Dani Rivera, Laurel, Montana, October 22nd, 2018
Dani had been awake since 4:47 AM—she'd checked her phone three times while tossing and turning—lying on her back on the lumpy mattress, staring at the popcorn ceiling and counting the cracks like they were constellations. Sam was snoring softly on the futon across the room, his fading green hair (she'd dyed it herself back in March, a lifetime ago) splayed across the pillow like seaweed.
Today was the day.
Jess had texted last night. Short, impersonal, but with an undercurrent of something Dani couldn't quite name.
CaptainJessSparrow: Tomorrow after school. Around 4. She wants to see you. Both of you. Your place, if that's okay. She's not ready for public yet.
CaptainJessSparrow: And Dani? She knows. About the party. She said it doesn't matter.
Dani had stared at those words for twenty minutes, her thumb hovering over the keyboard, trying to formulate a response that didn't sound pathetic or desperate or both. In the end, she'd just sent back a thumbs up emoji, which felt inadequate but at least didn't require her to articulate the hurricane of emotions tearing through her chest.
She knows. About the party. She said it doesn't matter.
Laurel. Her Laurel. The girl she'd spent a year searching for, the girl whose absence had carved a hole in her chest that she'd been trying to fill with alcohol and bad decisions. Laurel knew that Dani had hooked up with Ana in the backseat of her car, and she said it didn't matter.
That was either the most forgiving thing Dani had ever heard, or the saddest.
Probably both.
The hours between now and 4 PM stretched before her like a desert. Ten hours of waiting, of pacing, of slowly losing her mind. She needed a distraction. Something to keep her hands busy and her brain occupied before the anticipation ate her alive.
Which was why, at 8:30 AM, Dani found herself standing outside a diner called Marlene's. She applied and they'd gotten back to her, asking for an interview.
The diner was exactly what Dani had expected from a small Montana town, an old building with wood-paneled siding, neon signs advertising coffee and pie, and a parking lot populated by pickup trucks in various states of decay. A bell chimed when she pushed open the door, and the smell of bacon grease and strong coffee enveloped her like a hug from a grandmother she'd never had.
The interior was cozy in a worn-in way, all vinyl booths and formica countertops, the walls decorated with faded photographs of mountain landscapes and what looked like soda memorabilia. A handful of older men sat at the counter nursing mugs of coffee and reading newspapers, their conversation a low murmur punctuated by occasional grunts of agreement. A family occupied one of the booths.
Dani approached the counter, her Doc Martens squeaking slightly on the checkered linoleum. A teenage girl with a blonde ponytail was refilling coffee cups, and she looked up with the expression of someone who had been working since 6 AM and was already over it.
"Help you?"
"I'm here about the job," Dani said, suddenly very aware of her ripped jeans and faded My Chemical Romance hoodie. "The interview…. with Marlene?"
The girl's eyes flickered over Dani's appearance—the lip ring, the dark eyeliner, the general aura of someone who did not belong in rural Montana—and her expression shifted from bored to mildly curious.
"Marlene!" she called toward the back. "Someone here for you!"
A voice floated out from the kitchen, warm and weathered. "Send 'em to the back, Gracie. I'll be there in a minute."
Gracie jerked her thumb toward a hallway past the register. "Office is through there, first door on the left. She's finishing up the morning rush tickets."
Dani nodded her thanks and made her way down the narrow hallway, her heart rate picking up for reasons she couldn't quite explain. It was just a job interview. A diner job. Something to fill the hours and put some cash in her pocket while she figured out what the hell she was doing with her life.
The office was more of a converted storage closet, crammed with filing cabinets and boxes of supplies. A desk dominated most of the space, its surface buried under invoices and schedules and a desktop computer that looked like it belonged in a museum. On the wall behind the desk hung a corkboard covered in photographs—staff pictures, birthday celebrations, what looked like a Little League team.
Dani was studying one of the photos—a group shot of three people in front of the diner, arms around each other, grinning at the camera—when the door opened behind her.
"Well, well. You must be my 8:30."
Dani turned, and whatever she'd been expecting, Marlene was not it.
