Chapter Text
Ellie
Newburyport, Massachusetts never really changed, not in the way people talked about cities growing or seasons shifting. It just… settled into things. Late summer slid into early September like a slow tide, and the weather still hovered stubbornly in the mid-seventies, warm enough that the tourists clung to shorts and boat shoes, but cool enough that Ellie could finally justify pulling a flannel out of her closet. The one with the soft plaid shoulders and a faint grease stain on the cuff—perks of living above an auto shop.
Her apartment was small—technically the attic above her uncle’s garage—but it was hers. Slanted ceiling. Peeling paint by the baseboards. Drafty in the winter, muggy in the summer. But Joel had helped her sand the floors and refit the old twin bed frame when she turned eighteen. He’d stayed late on his one night off and let her pick the paint color, even though she chose a weird muted blue that looked different on the walls than it did in the sample. He just nodded and said, “It’s fine. Blue’s blue.”
Joel wasn’t big on talking unless it mattered, and Ellie liked that about him. He’d raised her since she was born, since her mom—Anna—didn’t make it out of childbirth. There were old photos in boxes and a few knickknacks Ellie wasn’t supposed to dig through, but Joel never stopped her when she did. He just watched, quiet, like he was waiting for her to find something worth keeping.
She didn’t really know what worth keeping meant anymore, but the old place had its charm. Miller’s Auto Body sat just off Newburyport’s main drag, wedged between a bait shop that looked like a front for a ghost story and a pizza joint with slices that held up after a long shift. Joel said they used to get more traffic before the newer repair place opened out on Route 1, but his regulars still came. The ones who preferred real parts and honesty over speed and upsells. Ellie helped out on week days when school wasn’t crushing her. She didn’t mind. Cars made sense. They broke, and you fixed them.
She tugged the front zipper of her hoodie halfway up, slung her backpack over one shoulder, and locked the side door behind her. The garage sat still and quiet this early, its metal shutters all drawn except the back one where her truck was parked.
1983 Ford Ranger. Baby blue, sun-faded on the roof and hood. Ellie bought it off a guy two towns over when she was seventeen—a rusted heap with a busted engine and a cracked windshield. The man had looked her dead in the eye and said, “Ain’t gonna last six months.” She’d spent two years proving him wrong. Weekends and late nights in the bay, elbow-deep in grease, Joel hovering in the background with a beer in hand and a “you sure about that part?” on loop.
Now it ran smooth. Real smooth.
She kept it clean, too. Waxed it by hand every month, rain or shine. The inside smelled like new leather and that stupid little coconut air freshener she replaced every few weeks from the Mobil station on the way to campus. There was no junk inside—no loose wrappers or half-empty water bottles—just the essentials. Jumper cables. A tire gauge. A mostly-used sketchbook tucked neatly in the glove compartment, in case her brain decided to do something artistic mid-errand.
She climbed in, adjusted the mirror, and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, low and even. She let it idle for a second, fingers drumming lightly on the wheel. The radio kicked in—static, then the familiar riff of something from the late ’90s. Joel’s presets. She didn’t touch them. It felt wrong, like rearranging someone else’s toolbox.
On the back window, small and centered: a clean white sticker that read, Support Your Local Female Mechanics. Joel didn’t say a word when she slapped it on after her high school graduation, just gave her one of those rare, crooked smiles and tossed her the keys.
The drive to Newbury College was easy this time of morning. The town yawned around her—porch lights flicking off, joggers weaving around sleepy golden retrievers, café staff flipping chairs down and wiping windows. She cracked the driver’s side window and let the breeze in. The salt air wasn’t sharp today, more like background noise. The kind that settled in your clothes and stayed there.
Classes had only been back in session a few weeks, but Ellie already had a rhythm again. Wake up, coffee, drive in, try not to flunk out. Park behind the liberal arts building and ignore the construction noise near the green. Pretend she understood poetry.
That last one was getting harder.
She pulled into the small lot tucked behind the campus chapel and shut off the engine. The truck ticked as it cooled, the old engine block still holding heat. She sat for a second longer, forehead against the wheel. Not praying. Just delaying.
