.

"And then Brighton Fairbrook moved in next door," she said. And even saying her name, recounting that monumental moment in her life, on the beach at twelve, the most beautiful girl she'd ever seen calling her Lola, Charlotte couldn't help but smile.

She told Sloane their whole history, every important moment from then on, the way the Fairbrooks had taken her in as their own, how she and Brighton had played music together. She told Sloane about how her friendship with Brighton had turned into something more—kissing for the first time on the paintball field, prom, deciding to go to Berklee together, New York.

The wedding.

"She really just left you there?" Sloane asked. Her voice was soft, her expression the same, and they were both on their second glasses of wine.

Charlotte nodded. "But it wasn't all her fault. I didn't…I didn't know how to love her the right way back then. I was too scared."

"Of?"

Charlotte sighed. "Being alone? Losing the only person who ever really loved me?" It sounded so pathetic when she said it out loud, but it was still true. But with that truth came a freedom. A cleansing. Her chest felt more open, breathing became easier. "And then I lost her anyway."

Sloane laid a hand on her arm, said nothing.

"I'm not telling you any of this to garner sympathy," Charlotte said.

Sloane laughed. "Only you would use the word garner at a time like this."

Charlotte smiled. "It's still true. I just…I do want you to know me, Sloane. And yeah, that wasn't always the case. But it wasn't because of you ."

"It's not you, it's me?"

Charlotte laughed. "But it was me. I was embarrassed. My own mother doesn't really love me. And then the one person who I never thought would leave me…did. What does that say about me?"

Sloane sighed, set her glass on the bar, and took both of Charlotte's hands in hers. "It says you got a raw deal. It says your mom sucks, and you and Brighton are complicated. It says it might be harder for you to trust people, and that's understandable. But it doesn't say anything about you and what you're worth, Charlotte."

Charlotte's eyes filled. She shook her head, looked down. She was starting to believe that, a glimmer of truth, but after twenty-eight years, it wasn't just a flipped switch.

And maybe that was okay.

"And it says you probably need a really good therapist," Sloane added.

Charlotte laughed through her tears. "Oh, there's no probably about it. Another thing I've been terrified to try."

"Everyone needs a therapist," Sloane said, squeezing her hands. "Literally everyone. And I'll help you find one when we get back to New York."

Charlotte nodded, squeezed back. "You're a good friend."

"Damn right I am."

They both got fresh glasses of wine and ordered some brown bread with honeyed butter that they both spent at least ten minutes lauding. Charlotte felt like she could fly, a weight she'd been carrying for days—maybe years—finally lifted. Still, even with all this new lightness, there was still a part of her that felt unsettled.

Restless.

"Can I ask you a question?" Sloane asked. They'd been talking about the tour, the music, what they wanted to see during their day off in Paris in a couple of days. "As a good friend?"

"Of course," Charlotte said, but she steeled herself. Nothing that needed permission to be asked was going to have an easy answer.

"What do you want?" Sloane asked.

Charlotte frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Sloane said, then ripped off a piece of bread, popped it into her mouth. "Is this it?" She waved at the hotel lobby, the dim lights, the low conversations in French happening all around them.

"Europe has always been a goal of mine," Charlotte said, and even to her own ears, she sounded like a kid reciting a memorized line for a play.

Sloane just looked at her.

Charlotte sighed, let her eyes blur on her glass of wine. She did want this. She wanted a life full of music, interesting cities, performance, and art. And she had all of that. She'd spent her entire adult life chasing exactly what she had right now, at this moment.

So she should feel satisfied.

Happy.

Accomplished.

And she did…but there was something in the very corner of her chest, a hungry fragment of her heart that wouldn't rest. Wouldn't stop wanting. A piece of her claimed by a girl with wild dark hair she'd met on the shores of Lake Michigan sixteen years ago.

Charlotte's eyes stung. "Shit," she said, looking away from Sloane, her instinct still to hide.

"Hey," Sloane said, leaning close to her. "It's okay to want that. To want her . It is. And it's okay to go after her. Anyone can see you love her, Charlotte. In Winter River for those few days? You were happy."

Tears finally spilled, and Charlotte didn't even bother to wipe them away. "It couldn't work. I'm in New York, and—"

"Yeah, yeah, so am I. And Wes is in Colorado."

Charlotte stopped, her mouth dropping open. "Wes?"

Sloane fought a smile, but it won over her lovely face anyway. "What can I say? I'm a slut for people who make complete fools of themselves for me."

Charlotte laughed, clapped her hands. "Did he really play Manish's viola that night? I've wanted to ask you so many times."

"He did. And horribly. It was truly abysmal."

"And that won you over?"

Sloane sighed, her expression growing serious. "I've always loved him. I was just…"

"Scared."

Sloane nodded.

"And you're not anymore?" Charlotte asked, her heartbeat picking up speed.

"No, I still am." Sloane shrugged. "I'm just ready for something more than just not being scared, you know? Something more than safe. More than okay."

Charlotte blinked, Sloane's words settling around her. She felt herself nodding, her blood already racing with how and when and where .

She picked up her glass, held it up between them. "To something more than okay."

Sloane clinked her wine against Charlotte's, and they both drained their glasses to the very last drop.