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Chapter 5

Charlotte was about to lose her shit. And that was the thing about Charlotte Donovan. She did not lose her shit.

Ever.

She walked into the Berry house, warmth curling around her. She tried to focus on keeping her expression placid, which was proving difficult because Christmas decorations were everywhere, so many she couldn't even process them all—garland twining up the staircase banister, a giant winter village spread out on the console table in the hallway, bells hanging from doorknobs, and the biggest Christmas tree she'd ever seen in the living room right in front of her, sparkling with white lights and homemade ornaments, right next to a large stone fireplace, complete with a crackling fire. The air smelled like some kind of savory spice, with a breath of sugar underneath.

It smelled like the Fairbrook house.

She stopped beside the large leather couch, full of Christmas-themed pillows, a red-and-green plaid blanket folded neatly over the back. Breathe in for four…out for four. She'd learned about mindfulness through her meditation app, but right now, feeling her feet on the floor and her fingers on the cool dark-brown leather wasn't really doing the trick. She needed…hell, she wasn't even sure. The last thing she'd expected to encounter on this holiday was her former fiancée, who literally left her at the altar and never looked back.

She squeezed her eyes closed, breathed. Voices filtered in from around the corner, Sloane's being one of them. Charlotte needed her room, and she needed it now, just a moment alone. Or maybe many moments. Her chest felt tight, her eyes ached, and she swore to god, she would not cry in front of these people.

"Can we talk about your latest Facebook post?" Sloane was saying.

"Oh, this should be good," Manish said as Charlotte stepped farther into the living room to see a large, open-space, kitchen-dining-living combination. At the far end of the house, the kitchen area was cozy, despite its size, with teal cabinets and butcher-block countertops, and a large center island covered in all manner of chopped veggies and crackers and cheese. Christmas decorations covered every available surface here as well, everything from fresh garland curled around the window over the farmhouse sink to red-and-green ceramic canisters labeled Sugar and Coffee . Nina stood at the stove stirring something steaming in a large silver pot.

Sloane was already pouring glasses of red wine, while Elle and Manish munched on gherkins and cubes of pepper jack cheese from a charcuterie board. Adele got a brown bottle of beer from the large stainless-steel fridge and cracked it open.

"What Facebook post?" Adele asked.

"Excuse me, Sloane?" Charlotte said.

"Hey, come join," Sloane said, waving Charlotte closer. Snickerdoodle, who'd been lying at Nina's feet, got up and trotted over to Charlotte. "We've got snacks and chili coming up."

"Actually," Charlotte said, petting Snickerdoodle's head, "I was—"

"You want to tell Deli, Mom?" Sloane said, looking at her mother.

Nina frowned as she opened a cabinet and took down a stack of white ceramic bowls dotted with red and green snowflakes. "Tell her what?"

"Sloane," Charlotte said again, but Sloane's attention was fixed on her mother. Elle placed a glass of wine in Charlotte's hand, then nudged it toward her mouth with a wink.

Charlotte looked down at the deep-red liquid, her stomach churning too much to take a single sip.

"Mom, you're still using Facebook?" Adele asked. "It's where souls go to die."

"Oh, it is not," Nina said, laying a handful of large spoons next to the bowls.

"And I quote," Sloane said, taking her phone out of her back pocket, then tapping at the screen, "?‘If anyone knows any single queer darlings, ages twenty-five to thirty-five, please do let me know.' End quote."

"I mean, I'm a fan of queer darlings," Manish said.

"Same," Elle said.

"Exactly," Nina said. "I'm just putting out some friendly social feelers for you all while you're here. Want you to feel, you know, seen ."

"Seen," Adele said, her voice deadpan. "Mom, you're the only cishet person in this house. I think we're good."

"Sloane," Charlotte said, setting down her glass of wine, "could I—"

"I'll have you know, I kissed a girl or two in my day," Nina said, moving to the stove and stirring the chili.

"Mother, oh my god," Sloane said, her jaw slack.

"Wait, wait," Adele said. "What day? You married Dad when you were, like, nineteen."

Nina went to the fridge to retrieve a stick of butter. "Twenty. And I was in college for two whole years before that."

