Get Over It, April Evans
As soon as Sasha Sinclair drove over the town line, she felt it.
Granted, she wasn’t sure what it was. Not exactly.
A puff of frigid air.
A shiver lifting the hairs on the back of her neck.
Or, much more likely, it was simply a cool day in early October and had nothing at all to do with the fact that Blair Mountain, North Carolina, was considered one of the most haunted towns in America.
She drove Gertie—her well-loved Subaru Outback, naturally named for the iconic butch lesbian Gertrude Stein—into the city center.
The trees rose up like sentinels guarding the mountain pass, maples and yellowwoods and sweet gums just starting to shift their colors from green to gold and crimson.
Decorative banners hung from lampposts and fluttered in the breeze—a deep purple background with an ombré red-orange rose in the middle—and round pumpkins already dotted the sidewalks, fall-leafed wreaths placed on shop doors like town seals.
Sasha pulled into a parking spot near a café called Roseleaf and stepped outside.
The air was certainly cool, bordering on cold.
She pulled her olive-green bomber jacket closer around her thin frame, ran a hand through her short white-blond hair so that it stuck up even taller than normal, and looked around.
She’d never been to Blair Mountain.
And yet, everything around her looked slightly familiar, tinged with a blurry glow of childhood memories and nostalgia.
Stories.
And the smell…She inhaled deeply, trying to place it. It took her a second, but when she did, her heart fluttered under her ribs. There, just beneath that dying-leaf smell of autumn and a bit of sugar, was the subtle scent of roses.
Even in the dead of winter, Sash, her father had told her more than once. Roses, like tiny miracles. Tiny stories that need to be told.
Sasha shook her head, then rubbed furiously at her nose as though she could clear out the scent.
Clear out the memory.
She turned and leaned her butt against Gertie’s driver door, then closed her eyes. Breathed in deep, trying to get her thickening throat to unclench.
In the last three years, she’d lived in over fifty American cities, as well as Paris, Prague, and Lisbon.
She’d driven from coast to coast in her gay car and worked as a line cook, a bartender, a ski-school instructor, and a farmhand mucking out stalls and feeding chickens.
She’d shot the proverbial shit at countless small-town watering holes, made easy friends wherever she went—no matter how fleeting those friendships might be—and engaged with a bevy of enthusiastic local shes and theys for a night or two of stringless fun.
So, no, she would not be brought down by a tiny Southern town she’d never even been to before at the sheer whiff of a ghost rose.
Absolutely fucking not.
This was work.
This was a job.
The job, granted, the one she’d been waiting three years for, the one her parents had only dreamed about, but still. She had too much on the line to blow it with sticky emotions and memories.
She glanced at her phone—10:53 a.m. She still had seven minutes before she was supposed to meet Adeline Bishop in Roseleaf, and she might need all four hundred and twenty seconds to get her shit together.
She hadn’t expected this feeling—a tight pull in the center of her chest, an amalgamation of dread and excitement, her fingertips tingling like she couldn’t get enough oxygen—but maybe she should have.
Feelings, however, weren’t exactly her strong suit lately.
Not for three years now.
And that was exactly how she liked it.
She tucked her phone into her back pocket, then bounced up and down on her booted toes, stretching her neck from side to side like she was a boxer heading into the ring.
She should review one of the myriad files she had packed in her bag, all filled with her parents’ research about Blair Mountain and the Bishops and the Rose Witch.
That would be the smart thing to do, prepare as much as possible, but by now she’d heard every bullet point in those folders a million times as a bedtime story, read through the news clippings and articles and book excerpts herself on countless nights in one nameless town after another.
She knew it all, could probably recite it in her sleep.
And right now, she needed to get her heart rate under control, not amp it up again with more awareness about how important this meeting was.
How much she wanted this.
And how much she dreaded it.
Fucking emotions, she swore to god.
