Chapter 6

Brighton knew Lola hated chili.

And yet here Brighton was, sitting across from Lola at Nina's large farmhouse dining table, watching her ex-fiancée scoop beans and beef delicately into her mouth.

Granted, five years was a long time. Maybe Lola had tried different kinds of chili in Manhattan and learned to like cumin, which was what Lola always said she couldn't stand.

"So you hate tacos too?" Brighton had said when she first discovered this information years ago when they were in ninth grade, sitting in their school cafeteria on chili day. "How can you hate tacos? No reasonable human hates tacos."

"You don't like cake," Lola had said back, smiling as she popped a chip into her mouth. "Who's the unreasonable human now?"

But she was right—Brighton didn't like cake. It was too spongy, the icing too sweet. She much preferred denser desserts, like brownies or even cake pops, the icing already baked in and creating a rich, buttery sponge. For her birthday, Lola would always—

Brighton shoved a spoonful of chili-soaked cornbread into her mouth to get her brain focused on something else. Memory Lane was a dangerous road, which she always knew, but it was nearly atomic while Lola sat there acting like they were complete strangers.

Brighton couldn't stop the hurt from billowing through her like smoke. She knew she had no right, that of the two of them, she was the asshole here, but still.

They were Lola and Bright.

Despite what she'd done to them five years ago, Brighton couldn't stop the swell of happiness at seeing Lola, the way her heart strained for her friend, reaching, reaching, reaching like it had since the day they met.

And it crushed her that Lola wasn't reaching back.

Lola had always reached back. Always reached for Brighton, reached for them . Brighton's thoughts flew back to their final year at Berklee and the last Christmas they'd spent together in an apartment they had off-campus, a year before their wedding. A huge snowstorm was headed for the Northeast, and Michigan had just been pummeled, completely cutting off any transportation into and out of the state and most of the Midwest.

Which meant Brighton couldn't get home for the holidays. She'd been looking forward to it so much—to getting out of Boston, away from constant talks with Lola about moving to New York that spring—that when the airports shut down, she'd spent an entire half hour sobbing in the shower, which she'd hidden from Lola at the time. She'd felt so silly crying for her mommy when the love of her life was on the couch by the roaring fire in their living room—a gas fire, but still. It was warm, and Lola was lovely, and she was already talking about what they could do on Christmas Eve instead of Bonnie's usual feast of roast duck and fresh green beans and parmesan mashed potatoes and sour cream and sweet potato pie.

But Brighton hadn't wanted anything else.

By Christmas Eve, the storm had angled north, but Boston was still covered in white, just not enough for the restaurants to close. Brighton hauled herself to work to pick up a lunch shift, since she was in town and needed the money. She served glazed turkey and mulled wine and eggnog that cost more than her rent to patrons who kept oohing and aahing over the snow and how beautiful it was. How picturesque . How perfect for Christmas .

By the time five o'clock rolled around and her boss insisted she leave early to enjoy her Christmas , she was in the foulest mood she'd ever experienced. On the walk home, she nearly ran into a lamppost that had burned out, which caused her to sidestep into a darkened puddle of slush.

When she finally trudged through her apartment's door, boots wet and coat too warm, she was so lost in her own misery that she didn't notice it at first.

The lights.

The smells.

The music.

"What…?" she said, but couldn't get out anything else, because her apartment had been completely transformed into a winter wonderland.

No, into a home wonderland.

"Hey, you're early!" Lola said, scooting out of their small kitchen with an apron tied around her waist.

"I'm early," Brighton said dreamily, taking off her scarf, her mouth still hanging open. "Lola, what is all this?"

Lola grinned, spread her hands, which were both covered in bright green oven mitts with holly berries printed all over them. "I'm taking you home for Christmas."

Brighton felt her eyes fill, her throat close up. She looked around at their apartment, which was completely covered in all manner of Christmas lights and paraphernalia. They'd only decorated moderately after Thanksgiving, since they'd be going back to Michigan for Christmas. They hadn't even gotten a tree, as getting a real tree into a Boston apartment was quite a feat and Brighton couldn't stomach a fake one that came in a box.

Still, now, there was a tree in the corner of their living room. Real, going by the piney scent, and it was covered in a mix of white and colored lights, just like Brighton's family tree at home. There were also stockings—red with white trim—hanging over their little gas fireplace and lights draped over the mantel, the window frame, the entertainment center. Little knickknacks were set up on the coffee table and bookshelves, dotting nearly every free space throughout the apartment. Nothing was familiar, so Lola must have gone out and bought every single piece, but they still made the space feel homey and cozy, like Brighton had always had that green glass Christmas tree that lit up in different colors on the end table.