"Sloane?" Charlotte tried again.

"Okay, fine, your bi-curiosity notwithstanding, you're up to something," Sloane said to her mother.

"Super shady," Adele said.

Nina blew a silver strand of hair off her forehead. Her cheeks were rosy from the stove's heat, her eyes bright behind her tortoiseshell glasses. "You're both ridiculous."

"Are we?" Adele said. "I'm still trying to decide if my fifty-four-year-old mom just came out to me."

"We need a rainbow cake," Sloane said.

"Streamers," Elle said.

"A sign in the yard," Manish added.

"I see, we're all jokesters now," Nina said, but she was smiling.

"Some confetti at the very least," Sloane said, "and I—"

"Sloane!"

It took Charlotte a split second to realize she'd yelled, her throat buzzing a little with the effort. Five pairs of eyes settled on her—six if you counted the dog's—wide and worried. Which was the last thing she needed, to be honest— concern from the people she was supposed to be leading.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just…" She pressed her fingertips into her collarbone. "I'm not feeling great. Could you show me where I'm staying?"

"Yeah, of course," Sloane said. She came closer, placed her hands on Charlotte's shoulders. "You okay? You need some ibuprofen or anything? Water?"

Charlotte shook her head. "Just my room."

Sloane nodded, then glanced at Manish and Elle. "Yeah. Sorry, I should've done that first. We're all upstairs." She looked back at her mother, who was now scooping chili into bowls. "We're not done, Nina Berry."

Nina just laughed and shook her head.

Charlotte didn't waste any time, turning and hurrying toward the staircase near the front door. She just needed to be alone for five damn minutes to get herself together, without wine and cheese and mothers confessing queer inclinations.

Then she'd be fine.

Then she'd be ready.

"Snick, stay!" Nina called out, and Charlotte heard the jingle of the dog's collar at the same moment the front door opened, revealing Brighton, her cheeks red from the cold. Her eyes met Charlotte's.

"Lola."

Brighton's voice echoed through her entire body, that name she hadn't heard out loud in five years. The name no one else called her, ever.

"Charlotte's a pretty name," twelve-year-old Brighton had said the day they met on the beach, the warm July sun shimmering over the clear water.

"Thanks. So is Brighton."

A moving van was parked in the next-door neighbor's driveway, and Charlotte had already been on the beach, alone, her mother writing in the house and tired of Charlotte's bored wandering, when a girl around Charlotte's age had ambled onto the sand.

Charlotte had never seen anyone as pretty as Brighton Fairbrook. Long dark hair tangled by the wind, lashes a mile long, eyes so deep brown they looked nearly black. She seemed almost magical in her white sundress and bare feet, like some sort of fairy or sorceress.

"You can call me Bright," she'd said. "I like that better."

"Bright. That's even prettier."

Brighton nodded, kicking at the water and then bending down to pick up a smooth stone.

"What should we call you?" she asked.

Charlotte frowned, confused. Her mother had named her Charlotte, and that's what everyone called her.

"Um…Charlotte?" she said.

Brighton laughed. "No, silly, you need a special name. A secret name." She squatted down to dig into a wet patch of sand. "A name just for us."

Us.

The word reverberated in Charlotte's chest. She'd never really had an us . She and her mom were a sort of us , she guessed, but that was by default. A forced relationship, an obligation. She had friends in school, but no one who ever lasted past the school year. No one who called her and invited her to sleepovers or Skoops for afternoon ice cream.

"It's got to be a good one," Brighton said. "Lottie?"

Charlotte made a face, and Brighton laughed, the sound like the wind chimes already hanging from the Fairbrooks' back porch.

"I've got it," Brighton said, standing up with a smooth piece of beach glass. It was turquoise and, if you turned it just so, shaped like a heart. She placed it in Charlotte's hand. "Lola."

Charlotte closed her fingers around the glass, bits of sand gritting into her palm, and smiled.

Lola .

And that's who she was for the next ten years.

Who they were.

Lola and Bright.

Now, fifteen years later in Colorado, she tore her eyes from Brighton, hurrying up the steps, her violin case clutched to her chest, doing her best not to care why Brighton was walking into the house ten minutes after everyone else, her eyes slightly watery. She was no longer Charlotte's problem or concern. Hadn't been for five years.

