Sylvia.
Even her name sounded musical. Red hair like a Siren, feathery bangs like a rock star. Emily and Alice had discovered her in some bar in East Nashville nearly a year ago while Brighton had been home for Christmas. Emily wanted to bring her into the group as another singer and songwriter, a suggestion Brighton did not take very well. The three of them had been clashing lately, Emily and Alice wanting to go more King Princess–style pop, while Brighton clung to Phoebe Bridgers and Lizzy McAlpine as her inspirations.
Sylvia, of course, was pop all the way, funky and fresh and sexy as hell. Even Brighton could admit that. Then, this past March, it all came to a head when Emily invited Sylvia to a Katies practice without even running it by Brighton first. Sylvia played a new song on her guitar—“Cherry Lipstick”—and Brighton hated it. Said as much, which Sylvia took with an annoying amount of grace.
“This is the direction we’re going, Brighton,” Emily had said. “If you don’t like it, maybe this isn’t the best fit for you anymore.”
Brighton had left before she really started crying, then went home to Michigan for a week, figuring everyone would calm down with some time off. But the day before she flew back, Emily called her, told her she was out.
And that was it.
Nearly four years of friendship and struggle and creative work, all finished in a single phone call, and for a redhead with a talent for writing bops.
Brighton knew she should swipe out of Instagram—her own account was currently set to private, with all of four followers, so there were no notifications for her to check. For Brighton, social media was now nothing more than a catalog of her failures, everything she was missing out on. Still, she couldn’t help but type another name into the search bar, another account she didn’t dare follow, but couldn’t seem to leave alone either.
@RosalindQuartet
The grid was much different than the Katies—muted colors and the deep wood of stringed instruments, four beautiful, very clearly queer musicians in the throes of their art in various auditoriums and theaters.
One woman in particular drew Brighton’s eye, always did. Salt-and-pepper-haired and gorgeous, quintessential red lipstick, black attire. Lola’s style never changed, not that Brighton ever expected it to. She started going gray at twenty-one, and Brighton was glad to see she’d just let her hair silver, never dyeing once as far as Brighton could tell. It looked beautiful—regal and ethereal, just like Lola.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Adele’s voice piped up from behind her. Brighton clicked her phone dark. Adele knew about Lola . . . well, she knew that Brighton had been engaged, that the wedding was called off at the last minute, but that was about it. Brighton left out the smaller story points, as well as the fact that Lola was pretty much a world-famous violinist now.
No, Brighton kept that little tidbit for her own private musings, as well as any and all details about Brighton and Lola’s disastrous wedding day.
“Just getting some air,” she said to Adele now.
“It’s freezing,” Adele said, rubbing her arms.
Brighton nodded, goose bumps texturing her own bare arms. She hadn’t even noticed, honestly. Too busy being a sad sack.
“Hey,” Adele said, nudging her shoulder, “you need to go home?”
“Do you want me to?” Brighton asked. God, she really was a sad sack—her own boss was pretty much begging her not to work.
Adele pressed her mouth flat. “You’ve got to move on at some point, baby girl.”
She said it so softly, so gently, Brighton nearly started crying right there. Trouble was, she felt like she’d been moving on for the last six years, and she hadn’t gotten anywhere.
Before she could say anything else, her phone vibrated in her hand with a call. Only one person ever called her, so her heart already felt ten times lighter when she saw Mom flashing across the screen.
“Mama, hey,” she said, her throat thickening as she pressed the phone to her ear. Mama only slipped out when she was feeling really sorry for herself.
Adele gestured to the door, but Brighton shook her head, grabbed onto Adele’s arm. She didn’t want to stand out here alone anymore, even with her mom on the phone.
“Hi, darling,” her mother said. “I’ve got Dad on the line here too. You’re on speaker!”
“Hey, Rainbow,” her dad said, employing his name for her ever since she was four and latched onto a Rainbow Brite doll. The nickname became even more fitting when she came out as bisexual when she was thirteen. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” she said, her voice nearly fluorescent. Adele rolled her eyes. “Can’t wait to be home in a few days.” She stuck her tongue out at Adele.
“Oh, honey,” her mom said. “I know. That’s actually why we’re calling.”
Brighton’s back snapped straight, all her senses on alert. Her mom’s tone had gone a bit saccharine, almost song-like, the way it always did when she had to deliver bad news.
“What’s wrong?” Brighton asked. “Are you both okay? Is Grandma all right?”
“Fine, Rainbow,” her dad said. “Everyone’s fine. Fit as fiddles.”
Brighton exhaled. “Okay. Then . . .”
Her parents were quiet for a second before her mom said it all in one rushed breath. “The magazine is sending me to Provence to review a new winery, so your dad and I are going to be in France for the rest of the year. I’m so sorry, baby.”
It took Brighton a second to register her mother’s words. But when they hit, they hit hard. “What?” was all she could get out, her voice a pathetic squeak.
“I know,” her mom said. “The timing is so horrible, but the magazine just landed a spot at the winery’s opening last week and we’re the only American publication invited, so it’s a pretty huge deal.”
Brighton felt dizzy and slunk down on the wall a bit more. The rough brick scratched her back and Adele grabbed her arm.
You okay? Adele mouthed.
Brighton couldn’t answer. Didn’t know the answer. Her mom had been the head chef at Simone’s, a fancy restaurant in Grand Haven, for all of Brighton’s childhood. Five years ago, she retired—arthritis making it too hard for her to continue working in a kitchen—and started writing for Food & Wine magazine, traveling the country and reviewing restaurants and bistros. She loved it, and Brighton knew going to France to do nothing but eat and drink wine and write about all the eating and drinking was a dream come true for her.
“That’s great,” she managed to say.
“I wish we could bring you with us, honey,” her mom said. “I asked the magazine, but—”
“No, it’s okay,” Brighton said carefully. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” Her brain whirled, trying to think just how she’d be fine. Her only grandmother lived in Florida, near her mom’s oldest sister, Brighton’s aunt Rebecca. She supposed she could go there, but the idea of spending Christmas in swampy Tampa, her uncle Jim drinking Bud Light Lime in his pleather La-Z-Boy and watching Fox News twenty-four hours a day made Brighton literally nauseous.
“You sure?” her mom said. “We don’t have to go.”
That sobered Brighton up a little. “Mom. Of course you have to go.”
“That’s my Rainbow,” her dad said, and Brighton could tell he was smiling. “I told her you’d be fine. You’re a grown woman.”
“A grown woman,” Brighton repeated, as though saying it out loud would make it true. She felt anything but her two-years-shy-of-thirty right now. Still, a lie rolled off her tongue, easy as pie. “Yeah. I . . . I have some friends here who are getting together on Christmas Day.”
Adele’s brow lifted.
Brighton ignored her.
“I’ll spend the day with them,” Brighton continued. “It’ll be fun.”
“Oh good,” her mom said, exhaling so loudly her breath buzzed into the phone. “I’m so glad to hear that, baby.”