The woman was in her mid-forties, with shoulder-length auburn hair streaked with grey and pulled back in a practical ponytail. She had the kind of face that had seen things—laugh lines around her eyes, a mouth that looked like it smiled easily but could just as easily cut you down. She wore jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that suggested she'd spent her life doing real work.
But it was her eyes that stopped Dani cold.
They were brown, sharp, and impossibly perceptive. The kind of eyes that looked at you and saw past all the bullshit, straight down to the core of who you were. Dani felt suddenly, uncomfortably exposed, like this stranger could read every secret she'd ever kept just by looking at her.
"Marlene Payton," the woman said, extending her hand. Her grip was firm, calloused. "And you are?"
"Dani. Dani Rivera."
"Rivera." Marlene rolled the name around in her mouth like she was tasting it. Her accent was pure Western. "You're not from around here."
It wasn't a question.
"California," Dani said. "Originally."
"Mmm." Marlene gestured to a folding chair across from the desk. "Sit. I'll be with you in a sec—just gotta check on the kitchen. My line cook called in sick and we're running on fumes back there."
She disappeared, leaving Dani alone with her thoughts and the corkboard of photographs. Dani's eyes drifted back to the group shot she'd been studying. Three people: Marlene, looking maybe ten years younger, flanked by two men. One was stocky with dark hair and a thick mustache, his arm slung around Marlene's shoulders. The other was taller, broader, with the build of someone who'd played sports in a serious way, his smile too wide, too confident.
Something about him was familiar. Dani couldn't place it.
Marlene returned a few minutes later, closing the door behind her and settling into the chair behind the desk with a sigh that suggested her feet had been hurting all morning.
"Alright, Dani Rivera from California." She pulled out a yellowed legal pad and a pen. "Talk to me. What brings you to Laurel, Montana, of all the godforsaken places on God's green earth?"
Dani hesitated. The truth was too complicated. The lie would have to be simple.
"Change of scenery," she said. "Needed to get out of California. A friend of mine moved out here, so..." She shrugged. "Here I am."
Marlene's eyes didn't leave her face. That searching gaze, the one that seemed to peel back layers Dani didn't want peeled. "How old are you?"
"Eighteen.”
"Got your diploma?"
"GED." Dani met her eyes, refusing to be ashamed. "Dropped out at seventeen. Got my equivalency early."
Marlene made a note on her legal pad. "Any work experience?"
"I worked at a record store back home. Vinyl Countdown, in Marisol Heights. Three years, give or take. Counter, inventory, some ordering. I can work a register, deal with customers, stay on my feet for a shift. I'm a fast learner."
"Record store." A ghost of a smile tugged at Marlene's mouth. "Don't see many of those anymore. What kind of music you into?"
"Punk, mostly." Dani gestured vaguely at her hoodie. "Probably obvious."
"My youngest went through a phase," Marlene said. "Black eyeliner, the whole nine yards. Drove her daddy crazy." She leaned back in her chair, studying Dani with that unsettling intensity. "How long you been in town?"
"About a month. Maybe a little more."
"Where you staying?"
"Got a studio apartment over on—" Dani caught herself, suddenly wary. This was starting to feel less like a job interview and more like an interrogation. "Why?"
Marlene held up her hands, a gesture of surrender that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Just making conversation. Small town, word travels. I like to know who's working for me." She paused, her gaze softening slightly. "You got that look, is all."
"What look?"
"The one kids get when they're running from something." Marlene's voice was gentle now, almost maternal. "Or someone. I've seen it before. Girl shows up in town, no family, no roots, looking over her shoulder every time the door opens. Usually means trouble found them somewhere else and they're hoping it won't follow."
Dani felt her defenses rise, her spine stiffening. "I'm not running from anything."
"Didn't say you were." Marlene held her gaze for a long moment. "But if you were—if you needed help—this is a good place to land. Small town, sure, but folks look out for each other… Mostly."
There was something in her tone that made Dani's throat tighten. Kindness, offered without expectation. It was such a foreign thing that she didn't quite know how to respond.
