Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter
Twenty-Two
The next several weeks for Daphne passed in a blur of painting, teaching, and April Evans.
When they weren’t working on their individual pieces for the Devon, she and April had spent every other moment together.
They had slow and sleepy sex almost every morning, followed by wild and mind-altering sex nearly every night, and everything in between.
April and Sasha had taken Daphne cliff diving (she’d screamed the entire way down), to a drag show in Concord (and she now needed to watch every single season of RuPaul’s Drag Race), and they’d watched a dozen raunchy nineties movies Daphne had never been allowed to see growing up, like Dazed and Confused, Empire Records, and Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead.
They’d also talked late into the night.
Lying naked in one of their beds, sheets tangled around their waists, facing each other with their foreheads nearly touching.
It was quiet and soft and intimate, and each night Daphne fell asleep absolutely positive she’d wake up in the morning to find it had all been a dream.
But every day, she woke up with April by her side, her sleepy sounds as she stretched and yawned, her gorgeous, inked body under Daphne’s fingertips.
Real.
And getting realer by the second.
Now, their Devon deadline was two days away—Nicola had requested a showing on the very morning of Ramona and Dylan’s wedding, and with that showing came a decision, and with that decision came…
What?
Daphne sat on a stool in the art studio in the early evening of her twenty-sixth birthday, alone, blinking into space as she pictured it.
Pictured herself.
A whole life spreading out in London. She saw herself on the rain-soaked streets, soft clouds above.
She could see herself rushing to a gallery opening, working on new pieces in some loft she rented, going to parties where Nicola treated her like someone, introducing her to other artists and critics.
It was all right there, a life she wanted. A life she could see. But then she thought of April, tried to see where and how and when beyond Nicola’s decision in two days, and—
Her throat went thick, her mind a muddled wash of color, like looking at a painting that had been left in the rain.
This happened every time she tried to envision what came next with April, and she always ended up pushing it into a dusty corner of her brain, leaving a trail of question marks all the way there.
So she didn’t think too hard about it all.
She didn’t daydream, didn’t dread. At least, she tried not to, but when she spent four hours a day painting her past—her own evolution—onto canvas, it was hard not to feel every emotion all at once.
She had three full paintings, bringing her to the point in her story when she left home.
The first, of course, was her wildflower field piece.
After this, she’d painted her vision for the chapel on her old church’s property.
The colors for this one were more muted, the sanctuary all gray-brown wooden pews and dried leaves on the dusty floor.
The walls were whitewashed and dingy, the pulpit a rough rectangle with no embellishments and a simple wooden cross hanging on the wall above.
Next to the pulpit, Daphne stood as a young teenager, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old.
She had on the same white dress she did in the wildflower painting, except this one was shorter on her growing legs and arms. Her hair was longer too, the curls more defined from puberty, and small breasts swelled underneath the cotton.
Her face was still a blur of paint.
But in this piece, the viewer could make out a few features, though undefined—the slightest green of her eyes, a shadow where her nostrils might be, a slash of pink below that.
The third piece was set at the small Crestwater bus station.
The girl in this painting was eighteen, still in that white dress now far too small for her, her hair long and wild.
She stood next to a green bench with a rugged brown suitcase in her hand, the ticket window just behind her.
The sky was stormy, angry, and billowing with clouds.
Rain poured down on the scene in sharp diagonal slashes and appeared to be pulling at the girl’s blurry features, tugging them away.
Or rather, tugging something away to reveal what was underneath.
The viewer still couldn’t see her face clearly, but Daphne could see herself emerging, a moth from a cocoon.
The next piece, already in progress, was set in Boston—in Elena’s art gallery, in fact—but she had no idea what to do for the fifth and final piece.
Biographically, she could paint a thousand pieces, a thousand moments of becoming and unbecoming.
The few she’d chosen felt right, but the conclusion…
She still wasn’t sure what that looked like.
She still wasn’t sure what she looked like.
So she sat on a stool in the art studio staring at her fourth painting and thinking about her last birthday.
Her birthdays had always been quiet affairs.
Even when she lived with her family, her parents hadn’t believed in making a big deal about them—too self-indulgent, her father had said.
