For reasons she herself doesn't understand completely, Florence Vassy does not return to England after the disastrous tournament in Bangkok.
She doesn't want to think about it. She never, ever wants to think about it again.
She doesn't want to think about Freddie.
She doesn't want to think about Anatoly.
She doesn't fucking want to think about chess.
And that means England is out of the question. It doesn't matter, really. Circumstances have left her a citizen of the world and she takes full advantage of her connections, of her carefully squirreled finances, of her reputation, and gets on a plane to America.
It comes as a great relief when she hears from a friend of a friend that Freddie Trumper has relocated to his hometown in New Jersey, because it leaves the big apple for her. She's always been fond of New York – Florence enjoys the bustle, takes comfort in her own anonymity. No one in this city is looking at her, for her… She can finally be invisible.
It's easy to find a new career. She's got three degrees, none of which she'd ever had to use, but suddenly it's paying off, all of those long hours toiling and studying in her early twenties. No one had appreciated it before, but now.
Well. Now it's her time. Time she made her own path.
She does.
It gets lonely, and she doesn't want to admit that.
She doesn't need them, and she doesn't want to think about them, so she doesn't. She doesn't. She works and works and works, and she doesn't think of those two awful men, of that godforsaken board game, of politicians and gambits and betrayal.
So, naturally, she ends up at a bar on a Wednesday night, tipsy and rambling her own sob story at the redheaded bartender, who looks thankfully more amused than annoyed.
"Sweetheart," she says, reaching over the bar to steady her – Florence stops leaning, heat blooming in her cheeks at the light touch."It's one in the morning. Time to head home, unless you want to sleep back here with the Scotch."
Florence, to her credit, is a compliant drunk, and the woman stepping out from behind the counter right now has very shiny lips and very pretty earrings and she's happy enough to walk out with her.
"I'm sorry," she tells her honestly, anxiously, but the woman just smirks.
"No, I'm sorry. You're going to hate yourself tomorrow," she laughs, and hails herself a cab. "Get home safe."
"My name is Florence," Florence says, as though it's relevant – as though this girl probably cares about anything except getting home so she can have a drink of her own and probably go to bed directly afterward.
"April," comes the reply, and then the cab is pulling away from the curb, and Florence stands outside the bar in the orange pavement beneath the streetlight for nearly twenty more minutes, just wondering.
It's four months post-Bangkok.
She does hate herself in the morning, but it doesn't keep her from going back.
The leaves aren't quite changing colors yet, but there's a bite in the air when she arrives after a long and harrowing day at the office, hair sticking out of her ponytail at odd angles, makeup smudged, looking thoroughly disgruntled. She intends to apologize, and sure enough, there is that woman with the red hair, April, her earrings twinkling in the strobe lights as she smiles at the sleazy men who hit on her near continuously, as Florence remembers, all through the night.
Come to think of it, not many men had approached them once Florence had started talking. She can't imagine why that is, but she's grateful.
Also, embarrassed. Hence the apology.
But it's hard to get a hold of April like this, and she's loath to bother her, so two hours later when the early crowd has thinned she slides into a seat directly across from the taps and shifts awkwardly, adjusting her blazer.
"Another bad day? That's two in a row." April tosses that playful tone of voice over her shoulder like a ball and Florence fumbles to catch it, flushing despite herself. She glances back and clucks her tongue, grinning.
Florence forces herself to relax. It's harder than it should be.
April is a very pretty girl. Her hair is fire-engine red, but she pulls it off; her eyes are incredibly green, but that might just be the emphasis her makeup puts on it… and God, Florence wishes she could do her own eyeliner half that well. She has to be younger than Florence by at least five years, but she's obviously old enough to tend a bar, and something about the set of her shoulders tells Florence she might know just as much about the world, or at least the dirtier parts of it.
"No, not any worse than any other day," she admits, smiling sheepishly and feeling uncomfortably like she's emulating Freddie in the process.
But she's not thinking of him.
"Just needed to unwind, then?" April winks and pushes a glass over to her. "It's on the house. It's good to know you survived. I felt bad for not getting you a cab."
