For the Love of April French

by Penny Aimes

  Oh, she did. Not only did she not want to have to look into that asshole’s face, have him looking at her, but she did her best to avoid the fourth floor, even while Dennis was stuck on the East Coast. She wondered sometimes if Dennis had figured it out by now. She was in the directory... No. She was fooling herself. If he knew, it would be over. The lie-of-omission had gone on too long.

  April gestured with her hands, drawing shapes and lines on the tabletop. “I like helping people. I’m a people pleaser, that’s who I am. And now somehow, it’s my job to run around trying to balance everybody’s needs and come up with a plan that pisses everyone off equally. It’s like I’m collecting requirements just so I can piss off the developers and disappoint the stakeholders. I hate it.”

  Fatima shook her head. “I’m sorry, April. I knew from your texts you were struggling but I had no idea...” She sighed. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

  “It’s not your fault. I didn’t sign up for this Product Owner bullshit when I took the promotion, anyway. It just kind of happened.” She sank back in the chair. “I guess I can do it. I mean, it’s not like I have a lot of options. Most jobs in Texas don’t cover my meds, let alone surgery.”

  Fatima patted her hand. “Do you want to see the baby? She’s good at cheering people up.”

  April smiled weakly. “I’d like that.”

  It was a cute baby. April found the whole subject of babies confusing. She’d never wanted kids when her designated role was father, and now that her options had changed, she wasn’t sure what she thought. Maybe the concept of surrogacy or adoption just fucked with her anxieties about being second place too much. But all that to the side, it was a damn cute specimen of the species, with enormous dark eyes and a light dusting of coal-black hair.

  “Hello, tiny person,” she whispered. “I wrote a letter to my grandma.” Two weeks ago. No response. She jiggled the infant up and down gently. “What do you think?”

  The baby made a noise.

  “You’re right, probably a bad idea.”

  When she got home and checked her phone, she had a voicemail from Dennis.

  Good news, doll. I’m heading back to Austin finally. I want to see you this weekend. Frankie’s?

  Yes. Please.

  October

  And then they were together again at last, on the roof of Frankie’s, on a weeknight. Now that it was October, the heaters were up and running. He had put her in a bodycon dress that wasn’t warm enough, and he had made up for it by giving her his jacket. It was a romantic gesture, but the hateful part of her wasted time wishing she could drown in it the way Caroline would have.

  (Caroline had stopped them downstairs so she could show off a new purchase from Kendra Scott. “What do you think, sir?” she asked, tossing her dark hair to show how the earrings matched the necklace half-buried in her cleavage. “Did I do a good job?”

  “Absolutely,” he’d rumbled, and she’d thanked him in an especially subservient way, and that was fine. That was completely fine.)

  All in all, her mood wasn’t great when she told him about making another drop-off at the clothing exchange and his face clouded. It was nonverbal, but definitely there, and she found she couldn’t let it go.

  “Why are you always weird about that?” she demanded. “Anytime I talk about getting rid of clothes you get weird. It’s not like you ever wanted me to wear those, anyway.” In truth, they were clothes she rarely wanted to wear herself anymore. You buy a lot of stuff when you’re first working out your style, and she had had to do it at thirty instead of thirteen.

  She didn’t know why she was picking a fight about this, except it was just one too many topics they flinched away from. His insistence she hang on to her old clothes felt like one more way for them both to keep one foot out the door.

  “I don’t want you to feel like you have to get rid of your own things just because I give you a present,” he said. Evasively, in her opinion. She felt frustration rising, an itch in her throat.

  “Well, I do, because I don’t have the space, Dennis!” she sighed. “And you know I feel weird spending so much on clothes when other people live on that much. It helps my conscience.”

  He looked stung by that. “I’m aware of how lucky I am to have what I have. I try to use my money responsibly and that does include charity. But I do set aside a certain amount for an entertainment budget. If I’d rather see you all decked out than... I don’t know, buy season tickets to the Spurs, then so what?”

  She gestured at herself. “Well, are you not entertained, Sir?” She had never been like this with him—sarcastic and outright disrespectful—but the whole thing just seemed so...ridiculous. “What’s the problem with me making space in my own apartment?”

  His frown deepened. “You’re in a bratty mood tonight. Did I make you edge too much today?”

  “Don’t do that,” she snapped.

  “No?”

  “No. Red, if you need that, okay? Red. I’m not bratting and I don’t want comments about how long it’s been since I came. I want to know why you’re shitty when I give away my clothes. They’re my damn clothes.”

  “If they’re your damn clothes then why do you care what I think?” He looked away, off into the cityscape beyond the rooftop.

  “Uh, maybe because of this—” She gestured to include him, and her, and the entire club. “—whole fucking dynamic where I’m trying to get your approval all the time, maybe? It’s not fair for you to not tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

  “You’re not doing anything wrong, and I’m not disapproving.” Then why did it feel like he was receding from her, out over the horizon of the city?

  She shook her head. “I know you don’t like it. I know you don’t.”

  “It shouldn’t matter.”

