Page 32 of Get Over It, April Evans

Eight

Their first classwas a moderate success.

Daphne took the lead, as this class was paint focused, but she was sleep-deprived and overly caffeinated from the large coffee April had fetched her while she cleaned up from her nighttime painting spree, and she kept tripping over her words for the first ten minutes, hands shaking as she clicked through their slides. She eventually found her footing, reverting to her teaching experience in college when she was a TA in the foundation program for first-years, but she felt distracted the entire session.

April.

Elena.

April and Elena.

Her painting, which now sat behind the desk, her younger self’s blurry features facing the wall. The night before felt like a fever dream, as though someone else had inhabited Daphne’s body, using her hand to splash paint on a canvas. But Daphne knew exactly who that girl in the painting was.

Knew it washer.

Unseen, lost, unformed.

And she knew she wanted to paint more, create more, tell more of her story, just like April said, even if it killed her.

Maybe that was the whole point.

April’s words reverberated through her skull, terror inducing and exciting all at once. By the time class was over, she just wanted a break from all theknowing.

“Will you get a drink with me?” she asked April as they packed up from the class. “It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?” She laughed nervously.

April gave her a look. “It’s six o’clock here.”

Daphne pointed a finger gun at April. “Right.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Daphne said, but her voice was high-pitched. She cleared her throat. “Fine.”

April continued to frown at her, unbelieving.

“Please?” Daphne said as she dried off the last of the brushes. “Just one drink.”

April sighed as she tucked her iPad into her bag, along with her sketchbook. “I guess I don’t really have anything else to do.”

“A high compliment,” Daphne said, “but I’ll take it.”

April laughed. “Sorry, I just meant…” But she trailed off, shaking her head as she swung her bag over her shoulder, then met Daphne’s gaze. “One drink.”

“Thank you,” Daphne said, then turned to grab her things to head out, but one of their students remained in the back of the classroom leaning against the counter, tapping at her phone. Nicola, Daphne believed her name was. She was beautiful, with smooth brown skin and curly hair. Right now, she was dressed in a plain white tee tucked into a pair of navy shorts, but Daphne could absolutely picture her in a pencil skirt and high heels.

“Excellent first class, you two,” she said in an elegant Britishaccent. She pushed off the counter and tucked her phone into her Prada handbag, walking toward them.

“Nicola, hi,” April said.

“You did a good job too,” Daphne said brightly, remembering the messy apple Nicola had painted.

Nicola laughed. “I didn’t, but I’m not a painter, so I’m okay with that. Just here to learn and observe, but I did want to meet you officially.” She offered a long-fingered hand to Daphne. “I really enjoyed your portfolio.”

“Her portfolio?” April asked as Daphne shook Nicola’s hand.

“My portfolio?” Daphne echoed, but then remembered Mia had emailed her the week before she came to Cloverwild, asking if she could give the portfolio Mia had on file to a guest.

A curator.