She liked Newbury College, in theory. It was small, liberal, tucked against the coast with a student body that leaned queer and artsy in a way that felt natural, not performative. She liked her painting classes, even if her thesis advisor was a flake, and she liked the library’s quiet mezzanine with the big windows and warm radiators. But Contemporary Poetry and the Queer Form?
Yeah. That class was slowly eating her alive.
She adjusted her hoodie, grabbed her backpack, and climbed out. Locked the truck with a satisfying click. The sticker on her back window caught the light. She glanced at it once, then shouldered her bag and started walking.
The building loomed up ahead—red brick, ivy climbing the sides like it had something to prove. She could already hear the squeak of chalk on the blackboard and the annoying kid who always quoted Audre Lorde out of context. Ellie pulled the classroom door open, nodded vaguely to a few familiar faces, and slipped into her usual seat by the window. Second row. Not too eager. Not too invisible.
She pulled out a battered notebook, flipped it open, and stared at the paper she’d just gotten back.
Red ink. Lots of it.
The number in the top corner hit her like a hammer to the teeth.
Ellie stared at the corner of the page where the number 62 sat in smug red ink. It wasn't even circled—just underlined once, like the professor didn’t even care enough to dress up the disappointment.
Sixty-two. That was two points worse than last week. That was fail territory. Again.
She didn’t need a third failure to do the math. At this rate, she’d flunk out of Contemporary Poetry before October, lose her scholarship, and torpedo her final semester. No degree, no diploma, no neat little “Class of 20-whatever” tassel to give Joel. Just a slow fade-out and a working in the garage until her back gave out.
All because she couldn’t fucking read between the lines.
The assignment had been simple: pick a queer poet and write a short interpretive essay on form, voice, and queer subtext. Ellie had chosen someone she liked—Franny Choi. Her poems were weird and vibrant and cutting, and Ellie thought she’d done alright. She understood the beats, the construction, the rhythm. She’d even found a quote about gender fluidity in an interview and worked it into the final paragraph. But apparently, that wasn’t enough. Apparently, she missed the emotional throughline. The nuance. The “queer theory implications of fragmented form as resistance.”
Like, what?
She rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead and muttered under her breath, “Fucking hell.”
“Psst.”
She flinched. Looked up.
Dina.
Of course.
Dina was sitting one row back, a seat over—just within “psst” range, chin propped on her hand, eyebrows lifted with mild interest.
Ellie gave a tight shake of her head, mouth twitching like it wanted to frown and grimace at the same time. She didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to spell it out in whispers or admit to Dina that she’d flopped again.
Dina squinted, then gave an exaggerated eye roll and looked away, mouthing something that probably translated to drama queen. Ellie sank deeper in her chair.
Dina wasn’t exactly a friend. Not yet, anyway. She was friend-adjacent. A recent orbit addition, pulled in through Amelia—who was close with Ellie’s oldest friend, Grace—and had started showing up at more hangouts last semester. Ellie had clocked her as one of those weirdly charismatic types. Sunny but smart. Always a warm greeting, always a quip ready. People liked her. Professors loved her.
Which, yeah. Of course she was an English major. Of course she understood this class like it was written in her own blood.
Ellie did not.
She shoved the paper into the back of her folder with the silent urgency of someone hiding a body. Out of sight, out of mind. Or at least, until her GPA burst into flames.
Class ended with a quote from Ocean Vuong, something about the body as a poem. Ellie didn’t catch the whole thing—she was too busy trying to calculate whether late-night tutoring counted as community service. She was halfway out the door when Dina fell into step beside her, her steps light and irritatingly casual.
“So…” Dina twirled her pen between her fingers. “Is there a reason you won’t tell me what you got? Or are you just building the suspense?”
Ellie groaned. “Because it’s embarrassing. And you’re basically the Sylvia Plath of the English department.”
Dina blinked at her. “Uh. You do know what happened to Sylvia Plath, right?”
Ellie squinted. “Dina, I am failing this class. You think I know what happened to anyone?”
Dina laughed. “Fair point. But still. I’ll take the compliment, I guess.”
They pushed through the heavy doors of the humanities building, the sun a little too bright for the way Ellie’s brain felt. She adjusted her hoodie and kept walking, Dina trailing easily at her side. It felt weirdly normal.