There was music on too, even though Lola hated most Christmas music. Ella Fitzgerald's Ella Wishes You a Swinging Christmas by the sound of it, an album that pretty much played on repeat in the Fairbrook house from December first onward.

"Is that…?" Brighton asked, stepping toward the kitchen. "Do I smell duck?"

Lola grinned. "You do."

"With cranberry curry sauce?"

Lola just smiled even bigger.

"Babe," Brighton said, "what did you do?"

"I got your mom's recipes," Lola said, shrugging. "And I cooked."

"You cooked."

"I cooked."

Bright just blinked, still processing.

"Okay, with your mom's help," Lola said. "I've been on the phone with her pretty much all afternoon." A timer sounded, and Lola gasped, turning around and dashing back into the kitchen. "My pie!"

"Your…your pie?" Brighton followed her into the kitchen, which was warm, the air muzzy with spices and sugar.

And a total disaster.

Every inch of the countertops was covered, every bowl they owned utilized and dirty and piled in the sink. And there was duck. Right there in a pan sitting on the stove. It was a little more well done than Bonnie's ducks, but it was there . It existed, along with Bonnie's famous cranberry curry glaze. And there were green beans—a bit soggy looking—and sour cream and sweet potato pie, fresh out of the oven, the top a little charred.

It was flawed and messy, and it was for her.

It was perfect.

"Lola," she said.

"Oh, shoot, I cooked it too long," Lola said, setting the pie on the cooling rack. "But I did it for thirty minutes, just like your mom…Oh, shit, the oven was on four hundred! It was supposed to be on three-fifty."

"Lola."

Lola flipped the oven off just as the music switched over to Sinatra singing "I'll Be Home for Christmas."

"Lola, it's perfect," Brighton said.

Lola snorted. "Not quite." She took off her oven mitts and set them on the counter, glaring at the duck. "I followed her directions to a T."

Brighton smiled, took her fiancée's hand. "It's perfect."

Lola smiled at her. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Thank you."

"You really like it?"

"I love it." Brighton glanced around the apartment, the lights, the decorations. "But you…you hate Christmas."

"Not with you," Lola said, then wrapped her arms around Brighton's waist. Pulled her close. "I love you. Anything with you. Everything. And I just want you to have the Christmas you've dreamed about all year."

"Done," Brighton said, then kissed her.

And Lola kissed her back, and it really was perfect—everything was perfect—for that moment, for that night.

Now, six Christmases later, Brighton could hardly believe she was with Lola again, yet a very different Lola than the one who had spent a small fortune on Christmas tchotchkes for her once upon a time.

Reached that far for her.

Lola wasn't reaching toward Brighton at all now. Wasn't even thinking about extending a single finger, judging from her placid expression. Conversation swirled around them—a tour the quartet was leaving for right after Christmas, how Ampersand was doing in Nashville, a story about Elle's grandmother Mimi and how she'd once poured a full pitcher of water on a director back in 1968 when he copped a feel of her ass on set.

Lola nodded and smiled, offered some details about the tour.

And she kept eating that fucking chili.

"Do you like chili, Charlotte?" Brighton asked.

She was pretty sure she'd interrupted Elle saying something about Europe, but she couldn't hold it back any longer. It was like fire in her mouth, this knowledge that Charlotte Donovan hated chili.

Lola lifted a cool eyebrow. "I do."

"Because you look like you're having a hard time swallowing," Brighton said. Actually, Lola looked perfect, but that was half the fucking problem, wasn't it?

"Not at all," Lola said. "It's delicious, Nina."

"Thank you, dear," Nina said. "I—"

"Has a lot of cumin, doesn't it?" Brighton said, taking another bite herself. "I love cumin. Don't you, Charlotte?"

"Yes," Lola said tightly. "I love it."

"Do you need a nap, Brighton?" Adele asked. "Or another drink?"

"No," Brighton said cheerily. "I'm fine. Just fine."

"Maybe we'll have cake for dessert," Lola said.

Brighton just laughed. "Oh, wouldn't that be perfect."

"Am I missing something?" Sloane asked.

"I think Brighton is, at least," Manish said, then tipped his wineglass at her. "Sorry, no offense."

"None taken," Brighton said. She couldn't possibly be offended. She was too damn busy trying to get this mime sitting across from her to break character.

