Chapter Three
Chapter
Three
Oh, fucking hell.
April watched as Daphne started crying with her precious baby Bob in her lap, for god’s sake. She had no clue what to do or say. Clearly, the woman had issues.
Well, join the fucking club.
“I’m sorry,” Daphne said, wiping her eyes, but then Bob, aka Lucifer, snuggled even closer to the woman, rubbing his head on her stomach and even peering up at Daphne as if to inquire after her well-being.
And all this pulled a fresh wave of tears from Daphne’s infernally pretty eyes.
She was pretty all over, really, if a little worse for wear today with her too-loose jeans and heather-gray T-shirt with what looked like Cheeto-crumb stains swiped over the middle.
Still, April could tell she was gorgeous—green eyes and silky curls the color of spun gold, lithe limbs, and a surprisingly curvy ass.
Not that April didn’t know all of this already—well, everything but the ass part, which she was determined to ignore—as she’d spent the better part of the first month after Elena left her three years ago poring over her ex’s Instagram, which of course led her to Daphne’s profile.
An art student—painting, as far as April could tell.
Young.
Beautiful.
Sweet.
Southern.
A country apple plucked fresh from the tree.
The exact opposite of April in every way, who painted her nails black and didn’t even own a lipstick shade lighter than crimson.
Then again, she supposed that was the point.
Daphne had now pulled Bob closer and pressed her face into his orange fur, taking such deep breaths April wondered if she was going to inhale a hair ball.
One thing she knew for sure—she needed a fucking minute.
She left Daphne and Bob to their canoodling and hightailed it for the bathroom, where she closed herself inside and pressed her back against the door.
“Fuck,” she said on an exhale, all the adrenaline of seeing Daphne in the flesh settling now, leaving her trembling and out of breath.
She had no idea what seeing the woman the love of her life had left her for would be like—turned out, it wasn’t pleasant, particularly when said woman looked a little bit haunted and then started sobbing uncontrollably because of a cat.
April wondered briefly what was wrong, then squeezed her eyes closed, because no.
She couldn’t go there.
Wouldn’t.
Of course, April was mature enough—her parents might have a different opinion there, but whatever—to understand that when infidelity occurred, the person your partner cheated with wasn’t fully at fault.
Your partner was the asshole, a fact April absolutely did not contest. Still, the other party in this case had to have known Elena had a partner, a fiancée, and still Daphne had dated Elena.
Then again…
April rubbed her tired eyes, replaying the last fifteen minutes in her brain.
When April had opened the door, Daphne’s expression was completely blank, and it remained so when April said her own name—twice.
Daphne very obviously didn’t know who April was, not even a glimmer of recognition flickering in her eyes.
She had never heard April’s name, never seen her picture via Instagram or anywhere else.
To Daphne Love, an infamous person in April’s mind, the person she’d measured herself against for that first year, April Evans hadn’t even existed until this very moment.
At the very least, Elena had never told Daphne her name, never told her about her life in Clover Lake with April.
Either that, or Daphne was the greatest actress in the world. Still, April didn’t think that woman snuggling Bob in the next room could fake a sneeze right now, much less something this huge.
April let the truth of it all settle, and god, it was heavy. All these facts, this evidence. It had been three years, and April had moved on—went weeks without even thinking about Elena sometimes—but now, knowing that her own name wasn’t even worth telling…
She slid down to the floor, plunked her head against the door as the box of memories she’d shoved into a corner of her mind tipped over, spilling its contents everywhere.
April and Elena had met in Boston six years ago, when April was twenty-seven and Elena was thirty.
April had been in town for a workshop with a well-known tattoo artist at the time, and on her last evening there, she’d wandered into a lesbian bar called Pearl, which should’ve been her first clue it wasn’t exactly her kind of place.
The second the door closed behind her, a proverbial record scratch echoed through the air as every single person inside stopped what they were doing and turned to look at April.
The bar was, in a word, immaculate. The space was dim, lit by an ornate chandelier and a few sconces set into the periwinkle walls.