"I just need a job," Dani said finally. "I can work. I'm reliable. I won't cause problems."
Marlene nodded slowly. "Alright, Dani Rivera. I believe you." She stood, tucking the legal pad under her arm. "You ever wait tables before?"
"No, but—"
"Then you'll learn. Come on." She opened the door and gestured for Dani to follow. "Rush is dying down. Perfect time for a trial run. You make it through lunch without dropping anything on anyone, you're hired."
Just like that. No background check, no references, no forms to fill out. Just Marlene's gut instinct and a chance.
Dani followed her out of the office, her heart beating a little faster. She'd walked in looking for a distraction, something to kill the hours before 4 PM. What she'd found was something else entirely.
The lunch shift was chaos.
Dani had never realized how many moving parts went into running a diner. Orders to take, drinks to refill, plates to carry without spilling, checks to calculate, tips to collect. Gracie—the blonde ponytail girl from earlier—took pity on her and showed her the system, which was basically “just don't fuck anything up”.
Marlene watched from behind the counter, occasionally stepping in to help when the orders piled up, her movements efficient and practiced. She was everywhere at once—refilling coffee for the regulars, joking with the cook through the kitchen window, soothing a noisy child whose parents looked like they hadn't slept in weeks.
By 11:30, Dani's feet were killing her and she'd spilled exactly one glass of water (on herself, thankfully, not a customer). But she was getting the hang of it. The rhythm of the work was almost meditative—take the order, call it back to the kitchen, deliver the food, clear the plates, repeat. It didn't leave room for thinking, which was exactly what she needed.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket just as she was wiping down a booth. She pulled it out, expecting something from Sam about lunch plans, and felt her stomach drop.
CaptainJessSparrow: Hey, wanted to give you a heads up.
CaptainJessSparrow: The rumor about Ana and the "mystery girl" is all over school. Spreading like wildfire. Good news is nobody knows it was you specifically. Bad news is people are TALKING.
CaptainJessSparrow: Ana's not at school today. Probably staying home to avoid the shitstorm.
CaptainJessSparrow: We'll talk more later. Everything is complicated. Just... stay safe, okay?
Dani stared at the messages, her throat tight. She thought about Ana—the desperation in her eyes at the party, the way she'd clung to Dani like a lifeline, the armor she wore so carefully cracking at the edges. Ana, who was hiding and who was drowning in a town that would never let her breathe.
Dani had been with her for a night, technically two but the first one was just kissing so…
A distraction. A mistake Ana would probably spend the rest of senior year trying to bury.
And now the whole school was talking about it.
"You okay, hon?"
Dani looked up. Marlene was standing a few feet away, a pot of coffee in her hand, that perceptive gaze fixed on her face.
"Yeah." Dani shoved her phone back in her pocket. "Just... friend stuff. It's fine."
Marlene didn't push. She just nodded and moved on, refilling cups and chatting with the regulars like she hadn't just clocked Dani's entire emotional state in half a second.
The lunch rush finally tapered off around 1:30. The diner emptied out, leaving behind a handful of stragglers nursing coffee and the detritus of the midday crowd. Dani's arms ached from carrying trays, and her head was swimming with menu items and table numbers.
"Alright, kid." Marlene appeared at her elbow, untying her apron. "You survived. Take fifteen, catch your breath. I'll make you something to eat."
"You don't have to—"
"Wasn't asking." Marlene's tone brooked no argument. "Sit. I'll bring it out."
Dani found herself sliding into a booth near the window, her body grateful for the chance to stop moving. The afternoon sun slanted through the glass, warming her face, and for a moment she just sat there, watching the empty street outside, trying not to think about 4 PM.
A few minutes later, Marlene set a plate in front of her. A proper diner meal—a burger, thick-cut fries, a side of coleslaw that actually looked homemade. Beside it, a glass of Coke with ice.
"On the house," Marlene said, sliding into the booth across from her. "You look like you haven't had a real meal in a while."
Dani wanted to protest, but her stomach betrayed her, growling audibly at the sight of the food. She picked up a fry, bit into it, and nearly moaned. It was perfect—crispy outside, fluffy inside, salted just right.