  “But it does! We can draw lines around the games we play but if you can’t help showing your opinion all over your face then they get pretty damn blurred, okay?” There were tears in her eyes; there was a time when she’d been thankful for the ability to cry, to feel real emotions, but right now it seemed like a sucker’s bet.

  “I’m sorry if our game isn’t giving you pleasure anymore,” he said, still staring over the rooftops, and she felt an awful twist in the pit of her stomach.

  “Please tell me,” she said, deflating. “Please just tell me.”

  “I told you I did this once before,” he said, eyes still on the hotel lights. “When she left, she didn’t take anything I bought her. And because she’d gradually replaced everything, she had nothing when she left. I begged her to pack a bag at least, told her I didn’t give a damn about it, that she didn’t owe me anything, but she said they were mine and...”

  She waited.

  “...and she wasn’t anymore.” He let his eyes return to hers, and what she saw there hurt her so much she wanted to avert her gaze. “She left our home like a runaway, with nothing. She went home to her family, and God knows what they thought of me. I would’ve given her anything. I would’ve given her the whole damn condo. But she didn’t want it, didn’t want anything that reminded her of me. I failed her and she wanted to...delete me from her life, and if that meant losing everything, she was willing to do it.

  “I don’t ever want to fail someone like that again. But what if I do?” His eyes continued to bore into her; she didn’t look away. “If I ever do, I don’t want you to be in the same position. Okay? Is that okay, April? Is it okay that I feel that way, or does it spoil the game?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a tiny voice.

  He covered his face with his hands and drew them down slowly. “You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t—you were right to call me out. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I mean... I’m sorry that happened to you, Dennis. I’m sorry.” She slid forward and put her arms around him, and for once it didn’t bother her that they were the same height. It felt
good to wrap him up. “I don’t know the details and I’m sure she had her reasons, but that must have been devastating for you.”

  “I can tell you,” he said quietly.

  “You don’t owe me that,” she said. (And something whispered, And what if it’s terrible? What if it changes everything?) “Thank you for telling me as much as you did. It helps.”

  “It’s not exactly the image I’m trying to project,” he said, in a choked voice.

  “Maybe you’re overdressed,” she said, and let herself stroke the tight coils of his hair, palm the stubble of his cheeks. And he closed his eyes and let her, turning towards her and her kiss.

  “I promise,” she said solemnly, “not to throw all the beautiful things you gave me in the trash. No matter how mad I get at you. Does that help?”

  “You can’t be sure you’ll feel that way.”

  “I’m pretty sure.” She fished her own necklace out of the neckline of her dress. “My ex-wife gave me this as a graduation gift. For when I need direction.”

  “It’s a compass. Does it work?”

  She nodded. “I’ve had to walk away from a lot of my past. I keep everything I can. If we stop playing together, Dennis, I hope we’re still friends. And even if we aren’t, I’m always going to treasure the way your gifts made me feel. Like I was worth it.”

  She’d made her peace with it now; someday she would be nothing but a memory to him, and she just hoped she’d be a good one. It was impossible to stay angry with him, when he was just hoping for the same thing.

  “You are worth so much, April. So much more than I can give you.”

  And there it was, wasn’t it? Everyone agreed on that; every person who rejected her or didn’t want to take things deeper. She deserved love. And they couldn’t give it to her.

  “You give me plenty,” she said in a rough voice, and tried to believe it was true.

  He began to rub her shoulders silently. She sighed and relaxed into his touch. “Thank you,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For telling me. And for using your safeword when you needed to. Good girl.”

  She smiled and dipped her head towards his, forehead to forehead. “My ex-wife...” she said.

  “Mm-hm?” He was hardly breathing. She never talked about this, she knew.

  “She got mad when I would safeword sometimes.”

  “I’m so sorry. That’s awful.” He sounded horrified.

  “She wouldn’t say, but...when she was pissed off, she had ways to let you know.”

  If he asks, I’ll tell him, she thought.

  But he didn’t ask; not about that. “I’m sorry.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and shifted away slightly. “Is everything okay, doll?” He held up his hands. “I was out of line. I admit it. But you seem wound up. In a bad way.”

  She looked away. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “What happened?”

  Hm. Would she rather talk about work stuff or family stuff? She didn’t usually talk about work stuff with him, it was safer that way, but her grandma had read the letter and all hell had broken loose with her parents. “Just work stuff. I... I don’t know that I told you about it. I’ve been getting stuck in this lousy Product Owner role at work, right?”

  “Hey!” he said. “You’re talking to a certified Scrum master, lady. Product Owners are important. It’s been like pulling teeth to get my company to designate them.”

  Oh, so it’s your fault, she thought. Guilt flooded her stomach. Maybe this was a mistake. “Well anyway there’s a new developer on the team and he misgendered me.”

  “What?” he said, in a voice like a whip crack.

  She avoided his eyes. “Yep. We were wrapping up the call and he called me Mr. French.”

  “That mother—”

  “It’s not like he could tell from my voice,” she said quietly, and he lifted her chin and kissed her thoroughly.