At the top of the stairs, she paused, then pressed herself against a wall so Sloane could pass and lead them down a hallway filled with framed family photos and mountainesque art.

"Manish and Elle, you're at the end of the hall in the guest room. Brighton is in Adele's room just there on the left, and Charlotte, I put you in here with me." She motioned to the first door on the right.

Sloane just stared at her, the reality sinking in. Of course. The Berrys didn't live in a mansion—she saw now how absurd she was to assume she'd have her own room, but in her defense, she hadn't been thinking clearly for the last half hour or so.

"Right," Charlotte said, more to herself than anyone else. Manish and Elle bumbled past, already arguing about who got the left side of the bed, which they both wanted for some unknown reason.

Sloane tilted her head at Charlotte, then nodded toward the door. Charlotte followed her inside to find a lovely room with a queen bed covered in what looked like a handmade quilt crafted out of T-shirts, fluffy pillows wrapped in crisp lavender sheets. There were posters of famous violin players all over the walls and shelves packed with trophies and ribbons from music competitions and festivals. Both Sloane's and Charlotte's suitcases were tucked into a corner by the bed.

"My mom hasn't changed much in here," Sloane said, laughing as she sat on the cushioned window seat at the far side of the room. "Which I kind of love, honestly. It's sort of nice, coming home, remembering how things—"

"Where's the bathroom?" Charlotte asked.

Sloane blinked, her smile dipping. "Right. Sorry, you're not feeling well. It's just across the hall."

Charlotte mumbled a thanks, ignoring the way guilt bubbled up in her chest—she suspected she was being a bit of an asshole—and all but threw herself into the bathroom. She pressed her back against the door, her violin case still in her arms.

She waited for the tears to come, almost wanted them, wanted the relief. But her body was in full fight-or-flight mode, and they wouldn't release, like water held back by a dam.

She set her violin case on the toilet lid, draped her soiled coat over the clawfoot tub and set her hat on top, then ran the water in the sink. It came out freezing cold, but she left it like that, cupping it into her hands and splashing her face, hoping the temperature would shock her into…

What?

She had no idea what to do here. Pretending like she and Brighton didn't know each other had just happened, an instinct, her hand flying out in a stoic greeting before she'd really thought it through.

But it was the right instinct.

She couldn't possibly get through this trip with Brighton if they actually acknowledged their history. And their specific history? Completely untenable. Acting like they'd never met before was the only way to go.

It was either that or leaving.

Charlotte grabbed a forest-green towel covered in embroidered candy canes from a brushed-nickel ring and dried her face. She stared at herself in the mirror, her mascara now a bit smudged but her red lipstick still perfectly in place.

No.

She couldn't leave, couldn't do that to Sloane, not after traveling all the way here. Plus, with her December luck, a blizzard would blow in right before she boarded her flight, effectively stranding her in a Colorado airport with no way to escape. Here, at least, she could practice some good old-fashioned avoidance.

Leave the room when Brighton entered.

Hole up in her and Sloane's room and work on arrangements. There was a desk in there, room to practice.

Smile politely when she and Brighton were forced together.

Yes. There was no reason whatsoever she'd need to actually speak to Brighton. Not with so many people in the house.

She could do this.

She would do this.

Charlotte rolled her shoulders back and smoothed her hair into a fresh ponytail, then cleaned up the black shadows under her eyes.

She took one deep, fortifying breath.

She and Brighton Fairbrook didn't matter. They weren't anything. Not anymore. Brighton was just another person, a stranger.

She nodded to herself, then turned to get her violin case. She paused, only for a second, before her fingers were flipping the case's buckles and lifting out Rosalind, but not to play her. She held her instrument carefully, then opened the tiny velvet compartment right under the neck rest. She kept her rosin in here, extra strings.

And there, at the very bottom, wrapped in a dustcloth she never used, was a perfectly smooth, heart-shaped piece of beach glass. She didn't touch it. Simply stared at it, still hidden by the cloth, and wondered—not for the first time, not even for the thousandth time—why she couldn't seem to make herself throw it away.

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