They’d celebrated stoically, with a simple cake and exactly one gift that was usually something like highlighters for studying or a new cover for her Bible, and absolutely zero parties.
Elena had known this.
So when Daphne had turned twenty-five, Elena had thrown her a party, filling their apartment with catered food and music and people who wore fancy cocktail dresses and sipped on sparkling glasses of Veuve Clicquot.
Granted, they were mostly Elena’s friends and colleagues, but Daphne hadn’t cared, had barely noticed, reveling in the idea that someone had planned an elegant soiree for her.
Looking back, it wasn’t Daphne’s kind of party at all, but it was better than any other birthday she’d ever had.
Today, her phone hadn’t made a sound—she’d blocked the only person who might call or text—and no one else at Cloverwild even knew it was her birthday.
It felt strange to tell them, to tell April, even.
The mentality of making herself small—third after God and others—was a hell of a drug, one she knew she was still detoxing from, no matter how brave and bold she felt when kissing April Evans.
Her chest hitched, her eyes stinging as the light outside started diminishing, the sun sinking into the lake.
She took out her phone and opened her call app, put in a Boston number she knew by heart.
Didn’t matter if she’d blocked it or not.
She stared at the numbers, her thumb shaking over the green call button.
“Hey, there you are.”
Daphne straightened on her stool at April’s voice, wiped her eyes in case a rogue tear had escaped, and stuffed her phone into her pocket. She knew her face was probably blotchy anyway.
“Here I am,” she said as April reached her side, cupping a cool hand on the back of Daphne’s neck.
“You okay?” April asked.
Daphne nodded. They hadn’t seen each other very much today.
They’d woken up together, but Daphne had quickly gotten up and showered, claiming she needed to run some errands in town before their one o’clock class.
Really, she’d taken the Cloverwild shuttle to Mirror Cove and watched the water for a while, feeling sorry for herself as the day of her birth ticked across the sky.
After that, they’d had class. When it was over, Daphne had worked with a guest who was trying to perfect a watercolor portrait for her sister’s birthday.
They’d worked until April had eventually said goodbye to go work on her own project.
Daphne had spent the rest of the afternoon alone in the studio, staring at her latest painting of a girl in a too-small white dress with undefined features playing at being a woman in a Boston art gallery, about to meet the only person who had ever really loved her.
Except Daphne wasn’t sure if Elena had ever loved anyone. April, Daphne herself, any other girlfriend she’d ever had. But it had felt like love, and something deep inside Daphne missed it so much.
Now, April looked at Daphne’s fourth painting, head tilted. She wore black jeans and a teal racerback tank top, her favorite style. It was Daphne’s favorite too—she loved the way April’s tattooed shoulders looked in them, strong and a little butch.
“That’s going to be gorgeous,” April said.
“You think so?” Daphne asked, looking up at her. This was the first piece after the wildflower painting that April had seen.
April smiled, her thumb caressing the skin at the base of Daphne’s neck. “I know so.”
Daphne smiled too, then reached out and pulled April closer by her hips, resting her forehead against April’s stomach.
“Hey,” April said, her arms soft as she cradled Daphne’s head. “I’ve barely seen you all day.”
Daphne didn’t move, just breathed April in. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” April said. “Have you eaten?”
Daphne lifted her head. “Some toast this morning.”
April tsked. “Well, that won’t do, will it?”
Daphne shrugged.
April slid her hands to Daphne’s face, thumbs swiping at her cheekbones. “Can you take a break? Come somewhere with me?”
Daphne lifted her brows. “Right now?”
April smiled. “Right now.”
“I’ll go anywhere with you, April Evans,” Daphne said, and realized with a flutter in her belly that it was true.
True and terrifying.
She glanced at the woman in her fourth painting again, so lost and wandering, and she didn’t even know it.
She didn’t know anything.
And now, over three years later, Daphne wasn’t sure what exactly had changed. She still felt small, desperate, and alone, and she was so, so tired of feeling like that. She wanted to be strong. Wanted to be herself, happy with her own company, brave enough to shout about her own damn birthday.
