Page 9 of Get Over It, April Evans

Well, join the fucking club.

“I’m sorry,” Daphne said, wiping her eyes, but then Bob, aka Lucifer, snuggled even closer to the woman, rubbing his head on her stomach and even peering up at Daphne as if to inquire after her well-being.

And all this pulled a fresh wave of tears from Daphne’s infernally pretty eyes.

She was pretty all over, really, if a little worse for wear today with her too-loose jeans and heather-gray T-shirt with what looked like Cheeto-crumb stains swiped over the middle. Still, April could tell she was gorgeous—green eyes and silky curls the color of spun gold, lithe limbs, and a surprisingly curvy ass.

Not that April didn’t know all of this already—well, everything but the ass part, which she was determined to ignore—as she’d spent the better part of the first month after Elena left herthree years ago poring over her ex’s Instagram, which of course led her to Daphne’s profile.

An art student—painting, as far as April could tell.

Young.

Beautiful.

Sweet.

Southern.

A country apple plucked fresh from the tree.

The exact opposite of April in every way, who painted her nails black and didn’t even own a lipstick shade lighter than crimson.

Then again, she supposed that was the point.

Daphne had now pulled Bob closer and pressed her face into his orange fur, taking such deep breaths April wondered if she was going to inhale a hair ball. One thing she knew for sure—she needed a fucking minute. She left Daphne and Bob to their canoodling and hightailed it for the bathroom, where she closed herself inside and pressed her back against the door.

“Fuck,” she said on an exhale, all the adrenaline of seeing Daphne in the flesh settling now, leaving her trembling and out of breath.

She had no idea what seeing the woman the love of her life had left her for would be like—turned out, it wasn’t pleasant, particularly when said woman looked a little bit haunted and then started sobbing uncontrollably because of a cat. April wondered briefly what was wrong, then squeezed her eyes closed, because no.

She couldn’t go there.

Wouldn’t.

Of course, April was mature enough—her parents might have a different opinion there, but whatever—to understand that when infidelity occurred, the person your partner cheated with wasn’t fully at fault. Yourpartnerwas the asshole, a fact April absolutely did notcontest. Still, the other party in this case had to have known Elena had a partner, afiancée, and still Daphne had dated Elena.

Then again…

April rubbed her tired eyes, replaying the last fifteen minutes in her brain. When April had opened the door, Daphne’s expression was completely blank, and it remained so when April said her own name—twice. Daphne very obviously didn’t know who April was, not even a glimmer of recognition flickering in her eyes. She had never heard April’s name, never seen her picture via Instagram or anywhere else. To Daphne Love, an infamous person in April’s mind, the person she’d measured herself against for that first year, April Evans hadn’t even existed until this very moment. At the very least, Elena had never told Daphne her name, never told her about her life in Clover Lake with April.

Either that, or Daphne was the greatest actress in the world. Still, April didn’t think that woman snuggling Bob in the next room could fake a sneeze right now, much less something this huge.

April let the truth of it all settle, and god, it was heavy. All these facts, this evidence. It had been three years, and April had moved on—went weeks without even thinking about Elena sometimes—but now, knowing that her own name wasn’t even worth telling…

She slid down to the floor, plunked her head against the door as the box of memories she’d shoved into a corner of her mind tipped over, spilling its contents everywhere.

April and Elena had met in Boston six years ago, when April was twenty-seven and Elena was thirty. April had been in town for a workshop with a well-known tattoo artist at the time, and on her last evening there, she’d wandered into a lesbian bar called Pearl, which should’ve been her first clue it wasn’t exactly her kind of place. The second the door closed behind her, a proverbial record scratch echoed through the air as every single person inside stopped what they were doing and turned to look at April.

The bar was, in a word, immaculate. The space was dim, lit by an ornate chandelier and a few sconces set into the periwinkle walls. The bar itself was dark mahogany, with padded stools covered in a rich lavender velvet. Everything, in fact, was some shade of purple, but it was elegantly done with decadent aubergine tufted settees, chairs painted in a stormy lavender-gray, and gold accents warming up the space.

Oh, it was a lesbian bar, all right.

A power lesbian bar.

Arichlesbian bar.

Every person inside was dressed to kill with their dark suits and sharply cut bobs. Some wore ties, some wore little black dresses that left very little to the imagination, but everyone wasstyled. They were tailored and intentional and chic.