Too normal.
Dina didn’t seem put off by Ellie’s sour mood. She didn’t seem like much of anything, really—just kind of content to fill the silence with her presence. Ellie wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
“So,” Dina said after a beat, “how’d your date with Lauren go?”
Ellie side-eyed her. “That wasn’t a date.”
Dina lifted her brows, clearly amused. “Oh?”
“It was a dorm hookup. Her roommate was gone. We fooled around. It was fine.”
“Fine,” Dina repeated, drawing out the word. “So no strings, no expectations, just a little academic stress relief?”
“Basically.”
“Huh.”
Ellie caught the tone and narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Nothing,” Dina said, too quickly.
“What.” She stopped walking.
Dina stopped too, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “Just—how do you do that? How do you talk to girls like that? Just… go for it?”
Ellie blinked. “Wait. Is that what this is about?”
Dina shifted her weight. Her fingers tapped once against her thigh. “Maybe.”
Ellie stared. “You’re asking me for gay advice?”
“Jesus, don’t say it like that,” Dina muttered, face pinking. “I’m just… I’ve been trying to ask Willow out.”
Ellie grimaced. “Willow? Like, vintage-leather-jacket Willow?”
Dina nodded, sheepish. “Yeah. She’s just… cool.”
“She’s got that better-than-you thing going on,” Ellie muttered. “You know she writes in a Moleskine and refuses to talk to girls who don’t know the difference between Cocteau Twins and The Cranberries.”
“I know.”
“And she once said she doesn’t date girls she thinks are projects.”
“I know.”
Ellie exhaled sharply. “Okay, then here’s my advice. Don’t.”
Dina scowled. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t go after Willow. You just came out. She’s gonna see that a mile away and assume you don’t know what you’re doing, which is kind of true, and she’s not gonna be nice about it. She’s a Cool Girl Bitch™, and she’ll eat you alive.”
Dina’s mouth fell open. “Wow. Harsh.”
“I’m not trying to be mean, I just—” Ellie stopped walking. “Look, you want honesty, right? Find someone nicer. Someone attainable. Someone who’s not gonna make you feel like shit for being new at this.”
Dina crossed her arms. “So you’re saying I need training wheels?”
“I’m saying you deserve better than Willow.”
That seemed to give Dina pause. Her face softened. “I… was kind of hoping for something more like, ‘watch But I’m a Cheerleader and get a flannel.’ Not ‘lower your standards.’”
Ellie snorted. “You’ve got the flannel. You’re halfway there.”
Dina gave her a look, then pushed open the cafeteria door without another word. Ellie followed, letting it shut behind them.
“I’m just saying,” Ellie muttered as they walked in, “You’re my friend, I don’t want you getting hurt. That’s all.”
Dina looked over her shoulder, grin already forming. “Aw. You do care.”
“Shut up.”
“And you admitted we’re friends. Big day.”
“God, you’re insufferable.”
“Come on, my friend Ellie,” Dina said, dragging out the word friend each time. “Let’s go get lunch. Together. Because we’re friends.”
Ellie groaned and trudged after her. “Please choke.”
Dina’s smile didn’t budge. Bright. Easy. Warm.
It was annoying as hell.
The cafeteria was already buzzing by the time they stepped inside—linoleum floors half-wiped from the morning rush, the scent of under-salted fries and steam-burned vegetables in the air. Ellie spotted their usual table right away, tucked near the window that barely opened and always had the broken chair.
Grace, Amelia, and Noah were already seated, halfway through their lunches. Grace had one AirPod in and was absently scrolling through her phone, her long ponytail looped high like it might try to escape her head entirely. Amelia was picking lettuce out of her wrap with delicate, floaty fingers like she was doing a spell. Noah was calmly buttering two pieces of bread like the gay sandwich dad he was born to be.
Grace glanced up first, immediately clocking Dina. “Hey! You survived class with broody over here.”
“Barely,” Dina said sweetly. “But she walked me here. My friend Ellie.”
Ellie gave her a flat look, jaw tight. “Don’t.”
“Oh, I will,” Dina replied, settling beside Grace with theatrical ease. “It’s important to label relationships clearly.”
