For the Love of April French Page 9

  In practice, she spent a lot of time poring over financial data from health care providers, usually provided in the most inconvenient format possible. It turned out that what had made life easy as a consultant—“Hey, whatever format you’ve got is fine!”—created a nightmare for Operations staff. Yet on the best days, deciphering and manipulating the data into a usable shape was a bit like solving a puzzle, and she’d learned to make Excel sit up and beg.

  Actually entering the data into the massive manual cost reports was tedious, but it helped the Medicaid safety net and that felt good. And because the company was headquartered in New England, her insurance covered virtually all of her transition costs.

  A promotion would still be mostly the same kind of work. She would be salaried instead of hourly. More meetings. More money. More visibility. There was no reason to not want it. It made it hard to explain why she didn’t.

  She dressed her salad in the restaurant down the street and tried to explain to Fatima. “I like having my own time. I don’t even have work email on my phone, you know? When you’re salaried, you’re really working 24/7.”

  “Listen, you don’t have to tell me. I’m the one whose phone is blowing up in Lamaze,” grunted Fatima. She took a bite of her lunch. “They do expect to be able to get you anytime. But anytime isn’t all the time. And they’re more flexible about your time in the office. It’s really not that different.”

  “It feels like it to me. I like leaving work at work.”

  “So say no.” Fatima shrugged. “But I’ll warn you...they’ll ask you where you see yourself in five years and start coaching you out the door, if you don’t want to move to salaried. I’ve seen it happen.”

  April scowled. “I like this job. I like this company. I just want to stay where I am.”

  “Where do you see yourself in five years, April?” Fatima’s expression of gentle concern looked maternal, although that was pretty much inevitable at this point. She only had a few days until her maternity leave began; she radiated maternal like a leaking nuclear reactor.

  In five years, she’d be able to see forty on a clear day. “I don’t know. What’s wrong with where I am? I like my apartment. I can do this job and I don’t hate it. I’ve got...my hobbies. My friends.”

  “Whatever happened with that guy?”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” she said in a rush. That was the last thing she wanted to think about.

  “Okay. No boyfriend. Same job. Same apartment. Dungeons & Dragons once a month. That’s what you see for yourself five years from now?”

  “I guess so.” She dropped her eyes to her plate and thought, hey, don’t forget a sex club where I’m known for being sweet and reliable.

  Not that there was anything wrong with those adjectives—not that she didn’t enjoy her volunteer activities—but event planning sure the hell wasn’t why she’d started going to kink clubs. Guys like Dennis and women like Sandra were why she’d started. She loved Frankie’s, loved helping make it a community, but it could be hard to hold on to that when she started to feel more like a caretaker of the community than a part of it.

  “Is that where you want to be five years from now?”

  She sat in silence a long time. “I guess I’ve never...been happy with my life for this long. I don’t know why it has to change.”

  Fatima patted her hand. “Everything changes. And thank God for that. I never expected to be pregnant while Jamil was in college, but I’m happy. I’m going to have my little girl finally. I never expected to end up doing this work when I went to school—I thought I was going to be a nurse! Can you imagine me as a nurse?

  “You’re not the person you were five years ago, and I know that’s good. Why are you afraid?”

  “The person I was five years ago...” She thought about Dennis asking about her past. “He’s dead. I like being alive. That’s enough to scare anybody off change.”

  “It’s none of my business,” said Fatima, throwing up her hands. This was invariably the sign that came before a big-time meddle. “If you want to throw away a promotion and a perfectly good man, it’s up to you.”

  “I didn’t throw him away,” she snapped, and realized too late she’d taken the bait.

  “So he’s the one who bailed on you? Show me this fool so I can smack him upside his head,” Fatima said in a gruff voice, and April found herself laughing.

  “He didn’t... We just—we’re better as friends.” Who masturbate together...

  “Mm-hm. And who suggested that?”

  She replayed the conversation. “I mean... I guess I did.”

  “So you did throw him away.”

  “I didn’t—for God’s sake, Fatima. You have to butt out.” Strictly speaking, she had been the one to suggest it. But she knew how this worked. Fatima hadn’t been through this cycle before; Fatima hadn’t seen the strings of connections that had gotten her hopes up and then ghosted or bounced as soon as things got messy or inconvenient or simply because a better opportunity came along.

  Dennis was lovely. Dennis was under her skin more than anyone had been in a long time. But she couldn’t afford to invest herself into a relationship that was doomed. She couldn’t do it again.

  “I don’t have to do anything,” Fatima said placidly. “I’m a pregnant woman, the world is my bitch. In a week I’ll be gone for maternity leave, and now it’s my chance to set everyone straight before I go while they can’t say boo to me.”

  April sighed in exasperation.

  “You were happy last week. I haven’t seen you that happy before. Now, suddenly, it’s over. If there’s a good reason, fine. If there’s not—then maybe you’re getting in your own way, like with this promotion.”

  “Wait, is this about my love life or my career?”