"Holy shit."
Marlene grinned. "Made fresh. None of that frozen crap. My daddy taught me that. You want people coming back, you gotta give 'em something they can't get at the Golden Arches."
They sat in comfortable silence while Dani ate, the only sounds the distant clatter from the kitchen and the murmur of the stragglers at the counter. Marlene sipped her own coffee, watching the street outside with the easy patience of someone who had learned that stillness was its own kind of strength.
"So," Marlene said eventually, "you got folks? Back in California?"
Dani chewed slowly, buying time. "Not really. Mom and I don't talk. Haven't in years. Got two sisters, one in California, one in Washington."
"What about your dad?"
"He died when I was young. Car accident." The words came out flat, practiced. She'd said them so many times they'd lost their weight.
Marlene nodded, her expression sympathetic but not pitying. "That's rough. I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago."
"Still counts." Marlene turned her coffee cup in her hands. "I lost my mama when I was twelve. Cancer. You'd think it gets easier, but it doesn't. You just get better at carrying it."
Dani looked at her, seeing something new in the lines of her face. Grief recognized grief.
"You got anyone here?" Marlene asked. "Besides the friend you mentioned?"
"Just Sam. My roommate. We came out here together."
"That's good at least." Marlene's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Well, for what it's worth, you've got a job here if you want it. Three shifts a week to start, more if you can handle it. Pay's minimum plus tips, which ain't much, but it's honest work."
"I want it," Dani said immediately. "Thank you. Really."
"Don't thank me yet. Wait till you've worked a Saturday night." Marlene stood, stretching her back with a series of audible pops. "Come on. I'll show you where we keep the cleaning supplies. Slow part of the day, might as well learn where everything is."
Dani followed her through the diner, absorbing the layout, the routines, the small details that made up a working kitchen. Marlene was a good teacher—patient but no-nonsense, explaining things once and expecting Dani to remember.
They were in the back storage room, Marlene pointing out the industrial-sized bottles of bleach and the mop buckets, when the bell over the front door chimed. Multiple voices, young, filtered through the building.
"Must be a free period," Marlene muttered, checking her watch. "I hope at least.”
Dani followed her back to the front, and her blood ran cold.
A group of teenagers had claimed one of the larger booths—five of them, all wearing variations of the Laurel High colors, their backpacks piled on the floor. Cheerleader types, athlete types.
They were loud. Laughing, talking over each other, their voices carrying through the near-empty diner.
"—can't believe she actually skipped," one of the girls was saying, a brunette with perfect makeup and a cheerleading jacket. "Like, if you're going to do something scandalous, at least have the balls to show up and face it."
"She's probably hiding at home," another girl snickered. "Mommy's going to be SO pissed."
"But who was it?" A boy this time, leaning forward eagerly. "Like, does anyone actually know who the other girl was?"
"Someone from out of town, supposedly," the brunette said. "Madison's cousin saw them leaving the party together. Said she had dark hair, some kind of punk look. Definitely not from Laurel High."
Dani felt the floor shift beneath her feet. She turned away quickly, busying herself with straightening napkin dispensers on the counter, praying her hands weren't shaking visibly.
"Shame about Ana, though," one of the boys said, his tone falsely sympathetic. "I always knew there was something off about her. She was way too intense about the whole 'boyfriends are boring' thing."
"Right?" The brunette laughed. "Like, we should have seen it coming. All those sleepovers with Jess Perot freshman year? And then they had that huge falling out? Girl was obviously—"
"Can I help you kids?" Marlene's voice cut through the chatter like a knife, her Western drawl sharpening into something that demanded attention.
The teenagers looked up, momentarily chastened by the adult presence. The brunette recovered first, flashing a practiced smile.
"Just getting some food, Mrs. Payton. Is Gracie around?"
"She's on break. Dani here will take your order." Marlene gestured toward the counter. "Menus are on the table. Holler when you're ready."
