She and Lola used to—
She froze mid-stir of a dirty martini, shook her head to clear it. She and Lola . . . there was no she and Lola. Not anymore. Not for six years now, but Lola still crept into so many of her memories, like a habit, especially at Christmastime. Six years was nothing to the ten before that. Still, Lola might as well be a ghost, might as well not even exist at all, and Brighton didn’t care to think too deeply about why.
About how it was all her fault.
She plopped an olive into the drink and handed it over to a girl with brown curls and green eyes. Their fingers brushed, just for a second. The girl smiled, her gaze slipping down from Brighton’s own dark eyes and pale face to the tattoo of the Moon tarot card surrounded by peonies on her upper right arm.
“I love that,” the girl said, eyes back on Brighton’s.
“Thank you,” Brighton said, feeling her cheeks warm and leaning her forearms onto the bar. She rightly sucked at dating, but hookups she could do. She looked at the girl through her lashes, smiled with one corner of her mouth. “It’s—”
But she froze as Cowboy Boots shifted from “Silver Bells” into a song that most definitely was not a Christmas tune, the familiar, catchy melody like a splash of ice water on Brighton’s face.
Rain is gone and I’m feeling light
Your ripped jeans like silk and wine
Cherry lipstick still on my mind
Can’t blame me, darling, I’m back in line
Brighton closed her eyes, tried to block out the lyrics she’d heard on Saturday Night Live a month ago and now couldn’t seem to escape even sitting in her own bar. The song, “Cherry Lipstick,” was everywhere—Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, Spotify, covered at least twice a week in Ampersand. In the last six months, the band, a trio of queer women called the Katies, had rocketed from near nothingness to the hottest thing to hit millennial and Gen Z ears since Halsey.
To most people, “Cherry Lipstick” was just a song—a damn good indie pop song that many a gal would probably attach to their queer awakening, but a song nonetheless—and the Katies were just a band finding some success. Good on them. So this ubiquitous song playing in all corners of the world was fine and dandy . . . except for the fact that a mere nine months ago, Brighton had been the Katies’ lead singer.
And now she most definitely was not.
Cowboy Boots came to the chorus, belting out the lyrics with such gusto, Brighton was nearly positive this woman was in the middle of her own awakening.
“Oh, I love this song.” The girl was still standing in front of Brighton, martini in hand. “Don’t you?”
“Ah, Christ,” Adele said under her breath. “Here we go.”
Brighton glared at her friend, then turned a saccharine smile on the girl. “It’s a fucking masterpiece.”
At Brighton’s tone, the girl’s smile dimmed and she drifted away back to her friends. Just as well. Brighton was clearly in no mood to be accommodating, and anyone who loved “Cherry Lipstick” was bound to be horrible in bed. Granted, Brighton knew her logic there made absolutely zero sense, but it made her feel better in the moment, so she went with it.
“Isn’t it time for your break?” Adele asked.
Brighton sighed, pressed her fingers into her eyes. “Yeah.”
“Then by all means, please.” Adele waved her hand toward the back room, but her expression was soft. Adele knew all about the Katies and Brighton, knew the whole affair was still an open wound. Knew Brighton hadn’t touched her guitar or sung a single note since Alice and Emily’s betrayal nine months ago.
Adele reached over and squeezed Brighton’s hand, then gave her shoulder a little shove. “Go. Jake’s got this.”
Brighton obeyed, nodding to Jake, the other evening bartender, before pouring herself a large glass of water. She disappeared into the back, passing through the bustling kitchen making fries and Monte Cristos to get to Adele’s office space, the song still trailing after her like a ghost.
I can’t, I can’t forget the taste
Your cherry lips, your swaying hips . . .
She kept moving, passing by Adele’s desk and big leather couch to the back door. She burst outside into the cold December air, breathing it into her lungs like a new form of oxygen. She leaned against the building’s red brick and closed her eyes, which were starting to feel annoyingly tight and watery. On Demonbreun Street, she could hear the bustle of the Saturday night crowd—laughter, even more live music, all the sounds she used to love.
The sounds she used to be a part of.
Because she clearly loved being miserable, she took out her phone and opened up the Katies’ Instagram page. One hundred and ninety thousand followers. And counting, no doubt. Emily’s dark curls haloed around her lovely face, falling nearly to her shoulders. She favored crop tops and plaid pants, and Brighton even spotted the pink-and-green pair Brighton herself had found at that thrift store in the Gulch last winter. Alice was brooding, as always. A tiny dark-haired pixie with huge butch energy.
Brighton and Emily met first at the Sunset Grill, where Brighton had gotten a job as a server when she first moved to Nashville six years ago. They bonded quickly over music, melancholy queers like Phoebe Bridgers and Brandi Carlile. They started playing together on their days off, messing around on Brighton’s guitar and Emily’s keyboard in Emily’s tiny East Nashville apartment that she shared with three roommates, but they soon started writing. Writing turned into whole songs, which turned into small gigs at coffee shops, just to try it out.
That’s how they met Alice.
They’d just finished playing a late afternoon set at JJ’s Market, a quirky coffee shop slash convenience store on Broadway that also hosted live music, and Alice walked up to them afterward, declaring they needed a drummer.
“And you’re just such a drummer?” Emily had asked.
Alice grinned. “I sure as hell am.”
And she was—brilliant and passionate and driven. Soon, the three of them were sharing an apartment in Germantown, and when they discovered they all shared the same middle name, same spelling and everything—Katherine—the Katies were born.
That was four years ago. Four years of struggle, gigs that paid nothing, tiny regional tours to audiences of ten or less. Still, it was the best time in Brighton’s life, the reason she’d blown up everything she ever thought her life would look like. It had been worth it . . . at least she thought so at the time, dreams still possible. Still alive.
Now Brighton couldn’t help but smile at a photo of Alice smirking at a topless Emily, Emily’s bare back to the viewer. They always had chemistry, though they’d never officially gotten together. She wondered if they were now, this silly photo evidence that they might have taken the leap.
Then she read the post’s caption—a shoot for NME Magazine.
And on Emily’s other side, there she was.
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.