The bar itself was dark mahogany, with padded stools covered in a rich lavender velvet.
Everything, in fact, was some shade of purple, but it was elegantly done with decadent aubergine tufted settees, chairs painted in a stormy lavender-gray, and gold accents warming up the space.
Oh, it was a lesbian bar, all right.
A power lesbian bar.
A rich lesbian bar.
Every person inside was dressed to kill with their dark suits and sharply cut bobs. Some wore ties, some wore little black dresses that left very little to the imagination, but everyone was styled. They were tailored and intentional and chic.
And April had on her black leather jacket, a Nico T-shirt with a hole near the hem, torn gray jeans, and a pair of white high-top sneakers.
Still, once she came through the door, she couldn’t possibly leave.
She refused. A bunch of snobs in a bar were not going to dictate to her where she belonged, goddammit.
So she smiled beatifically at all the eyes on her, then walked toward the bar as calmly as she could and ordered a Manhattan.
She still felt everyone’s gaze on her, but she ignored them, even though her heart was threatening to beat right out of her chest.
“You’re a long way from home,” a voice said.
April glanced to her right as a woman slid into the space next to her.
A gorgeous woman.
Long dark hair, smooth pale skin, a beauty mark on the left side of her full lips. Eyes so dark, April knew if she fell inside them, she’d probably never find her way out. She wore one of those little black dresses, skintight, the V-shaped neckline plunging to below her sternum.
“I think I’m right where I need to be,” April said, tipping her glass at the woman before taking a slurping sip.
The woman lifted a perfect eyebrow, but then smiled widely, showing off her very white, very straight teeth.
“Refreshing,” she said, lifting her own glass toward April, a deep red wine. “A rebel.”
“No,” April said, slipping the dark cherry between her teeth and chomping down. “Just don’t give a shit.”
The woman laughed, then introduced herself as Elena Watson.
April replied in kind, and soon, she was lost. Because Elena was funny.
And interesting. A bit stuck-up, sure, but she was easy to talk to, sharing details about growing up in Virginia, coming out when she was twelve by writing a letter to her parents and mailing a copy to both of their places of business.
“My penmanship was impeccable,” she’d said, laughing.
“And how did they take it?” April asked.
“Oh, I’m very convincing,” Elena said, winking.
April found herself revealing things about her own parents too, how Drs.
Preston and Jacqueline Evans, general practitioners with enough earth in their star charts to pull a mountain from the sea, had rarely understood anything their only daughter did or said or dreamed about.
April was a water sign, a triple Scorpio at that, and she’d fallen in love with magic and the stars at a young age precisely because her parents…
well, hadn’t quite fallen in love with her.
She remembered suspecting this fact as young as five, when her mother told her they’d have a quiet night at home for April’s birthday, instead of the Rainbow Brite party April had asked for.
A party was too messy. Too wild. Too…April.
A formative memory, and one of her first. But that was also the birthday that her grandmother Harriet sent her a picture book about the zodiac, then read it to her that night over the phone and every night for weeks until April had the entire thing memorized.
Her parents disapproved, of course, but April found something in the stars she’d never experienced with her parents—a sense of purpose.
A destiny.
Preston and Jacqueline had tried to have a baby for years before they got pregnant with April. They’d had miscarriages and failed rounds of IVF, until they finally stopped trying. Gave up hope.
And then, two months later, the strip turned pink on a pregnancy test.
April had always loved this story, or at least the idea of it—but whenever her parents told it, there was no awe in their voices, just clinical facts, followed by a glance in April’s direction that could only be described as nonchalant.
April’s existence might be a miracle, but she could never shake the feeling that her parents, after so much failure and heartbreak and waiting, were a bit underwhelmed with the kid they finally got.
“That must’ve been hard,” Elena finally said, her fingertips brushing the top of April’s hand.
April could only nod, because it was true, and because hearing this stranger confirm it was so validating, she felt close to tears. She couldn’t believe she was sharing these sorts of details with Elena. April hadn’t felt this entranced by a person in years.
No, that wasn’t right. She’d never felt this entranced by another person. Ever.