"So, Lola," she said, changing tactics. "How do you like New York? Dream come true?"

It was a dick move, she knew. They'd only lived in Manhattan together for a short time before everything fell apart—New York had always been Lola's dream and one of the main reasons why Brighton had done what she did on their wedding day. New York had never been her own dream, and they both knew it. Still, she just needed Lola to look at her. Say something. Do anything other than remain so infuriatingly composed.

But Lola just tilted her head at Brighton, her expression completely blank.

"Lola?" Sloane said. "Who—"

"My name is Charlotte," Lola said evenly.

"My apologies," Brighton said, scraping her spoon across the bottom of her bowl. "You look a little like someone I used to know."

Lola lifted her glass of wine, sipped it primly. "No worries. And yes, I love New York. My life there is everything I ever wanted."

"Oh, I bet it is."

"And yours?" Lola asked. "You're a musician , right?"

She said the word musician as she might say herpes , and Brighton felt her spine stiffen. She opened her mouth to assert that her life was exactly what she wanted, what she had dreamed of, goddammit.

But that wasn't exactly true, was it?

Still, Lola— Charlotte— didn't need to know that.

And Brighton never, ever wanted her to.

"Yes," she said. "I am. And it's great. It's just really, really great."

"Great," Lola said. "You have an album, then? I mean, I assume so."

Brighton's jaw tightened, her throat suddenly aching. Was she really here, in fucking Colorado, trying to one-up her ex?

Not just her ex. Lola .

"Hey, Mom," Adele said, clearing her throat and squeezing Brighton's leg under the table. "Did you know Noni hasn't been on a date in three years?"

Sloane's mouth dropped open. "You rat fink!"

"Three years? Really, Sloane?" Nina asked.

"Well, Deli eats women out on top of her bar after hours," Sloane said. "Talk about a health code violation."

"That was once!" Adele said. "Told to you in confidence! And I cleaned it…you know…after."

"I think this conversation is the definition of TMI," Nina said, sipping her wine.

Manish and Elle burst out laughing, while the weight of her interaction with Lola—or, rather, their soft-spoken pissing match—felt like a mountain on Brighton's chest. They watched each other for a split second—not long enough for anyone to notice but long enough for Lola to raise a single brow, then look away as though Brighton were nothing more than a nuisance, an annoying fly buzzing around her personal space. She even swiped her hand through the air in front of her face, as though batting Brighton away, followed by a tuck of hair behind her ear.

Perfectly natural.

Brighton looked away too, refused to look down, and took a large gulp of the red wine Nina had poured them all for dinner. She absolutely had not noticed that Lola was on her second glass since they'd all sat down to eat, and she certainly didn't recall that red wine always, always gave Lola a headache if she had more than a few sips, or that Lola's beverage of choice was a Manhattan with top-shelf bourbon, a product of Anna Donovan's taste and lack of care when Lola had sneaked sips as a teenager.

Nope, Brighton didn't think about any of that at all.

"So," Nina said, lifting her wine, "moving on from the topic of cunnilingus—"

"Oh my god, Mom," Sloane said.

"You brought it up," Adele said.

"What do you all plan to do while you're here?" Nina asked. "Girls, I'm sure you have some Winter River attractions you want to share with your friends. Ice-skating at Bailey's Pond, perhaps?"

"If we want to break an ankle," Adele said.

"Maybe horseback riding," Nina said.

"Oh god, I'm scared of horses," Brighton said, the admission just popping out of her mouth. She hadn't quite found solid ground since arriving in Winter River, very clearly evident by her immature behavior and loose lips.

Nina frowned. "Are you really, dear?"

Brighton glanced at Lola—couldn't fucking help it, could she?—and Lola was looking right back. Except…she wasn't. Her gaze was cold, impersonal, full of the politeness of simply paying attention to the speaker at a gathering like this.

"I am," Brighton said. "Had a scary encounter with one when I was thirteen. Never got over it, I guess."

"Hmm." Nina tilted her head at Brighton. Then, more quietly, she said, "Could be a problem."

Sloane lifted a brow. "Mother. What do you mean?"

Nina waved a hand. "I know! What about some cooking while you're in town? I heard Wes Reynolds is giving some holiday cooking lessons down at his restaurant next week."

"I actually really need to learn how to do more than heat up leftover takeaway," Manish said.

"Perfect," Nina said. "I'll sign you up."

"Mom," Adele said. "Slow down."

"We are not taking cooking lessons from Wes," Sloane said.