  “I love your voice,” he said. She had absolutely no idea what to say to that. It had to be a kind lie. It had to be. She moved on quickly.

  “Anyway, I called him on it and later he phoned me to apologize. He said...” God, this was humiliating. “He said he thought I was Mr. French because that’s what the lead developer always calls me.” Good ol’ Born-Again Bob.

  Dennis didn’t say anything, but she could feel the anger baking off him. “He forwarded me some emails to prove it. Fuck, just when I thought I was finally making some headway with them.” She shook her head ruefully. Then she looked up. “Hey.”

  He looked like he was about to come undone, but not in the way she liked. “Don’t be so upset,” she said. “It happens.”

  “It shouldn’t happen.” It shouldn’t feel this good to soak up his anger, should it? She shouldn’t be fantasizing about Dennis rolling up his sleeves and beating the shit out of Bob Flowers, of Dennis defending her with bare knuckles and that look in his eye. It shouldn’t turn her on.

  “Well it does,” she said briskly. “What do you think about taking me downstairs and dancing?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said. Calmly. But there was still a gleam in his eyes that she was glad wasn’t aimed at her, for once.

  And on Monday, Born-Again Bob was fired.

  Part III: Dennis

  At the beginning of the same six months, Dennis Martin had a lot of goals. He would finish his house. He would work hard to become a better dom. He would overhaul the Technology division and make it work no matter how many people he had to piss off. He would figure out where Austin was hiding all the Black people. He would make friends with the chief operations officer, Leo Graham, if it killed him. He would show April French that he wanted her and no one else.

  Two of these things did not happen:

  *His house was not finished.

  *He did not make friends with Leo Graham.

  May

  When he woke up in April’s apartment the morning after she told him she didn’t want a relationship, Dennis’s first instinct was to bail. He woke up ahead of her. It would be simple enough to dress, press a kiss to her cheek and be out the door before any further conversation could happen.

  That’s what he would’ve done with any of the hookups he’d had since things with Sonia ended. He kept them at arm’s length, and nobody got their feelings hurt because everyone knew what was up. It felt like it was already too late for that with April.

  He looked sideways at her sleeping form. She really did have a lot of hair, halfway to her waist when it was down (right now it was shoved up above her like a cloud so she didn’t sleep on it) and thick. The desire to comb that hair, to braid it or wrap it in a delicate bun like she’d had last night, appeared in his mind. He was not by any means a Daddy Dom—Lord, once you started looking, the gradations of kink were endless, weren’t they?—but he liked to pamper women. He used to paint Sonia’s nails.

  He rolled away from her and groaned quietly. Every time he looked at April French, he thought long-term, he thought plans, he thought of ways to wind their mutual kinks around them and make their entire lives a playground. And that train of thought led, inevitably, to Sonia, and train wrecks.

  His phone was on the floor by the bed. Dead, because he hadn’t charged it. He tried to imagine what Jason would have said in response to his late night text..

  Dennis: You were right.

  Imaginary Jason: Always. What was I right about this time?

  Dennis: She doesn’t want a relationship.

  And what would Jason say then? Something funny and scathing, something that would make him feel better and stop taking himself so seriously. Certainly not the imprecations his own brain filled the gap with.

  Imaginary Jason: So you know you’re ready for another serious relationship. That probably doesn’t mean you have to wife up the first person you meet after you’re ready.
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  Was that it? Was she just...here, when he was ready? He turned again to look at her, at her sleeping profile, free of makeup. The high cheekbones, the full lips, the faint shadows under her skin that made her so self-conscious. There was a pang when he looked at her, not of ordinary desire but of what was for him the very foundation of desire. Of care.

  What did he really even know about her? Well...she was tough. She had to be, to have gone through what she did and still be so vulnerable. To not be jaded. She took care of other people. She played games with the best of them but with a spark in her eyes that said, aren’t we having fun? Some subs could be so serious, almost morose in their obedience. Sonia had been.

  Especially towards the end, he thought, and you know why, don’t you?

  Enough. Enough of that.

  She stirred in her sleep and he realized he needed to make a decision about a question much more immediate than why am I drawn to this woman?

  He slid out of the bed and maneuvered through the studio. When he looked back at the bed her eyes were open and they didn’t look surprised or hurt. They didn’t look relieved, either. There was just bleak acceptance there, that of course he was going to sneak out now.

  “I’m gonna take a shower,” he said as gently as he could. “You can sleep.”

  She struggled up on her elbows. “I can get you a towel.”

  “I know where the towels are,” he said with a wry note, and it made her laugh as he hoped. “Do you have stuff for breakfast, or do you want to order in?”

  He knew he’d read her right when she brightened. “I’ve got some stuff.”

  “Have you got eggs?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I make great scrambled eggs.”

  In the shower, he had a brief window to think. She said she didn’t want him to be her boyfriend. That could mean a few things: she didn’t want a boyfriend. She didn’t want him to be her boyfriend. She didn’t think he was able to be her boyfriend. She didn’t think he wanted to be her boyfriend and was trying to get out first.