Dani felt the teenagers' eyes on her as she approached, their curiosity palpable. She was new, she was different, she was interesting in the way that all outsiders were interesting in a small town. The brunette's gaze lingered a moment too long on Dani's lip ring, her obvious punk aesthetic.
"You're new," the brunette said. It wasn't a question.
"Just started today." Dani pulled out her order pad, keeping her voice neutral. "What can I get you?"
They ordered—milkshakes, burgers, a plate of cheese fries to share—and went back to their conversation, apparently deciding that the new waitress wasn't worth their sustained attention. Dani wrote everything down carefully, called the order back to the kitchen, and retreated to the counter, her heart hammering.
Mystery girl. That's what they were calling her. Ana's mystery girl.
She thought about Ana, probably sitting in her room right now, scrolling through her phone and watching her reputation crumble in real-time. She thought about the terror in Ana's eyes when Sarah had confronted her about the party, the desperation with which she'd clung to Dani afterward, the whispered confessions about her mother and her future and everything she stood to lose.
"Hey." Marlene's voice, low and close. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Dani blinked, focusing on Marlene's concerned face. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just... long day."
Marlene studied her for a moment, that searching gaze seeing more than Dani wanted to show. But she didn't push. She just nodded and moved away, giving Dani space.
The teenagers left an hour later, their booth a disaster zone of crumbs and sticky spots. They tipped decently enough, probably more out of habit than appreciation, and swept out the door in a cloud of perfume and self-importance. Dani cleaned up after them, scrubbing the table with more force than strictly necessary, trying to work out her frustration through physical labor.
"Rough crowd?"
Dani looked up. Marlene was leaning against the counter, a fresh pot of coffee in her hand, her expression knowing.
"Just high schoolers being high schoolers," Dani said. "Nothing I can't handle."
"Mmm." Marlene set down the pot and pulled something from her apron pocket—a worn photograph, edges soft from years of handling. "Here. Want to show you something."
Dani took the photo. It was the same image from the corkboard in the office—Marlene and the two men, younger, grinning at the camera in front of the diner.
"That's me," Marlene said, pointing. "About fifteen years back. And those are my brothers. Ron on my left—he runs a construction company up in Billings now, comes down every few months to visit. And Derrick on my right."
Dani's blood turned to ice.
Derrick. The broad-shouldered man with the too-confident smile. She looked closer at the photo, at his face, and suddenly understood why he'd seemed familiar.
Laurel's father. The man who had made her childhood a living hell. The man who was currently holding her captive in that house on the edge of town.
"Derrick's the middle child," Marlene was saying, oblivious to Dani's internal crisis. "Always was the troublemaker of the three of us. Got into amateur wrestling, thought he was gonna go to the Olympics, then blew out his knee junior year of college. Never really recovered from that disappointment, if I'm being honest. Married a girl from California—April, sweetest thing you ever met—but that didn't work out. She took their kid and left when the kid was twelve, I think? Moved back to California."
Dani's hands were shaking. She gripped the photograph tighter to hide it.
"Kid's back now, though," Marlene continued. "Montana. Senior at the high school. Derrick's trying, I guess, but..." She sighed. "He's not the easiest man to live with. Never has been. Ron and I worry about that kid, but what can you do? Family's family."
Family's family. As if that excused anything. As if blood ties could erase abuse and neglect and cruelty.
"Anyway." Marlene took the photo back, tucking it into her pocket. "I know I talk too much. Hazard of running a diner—you get used to filling silences. I've got two girls of my own, both grown now. Katie's in Seattle, works for some tech company I can't even pronounce. And Sammy, she's in grad school at Montana State. Psychology. Wants to be a counselor for married couples."
She smiled, pride evident in her voice. "Derrick and Ron come in here a couple times a week. Ron brings his wife, Patricia, sometimes. Derrick usually comes alone. Sits at the counter, orders the same thing every time—black coffee, two eggs over easy, bacon. Doesn't talk much, except to me, but I think he likes having somewhere to go, you know? Somewhere that's not that big old house."
Dani nodded mechanically, her mind racing. Marlene was Laurel's aunt. Marlene, this kind woman who had given her a job and a meal and looked at her like she was worth saving—she was related to the monster who was making Laurel's life hell.
