She sat up on Vivian’s tufted sky-blue couch and pushed off the mustard-colored fleece blanket she’d been sleeping under for the last month. Her back screamed at her. Vivian’s sofa was definitely an aesthetic choice, the stylish tufts making Daphne’s body feel about two decades older than her twenty-five years, but it wasn’t as though she had room to complain.
“Oh, good, you’re awake,” Vivian said, glancing up from where she sat at the bar in her tiny kitchen. She wore leggings and a wide-necked sweatshirt, revealing one smooth dark brown shoulder, and her long twists were piled on top of her head and secured with a mint-green headband. She tapped on her phone and sipped her usual matcha latte—Daphne could smell the grassy aroma from here.
“I’m not sureawakeis quite accurate,” Daphne said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The morning sun streaming through thewindows in Vivan’s one-bedroom Boston apartment was so bright it made her teeth ache.
Vivian sighed.
Vivian had been sighing a lot for the last month, not that Daphne could blame her. Daphne had been crashing on her couch since the end of April—something neither of them planned or wanted—and Vivian had put up with oceans of Daphne tears, at least a dozen pints of ice cream, days of staring into the void, and twelve-hour sleep cycles on the aforementioned couch, which was located in the middle of the small living room.
Needless to say, Daphne had worn out her welcome.
“I’ve got to get going pretty soon,” Vivian said, sliding off the stool and then hand-washing her mug in the sink. “So should you. Clover Lake is only a little over an hour away, but my aunt doesn’t appreciate lateness.”
Daphne nodded.
“Are you excited?” Vivian asked, shutting off the water and drying her mug with a pink towel.
Daphne forced a smile. “Absolutely.”
Vivian sighed. “Have you packed?”
Daphne nodded again, a bobblehead doll stuck to a car’s dashboard, before stopping abruptly. “Well, mostly.”
Vivian released her third sigh in the last ten minutes, then stepped over Daphne’s giant teal suitcase, which was one of the only things she owned other than her clothes and a few books. It was a nice suitcase too. Elena had bought it for her about a year ago, though she’d never really had a chance to use it yet.
She sent both hands through her hair. Or she tried, but her fingers tangled in the myriad knots scattered throughout her curls. She grabbed a hair tie from the coffee table, secured her locks into a messy bun on top of her head.
Took a deep breath.
She had to get it together.
Hadto.
Vivian was beyond sick of her, she knew. Until a month ago, she’d only spoken to her college roommate sporadically since they’d graduated Boston University three years ago. They’d been close during their shared time in the fine arts department—Vivian studying modern dance, Daphne visual art with a concentration in painting—but had drifted apart after they graduated. Daphne wished she could say it was simply a natural progression of their relationship, a product of a transition in both of their lives. Vivian got a job with a professional dance company in Boston, while Daphne…
Well, whathadDaphne done, exactly?
She’d fallen in love.
That was it, the extent of her foray into adulthood. She packed up her heart, tied it all up with a silk bow, and gave it freely to Elena Watson. Sure, she had a part-time job at the renowned art museum where she’d interned her senior year (and met Elena), and she’d produced a lot of paintings in the last three years (mediocre, and which were probably tossed in the recycling bin outside of Elena’s penthouse apartment the second Daphne moved out), but mostly, Daphne had been a girlfriend.
And she’d been agreatgirlfriend.
She made dinner.
She ran errands.
She dusted and made their bed every morning.
She made sure Elena’s kitchen was always stocked with her expensive espresso and her favorite oat milk.
She wastherefor Elena.
Every gallery event, every art-world party, every quiet night snuggled on the couch together watching indie films Daphnesecretly found depressing. Their sex life was incredible—at least in Daphne’s limited experience—and Elena had always held her close afterward, whispering how much she loved her.
Three years of domestic bliss, and then…
Daphne pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes until color exploded behind her lids.