Noah looked up from his bread, biting back a smile. “Did you two hook up or start a podcast?”
Amelia smiled dreamily. “Or both?”
Ellie rolled her eyes and threw her bag onto the last open chair. “I’m getting a burger. Anyone want anything?”
“Fries,” Grace said, without looking up from her phone.
“Pickles,” Amelia added, like she was ordering tea leaves.
“Respect,” Noah said, deadpan, eyes still on his sandwich like it was a delicate operation.
Ellie flipped him off without even slowing her step and walked off, glad to put some space between herself and the whole scene. She hated feeling like the joke was circling her before she even sat down.
By the time she returned—tray balanced, burger and extra fries, and a sad little paper cup of pickles wedged into the corner—Dina was mid-story about someone named Lucy and a drama club meltdown involving unlicensed fog machines and a staged swordfight.
“—and then the fog alarm went off, which I didn’t know was a thing, and they had to evacuate the whole theater. Lucy still blames me.”
Grace howled with laughter, her AirPod knocked loose. Amelia clapped softly like she was at a poetry reading. Even Noah cracked a grin.
Ellie dropped the tray onto the table and shoved Grace’s fries at her. “You’re welcome.”
Grace took one without looking up. “Okay. Still doesn’t balance out that time you made me switch lab partners with the guy who sneezed like a cat, but fine.”
Ellie sat, unwrapped her burger, and got two bites in before Grace pounced.
“So,” Grace asked, overly casual, “what’d you get on your paper?”
Ellie groaned through a mouthful. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because we care,” Amelia said softly, tilting her head like a concerned guidance counselor.
“Because we like gossip,” Noah corrected, finally looking up with a smirk.
Ellie chewed slowly, deliberately, then swallowed. “Sixty-two.”
Grace winced. “Oof.”
Amelia let out a soft, empathetic hum. “That’s a solar plexus blockage.”
Noah didn’t miss a beat. He picked up a roll and lobbed it gently across the table. It bounced off Amelia’s shoulder.
“It’s lesbian poetry, Amelia. She doesn’t need a chakra cleanse. She needs to fall in love or something.”
Ellie nearly choked on a fry, coughing once before saying, “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Noah said, pointing a butter knife at her with flair. “This is about repression. You’re blocked.”
“I’m not blocked,” Ellie shot back, heat rising in her cheeks. “I get plenty of sex, thank you,” she added, too loud. A couple of heads turned. She scowled. “I just… don’t get it.”
Dina raised her eyebrows, clearly trying not to laugh, her hand cupped around her water glass.
“You used to write poems in high school,” Grace said, voice softer now. “Like actual good ones.”
“Yeah, like one,” Ellie muttered, stabbing at her burger wrapper. “And it was about my truck.”
“Still counts,” Amelia chimed in, as if she were blessing it.
Ellie groaned again and slumped in her seat, tipping her head back toward the ceiling like she could dissolve into it. “This class is going to kill me.”
“Well,” Noah said, dragging the word, “you do kind of need to pass it to graduate.”
“Thanks,” Ellie muttered. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Grace blinked, concern flickering into her voice now. “Don’t you have a scholarship tied to GPA?”
Ellie didn’t answer right away. She just stared at her tray, the burger going cold, the weight of that red 62 sitting in her bag like a brick.
Then she said flatly, “Yeah.”
“Oh,” Grace replied, eyes widening. She put her phone down. “Oh shit.”
“Yeah. Oh,” Ellie echoed, voice sharp.
Dina sat forward slightly, her voice quieter now. “You can’t retake it?”
“I could,” Ellie said, picking at the edge of a napkin. “But it’d screw everything up. It’s the only class left in my lit requirement. If I fail, I lose the scholarship. And if I lose the scholarship, I can’t afford spring. So… yeah.”
A hush settled over the table—not total silence, just a soft recalibration. The kind that happened when something shifted under everyone at once. Amelia’s brow furrowed, her fingers resting still on her wrap. Grace stopped chewing. Noah finally looked serious, hands folded loosely in front of him.
“You need help,” Noah said, voice steady.
Ellie shook her head immediately. “I don’t want a tutor.”