Did she know? Did she know what Derrick was really like? Did she know about Laurel—about who Laurel really was?
"You're quiet," Marlene observed. "Something wrong?"
"No." Dani forced a smile. "Just tired. Long day, like I said."
Marlene's eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn't push. "Alright. Well, shift's almost over. You did good today, Dani. Real good. I'll put you on the schedule, starting Wednesday. Sound okay?"
"Sounds perfect. Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Marlene said again. "You earned it."
Laurel Melody Parker, Laurel, Montana, October 22nd, 2018
The final bell rang at 3:15 PM, and Laurel felt every second of the forty-five minutes that followed like grains of sand falling through an hourglass. She was going to see Dani. In less than an hour, she was going to stand in front of the girl she had loved—still loved?—and try to explain why she had vanished without a trace. Why she had let Dani believe she was dead. Why she had become this... this half-person, this ghost forced to use a boy's name.
The thought was terrifying. The thought was all she had wanted last year. The thought made her want to throw up.
"Hey." Jess appeared at her locker, her light blue hoodie slung over one arm, her expression a careful mixture of excitement and concern. "You ready?"
"No," Laurel said honestly. "But I'm doing it anyway."
"That's the spirit." Jess grabbed her hand, her fingers warm and certain. "Come on. We've got work to do."
The "work," as it turned out, involved Jess's bedroom, a truly alarming array of makeup products, and a level of concentration that suggested Jess was preparing Laurel for battle rather than a reunion with old friends. Which, in a way, she was.
"Sit," Jess commanded, pointing to the chair in front of her vanity. "And don't move. I need to work my magic."
Laurel sat. The mirror in front of her showed the familiar stranger—Montana's face, pale and sharp-angled, the shadow of stubble already returning despite the shave that morning. Her auburn hair was limp, hanging past her shoulders in waves that had long since given up on any kind of style. Dark circles underscored her eyes like bruises.
"Stop looking at yourself like that," Jess said, already pulling out brushes and palettes. "You're about to look amazing. Trust me."
"I trust you," Laurel murmured. "I just don't trust my face."
"Your face is fine. Your face is beautiful." Jess tilted Laurel's chin up, examining her like an artist studying a canvas. "We just need to bring out what's already there."
What followed was a transformation that Laurel watched in the mirror with something approaching awe. Jess worked with the focused intensity of someone who had practiced this a thousand times—which, given her cheerleading background, her own daily routine, how many times she'd done this for Laurel, and being the color guard's go-to on makeup, she probably had. Foundation first, smoothing out Laurel's skin, erasing the sallowness and the shadows. Then concealer, dabbed carefully under her eyes, making the exhaustion disappear.
"Close your eyes," Jess instructed, and Laurel obeyed.
She felt the soft brush of eyeshadow, layer after layer, building something she couldn't see. The careful application of eyeliner, a steady hand drawing lines she could never manage herself. Mascara, the wand tickling her lashes. And then, finally—
"Okay. Open."
Laurel opened her eyes and felt her breath catch.
The girl in the mirror was still recognizably her, but... different. Softer. The makeup wasn't dramatic—nothing like the full glam of the Spokane performance—but it was transformative in a quieter way. Her eyes looked larger, warmer, framed by carefully curled lashes. Her cheekbones had been gently highlighted, her lips touched with a shade of pink that made them look fuller, more feminine. She looked like herself. Her real self. The girl from California, the girl who had worn sundresses and laughed on the beach.
"Holy shit," Laurel whispered.
"I know, right?" Jess grinned, clearly pleased with herself. "Okay, hair next. I'm thinking a loose braid, maybe I'll just brush it out and see what I can do from there? I'll try to soften your face and hide the..." She gestured vaguely at Laurel's shoulders.
"Hide how broad I've become."
"Hide nothing. Frame everything. There's a difference."
Jess's fingers worked through Laurel's hair, detangling and sectioning with practiced ease. The sensation was soothing, almost hypnotic—the gentle tug of the comb, the warmth of Jess's hands against her scalp. Laurel closed her eyes and let herself drift.