  “It’s about whatever I want it to be. Look...if you don’t want the promotion, don’t take it. But find something else. Think about a job where you do see a future and go there. Same thing with this man. Holding still isn’t a plan, April.”

  She looked down again wearily. “I guess.” In the messy chaos of her divorce and relocation, of her medical and legal and administrative transition—after a life that had seemed impossibly long because she hadn’t wanted to be living it—holding still had seemed like impossible grace to April. Why be in such a rush to give it up?

  Was it really time to start moving again? It terrified and attracted her in equal measure.

  The pregnant woman nodded to herself, watching April’s pensive down-turned face. “All right, all right. I’ll drop it. Hey—you want to hear some gossip? That new CTO, you know what I heard about him?”

  April froze. “What?” she asked, tearing a bread roll slowly to pieces.

  “Dude’s a millionaire.”

  She choked. Genuinely choked, to the point that her friend half-started from her chair to help. She gulped some water and waved her off. “What?”

  “His last job was at a start-up and I heard he cashed out with millions. Plural. Less than ten, more than five.”

  “That...can’t be right...” She knew he had money, but...millions? “Why would he be here?”

  Fatima shrugged. “Just a rumor. Who knows, yeah?”

  Maybe...maybe that made it seem more fair. I don’t tell him we both work here. He doesn’t tell me he’s a millionaire. We obviously barely know each other. Didn’t this, if anything, confirm her perception of their relationship? April could just maybe envision a future for herself with a cute, gentle, normal guy with a penchant for ropes. Could she see herself as the girlfriend of a millionaire? Absolutely not. She wasn’t sure she could even make sense of herself as the side piece of a millionaire.

  And ridiculously, embarrassingly, in spite of all her attempts at distance and the egregious hypocrisy, she felt hurt he hadn’t told her. It was kind of a big thing not to mention.

  Later
that night she sat in her reading nook with a bottle of wine and thought about it all. What did her future hold? She was getting older, and suddenly that scared her in a way it hadn’t when she thought she’d be an old man. In truth, she’d always sort of thought she wouldn’t live that long. Hadn’t wanted to.

  Someday I’ll be an old woman, she thought, for perhaps the first time. And I’ll probably still have to shave. God. What if my hand shakes too much to do it someday and I look like Santa Claus?

  She picked up her phone and, without stopping to think about it, called Dennis. When he picked up, she knew from the thump of bass he was at Frankie’s or some other club. She could hear a crowd of people; she could hear a woman saying his name. “April? Is something wrong?” Why did he think that? Because she was sitting here silently, listening to a future that wasn’t hers?

  She hung up. The phone began to ring at once and she answered with a text. Sorry. Butt dial.

  She decided she was going to take the promotion. Because holding still wasn’t a plan and the future looked empty. Because Dennis was just one person, wasn’t the answer to all her problems, but he was the first person in a long time to care in that way, the first person to really see her and really want her in a long time, and she’d slammed the door so fast she almost lost a finger. Because Fatima had two kids and a great marriage and a job she loved, and Dennis was apparently a fucking millionaire and she...existed. And once it had seemed like enough, like such a precious thing, just for April to exist, for April to be allowed to exist. But now she wanted more, a huge ugly angry wanting, and she didn’t know how to fill it.

  Dennis texted her the next day and things seemed...normal. She didn’t tell him about the promotion. That weekend they met virtually for their first check-in. It was low-key; she edged for him on camera, studiously avoiding the view of herself and focusing on his praise. He masturbated and made her watch him have what she couldn’t. There were no real mind games or coercion involved, despite his emails. She did not talk about her job.

  “I have to admit,” he said, smiling. “I was hoping you’d be a little antsier by now.”

  “I, uh...” She paused, then continued. “My ex-wife and I used to play chastity games. Like...with a lock on it and everything.”

  His eyebrows went up. “I see. You didn’t mention that before.”

  “My ex-wife? Or chastity devices?”

  He laughed. “Either, I suppose.”

  “Well, most chastity devices for people with penises need testicles, and mine are in a jar somewhere,” she said calmly. “And I don’t talk much about that part of my life.” As she knew he would, he took that as a cue, and didn’t ask anything further. Good. That was good.

  “In that case, let’s make your next opportunity a month out,” he said, and she whimpered. Bit her lip.

  And then with a spark in her eyes, she said, “Let’s make it two.”

  She wasn’t sure why she said it. Punishing herself for keeping the secret? Trying to show him that she was experienced at this, that it was going to take more than some hot emails and a webcam view of his dick to get to her? Probably, she thought, this was going to fade into the background. She’d had doms like that before, people who came and went and checked she was still in compliance without being a real part of her life. It was fun, if a bit...self-service. Guided masturbation.

  If she was going to shrink into a footnote in his schedule, might as well speed it up. She was going to focus on work, right?

  And there was plenty of work. At first, she found herself enjoying the promotion more than she expected. The hours did get worse, but not a lot. She had to do a little development work, which was new to her. She still didn’t have to deal directly with clients, but she had more interaction with internal stakeholders rather than just direction from her supervisor, and enjoyed working with the consultants and business analysts, collaborating and working to support them and figure out how to solve their problems. She’d done their jobs in her previous life and knew how to talk to them.