“Okay,” Noah said calmly, “but you need one.”
“I said no,” Ellie snapped, pushing her tray a few inches away.
“Okay, but—” Noah started again.
“I’ll figure it out,” Ellie cut in, sharper than she meant to.
Dina stirred her drink, watching her with that unreadable mix of interest and distance. “Why are you so allergic to help?”
“I’m not allergic,” Ellie said, voice low now. “I just don’t want pity points.”
“No one’s pitying you,” Dina said, evenly.
“You say that,” Ellie muttered, “like you’re not looking at me like I just fell down the stairs.”
“I’m looking at you,” Dina said, setting her straw down, “like someone who has options.”
Ellie bristled, arms crossed tight now. “Oh, so now I’m the struggling charity case in need of some peer-led intervention?”
“Jesus, you’re dramatic,” Dina said, laughing again, but not unkindly.
“You are dramatic,” Grace agreed, gesturing with a fry. “But also, we know someone in this room who’s very good at Contemporary Poetry.”
Ellie sighed, closing her eyes. She could feel it coming.
Amelia perked up. “Dina.”
Ellie cracked one eye open. “Wow. Shocking,” she deadpanned.
Noah tapped his fingers on the table. “Dina could tutor you.”
“I don’t need—” Ellie started.
“Just a thought,” Grace said, hands up in mock surrender.
Ellie slumped forward, cheek resting against her palm now. “Why is this turning into an intervention?”
Dina didn’t lean in. Didn’t push. She just tilted her head slightly, watching Ellie like someone trying to figure out how close they were allowed to stand. “I wouldn’t pity you,” she said. “I’d just help you get through the class. No strings.”
Ellie studied her. Dina’s curls were half-clipped back, a little frizzy from the weather, and she had a faint streak of highlighter on the cuff of her sleeve. She didn’t look smug. Didn’t look smugly brilliant either, which might’ve made it worse.
Just helpful. Softly persistent.
Ellie hated how much that made her want to say yes.
“I don’t know,” she muttered, fidgeting with her napkin again.
Dina shrugged, lifting her glass. “It’s just an offer. I don’t care either way.”
That was bullshit. Ellie knew it was, and she was pretty sure Dina knew she knew it too. But it was the kind of lie people told when they didn’t want to be told no directly. It was a soft place to land.
“Fine,” Ellie said eventually. “If—if—I can’t turn it around by next week, maybe.”
Dina lifted her drink and clinked the ice against the rim. “Sounds fair.”
Grace grinned. “See? Progress.”
Noah nodded once, like it was settled. “Good plan.”
“Supportive friends are essential to academic success,” Amelia added, sage as ever.
Ellie picked up a fry and threw it at her.
Amelia caught it with surprising reflexes and popped it into her mouth. “Delicious.”
Across from her, Dina smiled. Quiet. Warm.
Unbearably sunny.
And somehow, still sitting just far enough away that Ellie couldn’t read her.
Dina
Drama club met Wednesdays from 3 to 4, and Dina liked it more than she liked most things in her week.
The sessions were low-stakes—just a bunch of half-theater majors and anxious creatives in a dusty rehearsal room running scenes from plays they were obsessed with, sometimes writing their own. It was casual. Comfortable. But also? Willow was there.
And Dina was not above admitting that her enjoyment of drama club might’ve been, say, 65% Willow-related.
Willow was… ridiculous. Always in black—tight black jeans with strategically torn knees, boots that looked vintage but somehow new, a different lesbian novella or obscure poetry collection in her hand every week. Today it was Jeanne Dielman in script form, and last week she’d been raving about a new translation of Le Bleu est une couleur chaude. Her voice was always low and deliberate. Her eyeliner was devastating. Her whole vibe screamed femme fatale except she lived in a co-op and quoted Audre Lorde at people who didn’t recycle.
She oozed sex appeal in that infuriating way some older queer girls just… did. The kind of cool that wasn’t cultivated—it was curated.
And Dina? Dina was brand new. Newly out. Newly interested. Newly panicking.
Willow was twenty-four. She’d taken two years off after high school to backpack through Copenhagen and Amsterdam, sleeping in hostels and collecting lovers like postcards. She talked about exes in different accents. Wore rings on every finger. Was probably immune to shame.