If her cheeks had been hot before, then now they're on fire. Oh God, she thinks I'm a sloppy drunken excuse for a –
Florence sips at her drink to disguise her flush and smiles when she recognizes the taste. "You remembered." Granted, April had probably sat there listening to her ramble about how much she loved apple martinis for about an hour and a half the night before, but Florence is in the middle of pretending that never happened.
Except she still needs to apologize…
April doesn't give her a moment to contemplate it, though, sweeping away to tend the other patrons and tossing her cheeky smiles every once in a while, and eventually Florence gives up and leaves her an extra-generous tip on her way out the door, feeling foolish for ever thinking this was a good idea.
She returns the next night, and the next three after that, and April seems pleased to see her every time. Which is odd. But odder is the fact that Florence keeps coming.
She's never been one for the bar scene, even in college, when Freddie used to take her to get smashed with him on Friday nights (or, more often than not, to be his designated driver – not that he had ever admitted to that). The flashing neon makes her head ache, and the noise is even worse.
But April is entertaining. Somehow she finds the time to chat Florence up every night, about everything – she asks her about her job, her nonexistent love life, her apartment (April, apparently, is living with her ex and a few of his friends at the moment in a run-down pile of shit apartment in the East Village, and Florence spends half an hour wincing on her behalf as she describes the petty revenge tactics they'd all started to employ when she'd made it clear she wasn't going to sleep with him anymore) and in return Florence starts to get a fluttery feeling in her gut every time April casts those pretty eyes on her.
Another thing that she never did in college is experiment. She'd shut herself in her dorm to study right up until she'd met Freddie in her junior year, and at that point he'd been the only sensible choice, with the way she was bent on her career and he on his. And now…
Now, she feels like some hormone-driven sorority girl, and it's making her absolutely dizzy.
April has very soft hands, and very sharp eyes, and an even sharper sense of humor. Florence hasn't had a friend nearly five months, longer if you didn't count that disaster with Anatoly. April, though, begins to feel very much like a friend. Or something like that...
It's a Friday night, and the man tending the bar is both unpleasant and unfamiliar.
Florence holds her tongue, barely, and watches him gruffly go about his business from the end of the bar. This isn't what she'd come here for. An ugly thought rears it's head – what if April had quit, and not told her?
But no – she'd told Florence that she'd be working tonight, for sure. Then, afterwards, they would finally go out together and have a night on the town.
It was too good to be true, obviously. April was nowhere to be seen.
Taking one last furtive, mildly disgusted glance at the sullen, greasy-haired man tending the bar, Florence slips out of her seat and reluctantly slips through the jostling crowds to the door.
The nights are getting colder and colder. It's been seven months since Bangkok and December had crept up on her without warning – of course, she was used to the dreary cold and damp of England, and this was no worse, but the city turned the snow to dirty, oily slush and all that remained was frostbite and bitter voices grumbling. Somehow, tonight in particular it felt even colder – lonelier, really, but that was absurd. Florence had never been prone to loneliness before.
Still, it didn't feel exceptionally good to be blown off…
Her building was only a few blocks away. Sternly, she told herself that she didn't need a cab, despite the biting wind and the uncomfortable, damp chill seeping into her shoes, hoping in vain that the walk might numb her irrational sense of rejection.
(By the time she got home, she'd have earned the half-tub of ice cream she'd probably consume, in any case.)
The falling snow, thankfully, had no chance of being tainted; it was pristine and glittered charmingly in the soft glow of the streetlights, frosting windows and railings, adding a certain gentleness to everything.
Florence hadn't known anything gentle in her life. The concept had escaped her – until recently.
There was a flurry of red hair, in the corner of her eye. She stopped abruptly and whipped around – no one. She was alone on the street.
Shaking the thought from her head, she frowned and started to walk away again.
"I told you, I don't have it!" The snapping voice that drifted to her ears was eerily familiar. The back of Florence's neck prickled with foreboding; without a thought, (which was probably exactly what had gotten her into the Anatoly situation, if she were honest) she spun and stalked toward the source of the scuffle, listening in growing alarm to the muffled argument.
It was definitely April. Her voice was sharper than she'd ever heard it, laced with venom – and underlying fear. "Fuck off," she snarled, and Florence turned the corner to witness her yanking her arm from the hands of a tall, skeevy-looking man in a long, dark jacket. He moved after her, sneering in a way that made Florence want to slap him.
