Page 135 of Get Over It, April Evans

Sasha pressed her mouth flat. “They didn’t.”

“I thought they didn’t live here anymore.”

“They don’t.”

April rubbed her forehead. “You know, for all yourput yourself firstadvice, you’re really bad at doing the same.”

“I put myself first every day,” Sasha said, turning onto a side road.

“And keep everyone else at arm’s length,” April said. “That’s not putting yourself first. That’s hiding.”

Sasha scowled, but said nothing as they drove deeper into Laurel Canyon, the Maps app on Sasha’s phone calling out directions to Jack and Carrie’s house. April didn’t say anything else as Sasha drove, but when they pulled up in front of a large modern white house surrounded by greenery, water bubbling from a fountain in the front yard, Sasha made no move to get out of the car.

April looked at her, looked at her phone. They still had a couple of hours until the party, but Dylan and Ramona were already here, and April couldn’t wait to see Ramona.

“Sash?” April said.

“My parents died,” Sasha said, leaning her head against the headrest. “In a car accident. Two years ago. They weredocumentary filmmakers, and that’s all I want to say about it right now, okay?”

She didn’t look at April, didn’t show any obvious emotion on her face. But April noticed her jaw was tight, her nostrils flaring with the effort of holding back, holding in.

April let the news settle for a second. Suddenly, Sasha’s constant refusal to let April drive Gertie over the last few months—even once on the safest, widest road—made a lot more sense. She reached out and took Sasha’s hand.

“Okay,” she said softly, then squeezed Sasha’s fingers before letting her go.

Sasha glanced at her, blue eyes darker than usual, her smile small and grateful. “Do you think Jack and Carrie have any weed?”

April laughed. “From what I hear, they’re pretty herbal these days, so it could go either way.”

She opened her door to get out, but then her phone buzzed in the cupholder, and when she picked it up, she saw that Ramona had sent her a link. April’s thumb hovered over the text, the article’s headline already fully visible in the preview.

Newcomer Shines at the Devon

She sucked in a sharp breath.

“What is it?” Sasha asked, releasing the buckle on her seat belt.

It took April a few swallows to answer. “Daphne’s show.”

“That just closed a couple days ago, yeah?”

April shut herself back into the car and nodded, which was all she could manage at the moment. Of course, she knew the Devon’sEvolutionshow had opened a few weeks ago. She and Daphne had texted a bit about it—how Daphne was nervous, how April knew she’d be amazing—but they’d barely talked since it started. April and Sasha had sent her some congratulatory flowers, the card verypointedly from both of them, but other than that, April hadn’t wanted to press Daphne too much for details. This was Daphne’s moment, Daphne’s success, and April wanted her to experience it however she wanted.

Now, April clicked on the article, which led her to the site of a contemporary art magazine based in London. April’s eyes had teeth, quickly devouring the words about the show’s details, about Nicola, about other artists, chewing ravenously to get to Daphne.

Her heart nearly stopped when she saw Daphne’s name in print.

The shining star of the exhibition, however, is a newcomer from across the pond. Daphne Love hails from Crestwater, Tennessee, and her six-piece series, eerily entitledPreacher’s Daughter, drew in viewers with her emotional use of texture, color, and theme. An autobiographical series, the paintings depict a young woman unbecoming and becoming, a true evolution of mind, body, and spirit.

April’s eyes welled suddenly with tears, a huge smile on her face as she wiped them away.

“She did it,” she said to Sasha, laughing. “She fucking did it.”

“Of course she did.”

April nodded, tears still streaming. The article went on to talk about some commissions Daphne had gotten as a result of the show, a couple of big names in the London art world, as well as invitations from a few reputable galleries and museums, including the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. April’s heart felt full and electric, a new rhythm under her ribs. She kept scrolling to where the article featured photographs of Daphne’s series. She took in the first four familiar paintings, still as resplendent and moving as they ever were.

Then she got to the fifth piece.