Chapter 7

"Good morning!"

Light splintered through Charlotte's eyelids as someone—a horrible person, surely—threw the curtains open.

"Mom, Jesus Christ!" Sloane said, her voice raspy with sleep.

Charlotte threw a hand over her eyes to block out the light, which literally felt like a thousand knives prying under her lashes.

Her head ached.

No, not ached—pulsed like a bomb about to explode, counting down to some catastrophic event. She wasn't hungover, exactly—she never got drunk enough for that diagnosis—but her skull despised red wine, despite her taste for it. She hated that Brighton was right, but syrah was all Nina had been serving last night, and Charlotte hadn't felt like she could swan into dinner demanding a Manhattan.

And abstaining, sipping calmly on water, wouldn't have cut it.

Not with Brighton and beach glass and Lola whispered like a plea in the kitchen.

So red wine it had been, and lots of it throughout the evening, which also included the cacophony of dice clattering in the cup, then hitting the wooden table, yells, and laughter. Charlotte had even rolled a Yahtzee and managed not to lose horribly. Manish, however, hadn't been so lucky.

The thought made her nearly laugh, which was a mistake, because any motion in her face hurt, everything aching right down to her teeth.

"Oh my god," she mumbled as Nina not only opened the curtains but twisted the blinds wide too, letting in every bit of the winter Colorado sun. She pressed her face into her pillow. Sloane's sheets smelled like clean linen, though her mouth tasted like the streets of New York on a ninety-degree day.

"Mother," Sloane said, her eyes still closed. "I love you, but please get out."

"I'm sorry, I'm going," Nina said, turning away and heading toward the door. "But neither of you heard me knocking."

"Because we're sleeping!" Sloane said.

Charlotte heard a jingling sound, then felt something wet on her face. She cracked an eye open to see Snickerdoodle panting next to her side of the bed, his face eager and sweet. She would laugh but knew the motion would make her want to die, so she settled for tangling her fingers into his soft fur.

"Well, I had to get you up," Nina said, halfway out the door now. "It's almost nine, and you need to be at Hazelthorne Farms at ten."

"What?" Sloane said, sitting up. Her curls were wrapped in a silk scarf, her eyes still a bit bleary. "Why the hell do we need to be there?"

Nina waved a hand as she walked out the door. "Horseback riding. Wear something warm!"

And with that proclamation, she disappeared down the hall. Snickerdoodle remained, sitting down now and submitting himself obediently to Charlotte's pets, which were actually helping to soothe her pounding head.

"Mom, what are you talk—" Sloane started but cut herself off, though her mouth remained hanging wide open. "No," she said quietly. "Oh my god, please tell me she did not."

"What is happening?" Charlotte asked. She hadn't even tried to sit up yet, terrified if she moved, her skull would shatter. "Did she say horseback riding?"

Sloane dropped her face into her hands and groaned. "Two Turtledoves."

"I'm sorry?"

Sloane let her hands slap back onto her lap. "Two Turtledoves. The first date for Two Turtledoves is always horseback riding at the Hazelthornes' farm. I think my mom signed us up."

Charlotte blinked at the ceiling, trying to make sense of horses and farms and turtledoves.

"I knew it!" Adele's voice screeched from down the hall, startling Snickerdoodle. The dog barked once—Charlotte was positive her head exploded—and took off down the hall. "I knew you were up to something! Sloane!"

"I know!" Sloane called back, so loudly that Charlotte pressed her hands to her ears.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic—it's just horseback riding," Nina called.

Footsteps pounded on the carpeted hallway, then Sloane's door flew open again to reveal Adele in a white tank top and a pair of dark-green boxers with little Rudolphs all over them.

"Our mother is a monster," she said.

"That's lovely, dear," Nina said calmly, appearing next to her eldest, Snickerdoodle at her side, tail wagging. "I tried to tell you last night, but you wouldn't hear it. Then you all drank far too much, by the way, so I couldn't possibly tell you then."

"Mom," Sloane said. "No one wants to do this."

"Correction!" Manish yelled from somewhere down the hall. "I'm totally up for some holiday snogging, thanks very much."

"What about Nate?" Sloane yelled back.

"Oh my god, please stop screaming," Charlotte said, but Sloane only patted her on the arm.

"Nate's a dick!" Manish called back.