So instead of digging into her files, she gave herself a pep talk, trying to fill her brain with…
she didn’t know. Wrinkly pugs and leather jackets.
Pumpkin-spiced doughnuts. The strong cortado she was craving, and hoping against hope that this small-town café could make a decent version of, which then reminded her of her stint in Lisbon this past summer and that barista she’d met on her last night there, how Sasha had wrapped her long auburn hair around her fist and—
Okay, no, that was definitely not helping. The last thing Sasha needed was to show up for a meeting with the matriarch of the infamous Bishop family all charged.
She cleared her throat, did some more neck stretching and toe bouncing, garnering strange looks from a few passersby on the sidewalk.
With four minutes still left to fill, she was glad when her phone buzzed against her butt.
She fished the device from her pocket, then tapped on a text from April on the screen.
Met the Sanderson Sisters yet?
Sasha smirked. Wrong town.
Send me a picture of a witch flying a vacuum cleaner through the starry night, I beg you.
This was followed up with three praying hands emojis, and Sasha couldn’t help but laugh.
She’d just seen April and her girlfriend, Daphne, in London a few months ago, but she had to admit, she felt this strange ache in her chest when she thought of her little Goth friend.
She was pretty sure the sensation was akin to missing, which was not something she often let herself feel for anyone she encountered along her travels.
April, however, was proving harder to shake than most. She’d met April and her partner, Daphne, a little over a year ago in Clover Lake, New Hampshire, while she worked as a bartender at a lakeside lodge, and April had accompanied her on a three month-long road trip across the country last September.
Since then, April texted every few days, and Sasha, despite her usual operating procedure once she’d moved on from a place or person, always answered.
If I see someone airborne and straddling a vacuum cleaner, I’m getting a CAT scan, she texted. Sending you a pic will be the least of my concerns.
Killjoy, April texted back.
I think you mean logical.
April sent a rolling eyes emoji, then texted, Good luck! And go easy on yourself. Your horoscope says you’re being too self-critical.
Sasha sent back her own rolling eyes emoji, along with a middle finger emoji. April simply cackled. Literally, she texted the word cackles set in between two asterisks.
Oh and Daphne says hey.
Sasha texted back her own greeting, then clicked her phone’s screen dark.
April knew about this job, about the film.
Firstly, it was hard to keep secrets from the woman.
Regardless of the fact that she was barely five foot two, she was slightly scary.
Secondly, the story of the Rose Witch was nationally famous, as was the town of Blair Mountain, and despite Sasha’s desire to keep things on the surface, she also didn’t lie to people who had been good to her.
April and Daphne were the only two people in Sasha’s life who knew about her parents, and even then, when she’d told them both this past spring about Blair Mountain and her parents’ dream, she’d kept it brief.
Sasha hadn’t shared her story with anyone else she’d met in the last three years.
It only made things awkward and uncomfortable, their expressions morphing from interest to horror to pity, I’m so sorrys falling out of their mouths automatically, as though words could change one goddamn thing.
Even after she’d gotten to know April, spent hours on the road with her, laughed with her and watched her moon over Daphne during their time apart last fall, Sasha had a hard time sharing her baggage.
It was hers, after all, and she’d carried it just fine for the last three years.
She checked her phone one more time—one minute to go—then opened Gertie’s back door and grabbed her father’s worn messenger bag.
It was the color of caramel and still smelled of leather, despite its age.
She tucked her phone into a side pocket, then slung the bag over her shoulder before locking the car and heading toward the café.
She walked quickly. Confidently. Boots clomping heavily on the cobbled sidewalks.
More than once, she’d been told she had Big Dyke Energy, and honestly, she agreed.
She was five foot ten, knew exactly how to wear a plain white tee and tight-fitting jeans, and had worn her naturally platinum blonde hair very short and very gay since she was fifteen.
She had the walk—a bit of a saunter, bit of a stomp—she had the crooked grin, and she knew how to sit with her legs spread on an airplane without pissing off her seatmate.