"You owe me a lot of money, sweetheart," he says lowly, but Florence is coming closer now, can hear him perfectly clearly, and her blood pressure spikes. Despite the snow, she's hot, boiling. Her palm itches. Oh, I'm going to give it to him.
There were a lot of people in her life that Florence had regretted never smacking across the face, but she didn't think she could forgive herself if she let this particular man get away.
April was a perfectly good actor. Her expression was unconcerned, if contemptuous, cherry-red lip curling. "I don't have your money yet. You're going to have to wait. I told you about the move –"
The man grabs for her again, more roughly, and Florence breaks her stride to swing her hand back and slap him so hard that he stumbles. Her hand is stinging, her heart pounding. Holy shit. Holy shit. He's drawing up again, turning on her murderously, and Florence flails for April's wrist in a panic, squeaking.
"Come on!"
April doesn't need to be told twice. They pelt out of the alley, slipping and shrieking, holding each other, and they don't stop running until they've reached Florence's building. Florence slumps against the brick, panting for breath. Her shoes are going to be ruined.
When she finally looks up, starting to smile, April is staring at her. She isn't smiling. She looks – almost embarrassed, lips pursed.
"You didn't have to do that."
"Of course I did!" Florence draws herself back up, scandalized, and reaches for her arm. April flinches away and she lets her hand fall, biting her lip apologetically. "What was I supposed to do, leave you there? You didn't look like you wanted to be anywhere near him."
"You don't understand." Shifting uncomfortably, April brushes her hair from her eyes, looking away. "I do owe him money."
"Well he doesn't have a right to grab you like that," Florence mutters. She glances her over speculatively, suspicions starting to form. The man had obviously been involved in some kind of criminal activity. "Regardless of why you owe him money…"
It wasn't as though she couldn't have guessed. April had made no effort to disguise the marks at the crooks of her elbows at her workplace – why should she? Florence had gotten over it rather quickly. Whatever she did for recreation, April was… frankly, amazing. Although perhaps she was biased.
A flush rises on her face before she can stop it. April is still staring, eyes even wider, then narrowed suspiciously. "Why don't you care?"
"I was under the impression that we were becoming friends." Florence smiles, tentative, and April slowly – visibly – lets her guard down, rubbing her bruised arm absently.
"I – me, too," she said softly, eyes falling to the slush again. "I should probably get back to my apartment, though. He'll be able to find it if he's got half a brain, and I haven't even finished unpacking –"
The move. She'd nearly forgotten to ask. Carefully, she clears her throat. "You… moved?"
April's face is pink. "… Roger told me to leave. Last night," she admits, and she looks horribly cold, so Florence thinks nothing of shrugging off her coat and offering it to her. April refuses to take it, jaw set stubbornly. "We got into an argument. About you, actually."
"Me?" Flabbergasted, Florence takes a step back. "Why don't you just… come inside. We can go back to your apartment once you're warm."
Sighing, April reluctantly follows after her, and they climb the stairs mostly in silence. Finally, she blurts, reddening, "I told him about our plans tonight. He – well, honestly, I'd rather not repeat it. Mark is probably still yelling at him. I was already planning on moving out – I had the boxes packed – but it was just…"
"Sudden," Florence supplies, and sympathetically reaches to squeeze her hand. April clutches it with surprising force and doesn't let it go; Florence decides she definitely doesn't mind.
"Yeah."
They pause at the door to Florence's apartment; as she sifts for her keys, she feels the tension building. April is fidgeting now, like she's about to burst.
"I might have told him it was a date." She coughs, and Florence nearly snorts.
"What? Really?" Did you want it to be?
April gives her a hard look, somewhat softened by the uncertain way she keeps shifting. "He keeps bothering me about getting back together – I didn't know how else to tell him I… already…"
Florence gives up on the keys, and reaches out to cup her face, kissing the end of the sentence from her lips.
"You know," she says conversationally as they break apart. "Maybe you ought to have asked me, before you moved… There's plenty of room for you here."
April smiles, and for the first time in months Florence allows herself to think of Bangkok and everything she'd lost there.
There was more to life than chess, and there was more to love than chess players.