After Happily Ever Afte- Astrid Ohletz
Foreword
So many amazing lesbian books leave readers breathless and wondering what happened to the couple after their happily-ever-after ending. Did they stay together? Are they still happy? What are these passionate lovers, fighters, executives, and explorers up to now?
Well, what if their stories didn’t have to end? What if nine Ylva authors sat down and wrote eleven couples’ happily-ever-after stories that allow you to take a peek into their lives now?
That is what this anthology is about—giving you what you’re looking for. These charming, funny, and entertaining short stories can each be read as standalone pieces to whisk you into new and different worlds…or immerse you in universes you already know and love and can’t wait to revisit.
We had a lot of fun editing this anthology. Now it’s up to you to enjoy it!
Astrid and Alex
Interlude
by Lola Keeley
“No, no, no!”
Anna’s eyes snapped open, only to find strands of hair stuck to her face again. Pursing her lips, she blew cool air over her skin and dislodged the ticklish hairs that were irritating her. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck, which seemed like an excuse to push away from where her head was resting against Gabriel’s broad, muscular chest. In doing so, she came down from being en pointe and turned to face her fate.
“What?” She shouted into the darkness of the auditorium, something she would never have dared to do even a year ago when first dancing as a principal. “What was wrong that time?”
“Just…no.” Irina’s voice brooked no argument, even as her criticism lacked detail.
Anna could still hear the Ukrainian inflection to her words, although a full season of leading the company had softened Irina’s accent. No more sulking in corners as she’d been prone to do while she was still dancing. Still, at moments like these, waiting for feedback on a performance, Anna missed Victoria most of all. In that echoing silence, the company would have been treated to a full three-minute rant on their incompetence. The insults would have been vicious, the language colorful. Instead, the assembled thirty or so dancers now stood in expectant silence.
Then, finally—footsteps. Irina marched down the center aisle in her high-heeled boots, until she emerged, fully visible in the stage lighting, far from its full performance strength. “No,” she repeated. “Odette does not die here. Why do you lean on Gabriel like you were still shot in the duck hunt, hmm?”
Gabriel spoke up for them both, rubbing his hand through his close-cropped afro. “Irina, we know that this is the way it was done in Russia, but—”
“You all want the depressing ending? In this climate, this world, you all think people pay to get more depressed? Your Swan Lake is a bummer. This way? Our audience go out cheering. Nobody likes applause anymore?”
“I was playing Odette as alive but exhausted by the battle,” Anna replied, resisting the urge to cross her arms. She knew plenty about standing up to determined women; she’d fallen in love with one of the most determined after all. “But I can do it differently if—”
“Three days from now we open this tour in Berlin!”
Irina didn’t have to remind them. They’d been working their asses off for a month. Anna had her own reasons to be more excited than most about their European tour, but she hadn’t allowed herself to get carried away. The performance had to come first, otherwise the whole trip would be ruined.
Irina wasn’t done with her remonstrations either. “If you embarrass me in Europe, I will take your return ticket and tear it up. At the moment you are all so bad that I think in Berlin they will rebuild the wall. Now one more time, and please, everyone: be less awful.”
Anna trudged off to the wings for the reset, hoping there would at least be time to check for any new messages from Victoria.
Victoria hesitated as she approached the theater, staring up at the grand old building with unashamed appreciation. It was still light despite the 8pm curtain, and swarms of tourists continued to trickle toward Bebelplatz and its underground monument to historic book burnings, their shorts and backpacks at odds with the finery of the opening night ballet crowd.
Huge banners hung from the streetlights, strips of vinyl rippling in the gentle breeze. While the Metropolitan Ballet branding was muted by American standards, no doubt restrained by their guest status, there was still no missing their presence to dance Swan Lake. Though it had never been her favorite ballet, Victoria still drank