"He's still single," Nina said casually, taking a sip of her wine. "And very handsome, if I may say. This chili is his recipe."

Sloane frowned, stared down at her spoonful of chili.

"It's delicious," Brighton said, wanting to fill the space somehow, and maybe make up for Chiligate a few minutes ago.

"It is," Nina said. "My best friend, Marisol, suggested adding cocoa powder to this batch." She beamed at them for a second, then clapped her hands together once. "So, you're going to Greenbriar Ridge this week to see your father, yes?"

"Of course, Mom," Adele said. "Dad has us booked in the cabins with unlimited skiing."

"I'd love to do some skiing," Elle said.

"Excellent, Elle," Nina said. "And what else do you like to do, my dear? Hiking? Crafts? What's your favorite color?"

"Okay," Sloane said, taking her napkin out of her lap and placing it on the table. "I said it before, and I'll say it again—you're up to something."

Nina pressed a hand to her chest. "I'm just trying to make sure everyone has a great time."

"We will," Sloane said.

"We have a lot of rehearsing to do as well," Lola said evenly.

Manish groaned.

"She's not wrong, though," Sloane said. "We all agreed. It was the only way I could get Charlotte on a plane, remember?"

Brighton glanced at Lola, who just smiled.

"A deal's a deal," she said, lifting her glass toward Manish.

Manish groaned again. "Can't we do that Two Turtledoves thing instead?"

"Manish!" Adele and Sloane exclaimed together, causing him to startle and slosh his wine a bit.

"We do not speak those two words in this house," Sloane said through gritted teeth.

"Actually," Nina said calmly, taking a sip of her wine, "I wanted to talk to you all about—"

"No, nope, not happening," Sloane said, shaking her head vigorously. "It's time for Yahtzee and more wine."

"Yahtzee!" Adele yelled, turning in her chair toward the rustic sideboard behind her and opening the door to reveal an amalgam of board games and cards. She took out a bright-red box and set it in the middle of the table.

"What are we wagering?" Sloane asked, an eyebrow quirked at her sister.

"Loser does the dishes," Adele said.

"I'm not making Manish do our dishes," Sloane said.

"Hey," Manish said, looking hurt, "I happen to be quite adept at Yahtzee, thank you very much."

"Sure, buddy, sure," Elle said, patting his shoulder.

"Just because I needed remedial maths in college does not mean I can't count dots on a pair of dice," he said. "And music is mathematical in nature."

"Gay and math don't mix," Elle said, and Brighton laughed. They weren't wrong—Brighton, for her part, was awful at numbers.

"I'll get the wine," Lola said, standing up, an amused smile on her face. Snickerdoodle, who'd been banned from the dining area during dinner, perked his head up from his spot in the living space, big brown eyes fixed on Lola. "Red is still fine with everyone?"

"Thank you, dear, yes," Nina said. "There's a bottle in the wine rack."

Lola nodded and headed toward the kitchen. Brighton twisted her fingers into her napkin, then shot up so quickly her thigh banged against the table, rattling everyone's glasses.

"Whoa, baby girl," Adele said, steadying her own wine. "You good?"

Brighton smiled. "Sorry. I'll take everyone's plates." She started stacking chili-smeared bowls before anyone could protest.

"Don't wash them, though," Elle said as they passed out tiny squares of paper to use as scorecards. "That'll be Manish's job."

"I hate you," he said, his voice deadpan, but he was smiling.

Brighton gathered as many bowls and pieces of cutlery as she dared, balancing the ceramic tower while she walked into the kitchen area.

Lola was there, uncorking another bottle of syrah.

Brighton set the bowls next to the sink, then turned.

Took a breath.

Cleared her throat.

Cleared it again.

Still, Lola said nothing. Didn't even look at her.

"That'll give you a headache," Brighton finally said, motioning toward the wine.

Not even an annoyed pursing of Lola's mouth.

"Are we really doing this?" Brighton asked. "We're really just going to—"

"As opposed to relying on passive-aggressive questions about each other's spice preferences?" Lola said. "Yes, I think we're doing this." She finally met Brighton's eyes, and they stayed like that for a second, just staring. Looking. Lola's gaze didn't budge, but Brighton felt exposed anyway.

Seen .

"Lola. Please. Just—"

Lola turned away then, her heeled black boots clicking against the hardwood as she went back to the table, topped off her own glass, and knocked back the contents.

Brighton just watched, her heart aching against her ribs, and hoped like hell Nina had some strong coffee and a lot of ibuprofen on hand in the morning.