Make the Season Bright

From a young age, Charlotte had always had the sense she was in the way.

She was a grown-up, dammit, complete with a dead-end dream and a lackluster love life.

Brighton relaxed a little at the word wife, just like she always did when in the company of other queer people. She could be undergoing a root canal, and as long as the dentist was queer, she was bound to be at least 50 percent calmer, the feeling of safety and camaraderie like a mild muscle relaxer.

“Some might say the stuff meet-cutes are made of.”

When one had an indifferent mother as their only parent, self-soothing was a priceless skill, a matter of survival, even. She’d learned at a very young age how to take care of herself, control her emotions, and wear expressions that fit the situation so no one asked questions or suspected she wasn’t okay.

Speaking of headaches, Charlotte and Brighton are strangely silent. Are they dead? Or making out? I’m taking bets

“Everyone needs a therapist,” Sloane said, squeezing her hands. “Literally everyone. And I’ll help you find one when we get back to New York.”