"See?" Nina said, waving her arm. "Nate's a dick."

Adele cracked a smile at that but shook her head.

"I'm in too," Elle called. "Nina said there was cookie decorating!"

"And cooking lessons!" Manish said.

"And don't forget the sure-to-be-so-awful-it's-amazing open-mic finale," Elle said.

"I dare you!" Manish called. "I triple-dog dare you to Turtledove your love life, Sloane Berry!"

"Oh, Turtledove your love life," Nina said. "I like that."

"Dear god," Sloane said, then groaned at the ceiling.

"Mom, Two Turtledoves costs a fortune," Adele said.

"Like three hundred bucks a person," Sloane said. "We can't ask everyone to—"

"Already taken care of," Nina said.

"What?" Adele asked.

"Consider it your Christmas present."

"I'd rather have some new AirPods," Sloane said.

"Nonrefundable, I'm afraid," Nina said, shrugging casually. "And it's a fundraiser for the public schools, so don't be a grinch."

"Extortion," Sloane said. "That's what this is."

"What about Brighton?" Adele asked, lowering her voice to a whisper. "She's scared of horses."

Charlotte's stomach fluttered. Damn traitor. Last evening, she'd kept herself in check—all night, in fact, even after three glasses of wine—but now she couldn't stop her brain from going places she'd rather it not.

Like to Brighton on their eighth-grade field trip to Ashcroft Farms, a huge smile on her face as she sat astride Gertrude, one of the farm's sleek brown horses. Their whole class was lined up for a ride, and Charlotte waved at Brighton, who was the first to take her turn.

"She's so pretty," Brighton had said a split second before Gertrude lurched into a quick canter.

A canter that quickly turned into a gallop.

"Gertrude!" Hattie, one of the workers at the farm, had yelled, but Gertrude wasn't listening. She continued her run, heading right for the opening in the fence like a prisoner set loose.

Brighton didn't scream. Didn't make a sound, in fact, but Charlotte could see her expression—terrified—and how tightly she held on to Gertrude's saddle horn while the reins flapped near the ground.

Charlotte's heart was in her throat as Gertrude took off through the fence. Hattie was running after them, but there was no way she'd catch a horse on foot. She yelled at someone ahead of her, an older woman who turned out to be one of the farm's owners. The woman stepped in front of Gertrude like it was nothing, her hands on her overalled hips, a chastisement on her tongue. Gertrude immediately dug her heels into the dirt, coming to such an abrupt stop, Charlotte thought Brighton was going to fly over Gertrude's head to her death.

"Gertrude, you big idiot," the woman had said, gathering the reins and giving Gertrude a pat on her flank. Gertrude, shamed, simply bent down and nosed at some scattered blueberries on the ground, chomping at them lazily, as though nothing had even gone awry.

After the woman helped Brighton down, called her a brave girl, it had still taken an hour for Brighton's breathing to go back to normal. Charlotte sat with her on a bench by the old mill, water turning the creaky wheel, now as part of a history lesson rather than practicality. She rubbed Brighton's back as her friend sipped on some water and told her it was okay. Brighton rested her head on Charlotte's shoulder. She smelled like a meadow, like fresh air and ripe blueberries. And that was the first time Charlotte felt it.

That flutter.

That tiny spark in her heart that she'd never really felt with anyone else since.

Now Charlotte sat up too quickly, cutting off the memory with a swell of pain in her head. Just as well. Preferable, in fact, as she had no room to be sentimental here. This was survival, plain and simple.

"She'll be fine," Nina said. "Just keep an eye on her."

"Mom," Sloane said, "I really don't—"

"Let's do it," Charlotte said.

"Et tu?" Sloane said, glaring at Charlotte.

"I'm afraid you girls are outnumbered," Nina said. "Bagels and coffee in the kitchen in fifteen! Come on, Snick." And with that, she flounced down the hall, humming what sounded like "Santa Baby," Snick trotting behind her.

"You have betrayed me," Sloane said.

"Your mother's right," Charlotte said. "You are dramatic."

Adele cackled at that, clapping her hands together once before turning to go back to her room.

Sloane just groaned and fell back on the bed. "I would've thought you, of all people, would be on my side. Don't you want to argue for a six-hour rehearsal sesh?"

"We've got time for that," Charlotte said. "It's not like you actually have to date anyone. Just ride a horse. You don't even have to smile."

