Page 119 of Get Over It, April Evans

Why can’t you feed them?Sasha texted back.Is everything ok?

April groaned.I’m at Ramona’s.

And?

April groaned louder.AND I’ve got her wedding shower today.

Sasha:This wouldn’t have anything to do with one Elena Watson showing up at Cloverwild yesterday, would it?

April:How did you even know about that?

She held her breath, wondering if maybe Daphne had reached out to Sasha to talk or for advice, or asked Sasha to make her a grilled cheese; hell, April didn’t know. Anything to prove Daphne wasn’t with Elena right now.

Sasha:Mia remembers her from back in your day

April:Back in my day? What am I, eighty-two?

Sasha:Also everyone is thriving on the gossip

April:It’s a small town. It runs on gossip

Sasha:Do you want to know what I think?

April:I really don’t

Sasha:Daphne wants YOU

April’s teeth gritted together. She stared at the words, and a war broke out in her chest—hope and fear and doubt and certainty, and everything in between. She tapped on her previous text to Sasha, then emphasized it with two exclamation points.

Sasha:Fine. But I’m right

April:Can you check on Bob and Bianca please?

Sasha:On my way there now

April managed to type out a quick thank-you before burrowing under the feather duvet. It was nearly eleven, and April could hear activity throughout the house as Blair Emmanuel and a few more LA friends arrived for a brunch–slash–wedding shower that Blair and Olive had planned together, which started in exactly half an hour. Then later this evening, they’d all gather again for the rehearsal dinner, followed by the wedding tomorrow night.

Ramona’swedding.

April pulled the covers completely over her head.

She and Ramona were good—they were different, they were changing, but they’d be okay. She knew that. And she fully planned on pulling up her adulting panties and putting all of her enthusiasmand love into this wedding weekend, but god, she needed ten more minutes to get her shit together.

To push Daphne and Elena far, far, far from her mind.

Okay, maybe fifteen.

She pulled her phone under the covers with her and opened her music app, tapping on her favorite Paramore song to listen to when she was feeling particularly angsty. Then she opened the tarot app that she only used when she was too lazy to pull a physical card, tapped on the shuffle button, and askedWhat the fuckas the digital cards spun on the screen, finally stopping and revealing the Eight of Cups.

The card all about turning away from the past, from what’s not working or serving anymore, and embracing the unknown.

“Oh, fuck you,” she said, flung her phone onto the floor, and burrowed even deeper under the blankets. She wasn’t sure how many of her designated minutes passed, but soon a knock sounded on the door.

“Yeah,” she said as loudly as she could manage.

The door opened, the noises from downstairs burgeoning a little before muffling again as the door clicked shut.

“Uh-oh,” Ramona said.