  She’d always liked dealing with clients, and doing something similar divorced from the pressure to sell, and in an environment ruled by HR policies, was a huge relief. It felt like maybe, for the first time since she switched from consulting to operations, she had a career path and a future here instead of an eternal present.

  At first.

  June

  As the summer wore on, Dennis continued to be attentive. They continued to check in weekly, either virtually or in person, depending on his travel. With the date set, it was less about discussion and more a welcome opportunity for him to tease her. He asked her how many pairs of panties she’d ruined by dripping in them; watched her edge, drew out the filthiest language she’d ever used making her beg.

  On the other hand, in the run-up and recovery from her session of full-face electrolysis she dropped out entirely for a full week—no pictures, no clothing instructions, no edges—and he was gentle with her. During their virtual check-in they played Mario Kart and didn’t mention it. He was...kind.

  What are you? she thought. What is this? What am I to you? But those were all questions she’d made impossible to ask.

  About six weeks into her denial regimen, she got another email.

  I want you to get some new clothes. I’ll give you a prepaid card. I want you to spend up to $500 a week. However, I’ll have veto power. You’ll have to return anything I don’t approve.

  She fired back:

  are you joking?

  This is not a joke. It is, however, a game. Do you want to play?

  Of course she did. Of course she couldn’t. She sat frozen, staring at her screen.

  We should discuss it in person, of course. We can talk about it this weekend. I’m back in town. I just wanted to gauge your interest first.

  Interested didn’t mean she had to do it, right? But maybe he could...talk her into it. He was a millionaire. Was this what millionaires did? Surely not. If they were dating, maybe...not with someone they’d very explicitly decided they weren’t seeing exclusively.

  im definitely interested, she typed carefully.

  He was still living with Jason and the club was too loud for a serious discussion, so they agreed to meet at her apartment once he was back in town. She obsessed for a while about what to wear, but that turned out to be very simple, because around noon on Saturday he texted her.

  Dennis: Wear something simple. White. A skirt or dress.

  No shoes. No jewelry. No underwear. Makeup if you choose but nothing dramatic.

  Wear the cuffs I gave you.

  Followed by an emoji of a stoplight.

  yes Sir, she sent, adding a green heart.

  She looked through her closet and found a white sundress she never wore, and put her hair back in a high ponytail. She really did intend to keep her makeup light, but once she went over her beard shadow with orange concealer, she needed more foundation than she expected to cover it; and then her eyebrows were wiped out, so she needed to use an eyebrow pencil; and then her eyes looked unbalanced without mascara; and then her complexion was flat so she needed blush; and then her mouth was washed out, so she went over it with a neutral lip crayon...

  It took forty-five minutes, but when she was done, she liked what she saw. It didn’t look heavy or dramatic, or even have the bright pops of color she favored for work to really sell the “I’m a girl!” message. It looked like...her, in a kinder world. She liked what estrogen had done with the shape of her face, and now she’d touched up all the things she couldn’t ignore.

  She painted her toenails; she couldn’t hope to match the black-pink ombre still on her fingers, but she could at least get in the same general area.

  Even with other general preparations, she was ready by five o’clock. She sat down on her bed and wondered what on earth she was going to worry about if she couldn’t worry about her appearance.
She decided to clean her apartment. It didn’t take long; it was a tiny apartment.

  She wondered, as she wiped down the counters and moved books from their random stacks to their homes in the Ikea shelves, if that’s why he felt like he needed to buy her clothes. Was she too obviously broke to spend time with a millionaire? What did that say about the clothes she already had?

  I’m not going to think about this. I’m not going to get myself all wound up when he’ll be here in a little while to explain. I’m not going to do it.

  She did it, anyway.

  She sat on the bed, and then she decided that if she did that, they might never end up talking about anything, so she moved to the small reading nook she’d created in one corner by putting a couple of armchairs there. She liked her tiny apartment; she liked being downtown and was willing to live in a studio to do it. So there, imaginary Dennis.

  She read The Calyx Charm for a while and then had to get up when he knocked on her door, anyway.

  “Hi.” He smiled at her, and she told herself not to turn to mush. Today was not going well in terms of listening to her own mental commands. Today he was proving he could wear casual clothing—jeans, which fit in exactly the way she had hoped for, and a light linen button-down and Allen Edmonds loafers. She was mush. She was ultra-mush. She wanted to go to him and kneel at his feet and lay her cheek against his thigh and just exist there for a thousand years. She wanted to orbit him like a cold planet eternally falling towards the sun; desperate for the warmth, but afraid to burn.

  She was staring. She cleared her throat. “Hi.”

  She brought him over to the reading nook, smoothed the dress over her knees, and looked across at him. “I... I should say, I dressed the way you wanted, but I really think we need to talk about this out of role.” Because nothing made her feel like her everyday, out-of-role self like having her dress grazing directly over her excited nipples and clit every time she breathed.