Dina had come out last year and hadn’t even kissed a girl yet. Let alone flirted with one who seemed like she’d already dated half of Europe and ghosted the other half.
So yeah, maybe Ellie had a point last week. About not shooting for the coolest lesbian on campus. Not that Dina wanted to give her the satisfaction.
Because Dina was pretty. And she knew how to talk. Normally. She was charming, usually. Teasing. She could be magnetic when she wasn’t actively short-circuiting.
She just… maybe needed a little help with her game.
Case in point: ten minutes ago, she’d built up the nerve to approach Willow after rehearsal. It had taken all ten to get there—she’d paced by the back row of the theater seats, shook out her hands like a boxer, fixed her hair, and told herself this was no big deal. Casual. Just a compliment. Just a little conversation.
When she finally walked over, Willow looked up and smiled like she’d been expecting her.
“Oh hey, Denise,” Willow said smoothly.
Dina blinked. “Hey, um. Sorry—it’s Dina.”
“Oooh right. Dina. I meant that,” Willow said, entirely unbothered. “How are you?”
Dina laughed nervously, immediately regretting the sound of it. “Yeah. You’re good—I meant I’m good. But you, you were great.” She shook her head a little, tried again. “In the scene! You were really great in the scene.”
She wanted to crawl into the orchestra pit and die.
Willow blinked a few times, like she was taking that all in and buffering.
“Oh. Thanks,” she said. “Yeah, I love that story. She’s my favorite sapphic character. I feel like I really resonate with her.”
“Yeah. Oh yeah. Totally. Just like her.”
What the fuck does that even mean?
The silence that followed was so loud Dina could hear the hum of the lighting grid. Willow didn’t move. Didn’t offer an out. She just let the pause hang in the air until it turned awkward.
Then finally: “Oh, so was there anything you needed?”
The way she said it—like Dina was standing there with a lost-and-found question. Like she was sweet but simple.
Abort mission. Abort.
“Oh, no. That’s it,” Dina blurted, and immediately hated herself.
“Cool,” Willow said, already looking back down at her script. “Thanks, Dina. See you next week.”
“See you,” Dina echoed, voice barely above a whisper.
And that was it. That was the entire humiliating saga. A crash-and-burn at the feet of her Sapphic crush.
Now she was sitting in the third row of the dark theater at 4:11 p.m., arms folded tight, chewing on the inside of her cheek and spiraling.
She was a gay disaster.
Not even the cute kind. Just the awkward, forgettable kind who got called the wrong name and thanked for her time like she was a part-time usher.
Dina slumped lower in the seat, forehead dropping to her folded arms. She groaned softly into her sleeve.
She should have said something clever. Something cool. She should’ve told Willow how the choice to lean into that character’s coldness was actually radical. Or that her line delivery reminded her of a younger Léa Seydoux. Or maybe just, Hey, I think you’re gorgeous and I would very much like to kiss you in the prop closet sometime.
But instead she’d fumbled through her own name and said she was “just like her.” Whatever that meant.
If she didn’t do something soon, Willow was going to start avoiding her.
She rubbed her hands over her face, then let them drop into her lap.
And then, annoyingly, her brain offered up Ellie.
Because, actually… Ellie had given her advice last week. Not the advice she wanted, but still. Ellie had been honest. Brutal, but not wrong. About Willow. About how this could go.
And if she was being honest with herself, Ellie was kind of good at this stuff. She knew how to talk to girls. How to make things casual. How to lean on a doorframe and smirk like she wasn’t thinking about it. And okay, sure, she could be a smug, emotionally stunted little shit sometimes, but Ellie knew how to flirt. How to exist in queer space without looking like she was about to faint.
And Dina… well, Dina knew poetry. And Ellie definitely still sucked at that.
Her head lifted. A small, wild idea forming in her chest.
Ellie needed tutoring. Dina needed tutoring.
Different kinds, sure. But maybe this could actually work.
She sat up straighter.
Ellie hadn’t turned it around in Contemporary Poetry—not unless she’d pulled some literary miracle in the last seven days. And Dina… Dina was out here ruining her one chance at real lesbian confidence in front of a girl who thought her name was Denise.