"Easy for you to say. Small-town singles are feral. You'll see."

"I'm from a small town."

Sloane turned to look at her. "Michigan, right?"

Charlotte nodded. "Right by the lake."

"And how many singles events did you go to there, hmm?"

"None. I was a coldhearted hermit without a social life, remember?" Charlotte forced a laugh, even though it made her head feel like it was swelling in size. She felt she was playing off her childhood pretty well, particularly with this precarious topic of singleness and hometowns.

But Sloane didn't laugh. She just sat up and looked at Charlotte, eyes softly narrowed. "Were you really?"

Charlotte frowned. "I…" She trailed off, not sure what to say here. No, things weren't exactly the way Charlotte had described them, but she had no clue how to talk about living in Grand Haven without mentioning Brighton, which was why she never, ever talked about Grand Haven.

Sloane crossed her legs, turned toward her like they were two girls at a sleepover. "Just tell me one detail. Anything you want."

"Why?" Charlotte asked.

Sloane rolled her eyes. "Because I'm your best friend."

Something bloomed inside Charlotte's chest, an emotion she couldn't name, and it pushed at her and shoved and pinched. She pressed her hand to her chest, trying to keep it in, but then she started talking.

"There was a girl…" Charlotte said.

"Oh, here we go," Sloane said, grinning. "Now we're getting to it."

Charlotte paused, the whole story right there , swirling and brimming like a river in a downpour. She inhaled, exhaled, imagined herself saying everything, the weight of it all leaving her lungs, her bones.

She imagined Sloane's reaction.

Sloane knowing .

And then Charlotte felt it happening—the dam's doors closing—and she let them, because even now, the humiliation of being left by the one person who had promised to love her no matter what was so visceral. Charlotte could still smell the wood sage and sea salt perfume she'd bought especially for that day, perfume she'd never worn since. She could still see her mother sitting at the first table at Simone's, Bonnie Fairbrook's restaurant, which they'd rented out for the wedding. Anna had chosen a blush-colored suit for the event. She looked perfect and refined, but all Charlotte remembered was the bored expression on Anna's face as it became clear Brighton wasn't going to show.

Charlotte could still hear the music too.

Their song .

She hadn't played her violin part since, but the melody, the whimsical notes Brighton had woven together the day they'd gotten engaged played in her dreams sometimes. She'd wake up with the song in her head like a ghost stalking her through sleep.

No, Charlotte couldn't possibly tell this story. Couldn't admit it all to Sloane, who would undoubtedly try to comfort her, join her in hating Brighton, even. But underneath all that, Sloane would know .

She'd know Charlotte. Really know her. And letting someone in like that had never worked out very well for her.

"She just…she was my best friend," Charlotte said, schooling her expression into something unaffected. "We grew apart, that's all. But I guess I wasn't a complete hermit." She laughed, smiling in a way she thought was convincing.

Sloane frowned, clearly disappointed. "Did this girl help you figure out you were bi?"

Charlotte blinked.

"For me, it was Gemma Villanueva." Sloane's eyes took on a dreamy quality. "Tenth grade. I'd known her forever, but one day, it was like a lightning strike. I noticed her butt in this certain pair of jeans, and god, I can't even tell you. I thought I just, you know, wanted my butt to look like that, but then, one day, we were in the orchestra room together after school, and—"

"It wasn't her," Charlotte said.

Sloane snapped her mouth shut.

"It wasn't my friend," Charlotte said again, the denial coming too quickly, some lie about who actually did bring about her bi awakening coming too slowly, so she said nothing else. Just fiddled with the edge of the lavender sheet.

Sloane looked away, then sighed. "Right."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt you," Charlotte said, which she knew wasn't exactly true. She'd panicked. She hadn't realized how close she'd come to sharing her saddest story. Sloane's own story had simply felt like too much.

Too much like the kind of closeness she'd promised herself she'd never fall into again.

Sloane only nodded in response, her eyes distant on the dresser in front of her, a jewelry holder still full of friendship bracelets taking center stage. "Well, we should probably get ready for this horror show you've all agreed to." She flung off her covers, grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweater from her closet, and left the room without another word. Charlotte heard the bathroom door click shut, and she flopped back onto the bed, her head still screaming at her, a horrible mix of guilt and relief humming just under her ribs.