Still, she slipped her hand into April’s, reveling in the warmth of her body next to hers, and followed her outside into the lavender twilight.
They ended up driving into town, then walking down Lake Street hand in hand. The light was soft, the sun still hanging low in the sky, and the fresh air was already helping Daphne’s mood. Suddenly, she was starving.
“I want a cheeseburger,” she said. “And some fries. Oh, and some pie.”
“Oh, yeah?” April said, slowing down as they approached Clover Moon Café. “Your timing couldn’t be better.”
She opened the door, ushering Daphne inside. The space smelled amazing—sugar and fried food and coffee all coalescing together—and Daphne’s mouth watered. She was looking around the busy dining room for an open seat when she spotted Sasha at a booth in the back corner.
Along with Ramona and Dylan.
“Oh, she’s here,” Sasha said to the others.
Daphne frowned. “What is—”
“Happy birthday!” the group called in unison, smiling and waving.
Daphne blinked, those two words cresting over her slowly, like a phrase in a foreign language. As one, the group put on sparkly purple birthday hats and blew on those paper blowers, the honking sound echoing through the restaurant.
April squeezed her hand. “Happy birthday, Daphne.”
She turned to look at April, mouth agape. “How did you…”
“Well, I knew you were a Leo,” April said, grinning. “And the night we dyed your hair, you confirmed it. July twenty-ninth.”
“And you remembered that?” Daphne asked.
April tilted her head. “You’re hard to forget, Love.”
Daphne shook her head, then pulled April in for a kiss, prompting a loud whooping from a few random patrons in the dining room.
“Also,” April said against her mouth. “You’re an Aries rising.”
Daphne blinked, laughing. “How could you possibly know that?”
April’s smile dipped a little into something softer. “Because despite everything you fear about yourself, you’re one badass bitch, Daphne Love.”
Daphne’s smile fell away too. “What?”
“Aries are bold and brave. I know you don’t always feel like that, but the face you put out into the world, it’s all fire and strength.
Your paintings, your family, the way you grew up, the way you chose the life you wanted, even when you were only eighteen, even with everything that followed. It just makes sense.”
Daphne stared at her, something deep inside aching, but not unpleasantly. The feeling was more akin to awe, even comfort at being seen like this, all her masks toppling to the ground.
April kissed her one more time before pulling her toward the group.
Daphne swallowed down her swell of emotion, then caught Ramona’s expression, a look that could only be described as concern on her face as she glanced between Daphne and April.
Daphne didn’t have time to think on it too much as Sasha pulled her into the booth next to her, April sliding in on the other side next to Ramona.
A whole honey whiskey pie sat in the center of the table, a single candle lit in the middle. April quickly called for attention, then led them all in a horrible rendition of the birthday song. Daphne laughed as she blew out the tiny flame, a thousand wishes flitting through her mind.
The Devon.
April.
A birthday just like this.
She had to hold back a few happy tears as everyone clapped, and then Owen, the owner of Clover Moon himself, came and took their food and drink order.
The group fell into their own discussions, centered mostly around Dylan and Ramona’s Cloverwild wedding, which was only two days away.
Daphne knew April was helping, of course, but Olive was Ramona’s maid of honor, and even right now, April’s expression looked a bit glassy, a bit detached.
Daphne stretched her foot under the table, tapping April’s ankle. April glanced across the table at her, then winked, and Daphne nearly melted into a puddle right there.
April cleared her throat, then started making a case for why she should be able to offer flash tattoos at the wedding.
“I’m still waiting to tattoo your ass, Dylan Monroe, as promised,” April was saying.
“As promised?” Dylan said. “When was that promised?”
“It was implied when you walked into my shop for the first time,” April said.
“Two years ago?”
“There’s no statute of limitations on art.”
Ramona laughed, and April smirked and folded her arms. She had that glint in her eye Daphne had quickly become obsessed with, mischievous and sexy and sassy all at once.
Owen set down a plate of golden fries, and Daphne stuffed a few into her mouth, grinning around the food as she hooked her feet around April’s under the table. And in that one moment, she was happier than she’d ever been in her entire life.