She didn’t need a sign. She just needed a plan.
She stood abruptly, grabbing her sweater and slinging her backpack over one shoulder. Her keys were still in the pocket of her bag, and she fished them out with one hand as she headed up the aisle.
Light from the open exit door cut across the theater in a diagonal, illuminating dust motes and the frayed edge of the stage curtains. Dina walked through it without slowing down.
She wasn’t sure exactly what she was going to say yet. But she’d figure it out.
Because Ellie Miller owed her a little more than gay pessimism—and Dina was done being the girl who panicked and backed off.
It was time to barter.
She pulled up to Miller’s Auto Body at 4:36 p.m., tires crunching softly over the gravel lot, and parked a little crooked like her whole body was moving faster than her brain. The keys rattled as she yanked them out. Her heart was going hard, but not in a romantic way—in a what the hell am I even doing way. The idea had felt clever when she left campus, halfway inspired, halfway deranged.
Now? She was running on fumes and instinct.
She slammed the car door shut with more force than necessary and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. The wind picked up and tugged at her sweater. Her hair kept blowing into her face. She swiped it back and marched forward before she could hesitate.
The front office was marked clearly, but she bypassed it entirely, heading for the open garage bay instead. A strip of sun cut across the cement floor, catching on old oil stains and the scattered gleam of socket wrenches. The smell hit her fast—burnt rubber, motor oil, metal dust, maybe a trace of gasoline—and some kind of citrus cleaner that barely masked the rest of it.
Inside, the air was thick with low sound: the buzz of overhead lights, the hum of fans, the occasional whirr of a tool she didn’t recognize. There were cars everywhere—trucks, sedans, an old station wagon with its hood up like it was telling a story.
She looked around, adjusting to the dimness.
No Ellie.
Then, from behind her: “Hello?”
Dina jumped slightly, then turned.
A man stood near the center of the bay, wiping his hands on a worn rag. He was tall, broad, older—fifty-something maybe—with weathered skin and neatly cut gray hair, a short matching beard. His blue mechanic shirt was the deep kind of blue that looked black in certain lighting, and on his chest was a stitched patch: “Joel” in old-fashioned cursive.
Dina’s throat went a little dry. Oh. This had to be him. Ellie’s uncle. The Joel.
“Uh—hi,” she said quickly. “I’m looking for Ellie?”
His eyebrows ticked up with a flicker of interest, but he nodded. “Ah. Okay. One sec.”
“Thanks.”
He turned, boots thudding softly as he walked across the garage. He stopped at the corner of a car—something beat-up and matte gray—and knocked twice on the hood.
“Ellie,” he called, not bothering to raise his voice, “get out here. You got another girl here to see you.”
She heard the sound of metal tools being set down. Then a scrape, a shift, and Ellie rolled out from underneath the car on a creeper like she was in a goddamn movie. Mechanic shirt with Ellie above the top left pocket. White t-shirt underneath. Grease-smudged collarbone. Dirty hands. No eye contact yet.
She sat up slowly, squinting under the lights. “Who?”
Then her gaze swung over to Dina.
And the expression changed.
Her brows dropped fast, into something caught between surprise and annoyance.
“Dina. Hey,” she said, standing fully and stretching her arms back just slightly. “What, uh… what are you doing here?”
Okay. So this was not a warm welcome. Not exactly cold either, but there was definitely a layer of why now in Ellie’s tone.
“Hi,” Dina said, brushing her hair behind her ear, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place she looked in a cream sweater in the middle of a body shop. “I had a question. Do you have a minute?”
Ellie blinked, still holding the rag in one hand. She didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no either.
“I’ve got a minute,” Ellie said finally, then turned. “Follow me.”
Dina nodded and picked up her pace to keep up with Ellie’s strides. They moved past a row of tool cabinets and around the back of a lifted SUV. Ellie stopped in front of a deep metal sink mounted against the wall. She twisted the faucet and let the water run hot.
“Talk,” Ellie said flatly, reaching for a soap bar that looked like it could exfoliate asphalt. “I’ve got like ten minutes while the oil drains.”
She started scrubbing her hands, the lava soap gritty and orange, like powdered rust pressed into a rectangle. Her wrists moved in practiced, circular motions. Palms, knuckles, in between fingers. Methodical. Clean rinse. Repeat.
For a moment, the only sound was the rush of the faucet and the occasional squeak of rubber soles as someone moved across the bay in the background.
Dina cleared her throat.
“How are you doing in Contemporary Poetry?” she asked, soft but clear.
Ellie groaned immediately. “Not this again, Dina—”
“Wait. Wait. Just—listen.”
Ellie looked up briefly, face already guarded.
“You need help,” Dina said. “Big time. I know that. I’ll help you. And I won’t tell anyone, so you don’t have to feel weird about it or… whatever it is that’s stopping you.”
Ellie rinsed again and reached for a red shop towel. Her hands moved slower this time, drying each finger separately like she needed something to focus on.
She didn’t say anything.
Then, finally, “Okay. What’s the catch?”
Dina blinked. “Catch?”
Ellie turned, arms crossed now, towel still in one hand. “There has to be one. You wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t.”
Dina smiled, just a little. “Okay, fair. Your observation skills are impeccable. Yes. There’s a catch.”
She inhaled once through her nose, bracing herself. This was the moment where she could either sound clever or crash straight into total embarrassment.
“I tutor you,” she said, “in exchange for you tutoring me.”
Ellie tilted her head, confused. “What could I possibly tutor you on?”
Dina tried not to wince as she said it. “Girls.”
The pause was immediate. Ellie looked at her like she’d just asked her to co-sign a mortgage.
“Excuse me?”
“Girls,” Dina repeated, more firmly this time. “Like—how to talk to them. Flirting. Confidence. Stuff like that.”
Ellie narrowed her eyes. “Experience how, exactly? I’m not throwing you a bone or being a one-time fuck. That’s not—”
“Oh my God, no!” Dina said, full-body recoiling. “That wasn’t—I didn’t mean with you. Jesus, Ellie.”
Ellie gave her a blank look. “Then what do you mean?”
“I mean like—wingwoman stuff,” Dina said, pacing a half step back. “Come to The Wreck with me. Help me talk to girls. Talk me up to Willow’s friends, drop my name as some Lady-Lothario to one of your countless girls. Boost my confidence. Or, I don’t know—give me feedback.”
Ellie scrubbed a hand down her face. “It’s not countless girls, by the way.”
Dina shrugged. “Okay. But it’s more than me. And this plan is genius. It’s efficient. It’s a win-win.”
“It’s crazy,” Ellie said flatly.
“It’s crazy smart,” Dina corrected. “Come on. Please?”
Her voice dropped on the last word, just enough to soften the edge. That tone always worked on Talia. Usually Grace, too. She figured Ellie might be tougher, but it was worth a shot.
Ellie looked up at the ceiling like she was trying to ask the fluorescent lights for divine intervention.
Then she sighed. Long and slow.
“Fine,” she said. “Fine. But only because I need to pass this class.”
Dina made an involuntary noise of excitement, then took two fast steps forward and hugged her before she could think better of it—just two seconds, arms quick around her shoulders, enough to bounce once on her toes.
By the time Ellie could react, Dina had already let go, grinning like she'd just gotten away with something.
“I’m free weekends,” Dina said quickly, smoothing her sweater like she needed something to do with her hands. “Before my shift at Vela’s—that’s the restaurant my sister manages. You can meet me there from nine to eleven. We open for lunch at eleven-thirty. And I'll feed you. For free. Or, like, Talia will.”
Ellie nodded slowly, like she was turning the logistics over in her head. “I can do weekdays. Joel usually heads out by five. We can meet here, after he leaves.”
“Perfect.” Dina tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “And anything else—like outings, clubs, whatever—planned as needed. And we don’t tell anyone.”
“Obviously,” Ellie said.
Dina extended her hand. “Deal?”
Ellie looked at the offered shake, then smirked. “What am I even agreeing to? I feel like this is going to be a disaster.”
“Deal,” she said anyway, and their hands met, firm.
No take-backs.
Just a mutually assured, very gay, very questionable arrangement.
And honestly?
What could go wrong?