"You know," Jess said quietly, her voice close to Laurel's ear, "Dani's going to lose her mind when she sees you."
"She's going to see a boy in makeup."
"She's going to see you. The real you. That's all that matters." Jess paused her braiding, her hands resting on Laurel's shoulders. Their eyes met in the mirror. "I've seen how you light up when you talk about her, Laurel. I've seen how much she means to you. Whatever happened between then and now—whatever happened at that party—none of it matters as much as this moment. As much as you two finally being in the same room again."
Laurel felt tears prick at her eyes and blinked them back, not wanting to ruin Jess's careful work. "You really believe that?"
"I really believe that." Jess resumed braiding, weaving strands together with nimble fingers. "And for what it's worth... I'm glad you're doing this. I was jealous, before. When I found out about Dani, about your whole life in California. It felt like there was this whole part of you that I could never access, you know? This whole history I wasn't part of."
"Jess..."
"Let me finish." Jess tied off the braid with a small elastic, then began loosening the strands to give it that effortless, windswept look. "But then I realized—I'm part of your history now. I'm part of your life now. And so is Dani. And maybe... maybe that's okay. Maybe the people who love you can just love you together."
Laurel turned in her chair, looking at Jess directly rather than through the mirror. "You really think that's possible?"
Jess's expression was soft, vulnerable in a way Laurel had rarely seen. "I don't know. But I know that I want you to be happy. That's what matters most."
Before Laurel could respond, Jess was moving away, crossing to her closet with businesslike efficiency. "Okay, enough feelings. Clothes. I pulled some options—you're about my size on top, and I found some of my old jeans that should work..."
She emerged with an armful of fabric, spreading the options across her bed. There was a soft pink sweater—too close to the one Laurel had worn on her first day of school in California, too loaded with memory. A band tee that was too casual. A button-down that was too masculine.
And then, at the bottom of the pile, a charcoal grey cardigan over a fitted black tank top, paired with high-waisted dark jeans and a simple silver necklace.
"That one," Laurel said immediately.
"Good eye." Jess tossed the clothes to her. "Change. I'll look away."
Laurel stripped quickly, pulling on the borrowed clothes with hands that only shook a little. The jeans fit better than she expected—snug on her hips, feminine in a way that made her heart race. The tank top was simple but flattering, and the cardigan softened everything, making her shoulders look less broad, her frame less masculine.
She looked in the mirror again and saw—
She was the most herself she had felt in months.
"Okay," Jess said, checking her phone. "We should go. Dani texted—they're at the apartment. Sam's there too."
Sam. Laurel felt a flutter of something else—curiosity, maybe, or anticipation. The last time she'd seen Sam, like really seen him, for longer than a minute before running, he'd been pre-transition with pink-streaked hair and a sardonic smile. A lot had changed.
They drove to the edge of town, to a small apartment building that looked like it had seen better decades. The parking lot held a handful of cars, including an old Saturn that Laurel recognized with certainty, Dani's car.
It was really happening. She was really here.
"You've got this," Jess said, squeezing her hand. "I'll be right there with you."
They climbed the stairs to the second floor, Laurel's heart pounding harder with each step. Apartment 2B. The door's paint was faded, the number hanging slightly crooked. Laurel stared at it, her hand frozen halfway to knocking.
This was it. The moment she'd been dreading and longing for in equal measure. On the other side of that door was Dani Rivera, and everything that came with her—the memories, the love, the explanations she owed.
Jess reached past her and knocked.
Footsteps. The click of a lock. The door swung open.
And there standing in the doorway was Dani.
Dani looked different and exactly the same all at once. Her raven hair was shorter now, cut in a choppy style that framed her face. The lip ring caught the light. She was wearing a My Chemical Romance hoodie and ripped jeans and those same Doc Martens she'd always loved.
And around her neck, wound loosely like an afterthought, was a teal scarf.
Laurel's breath caught. The scarf. Dani had kept the scarf.
But then she noticed the details. The dark circles under Dani's eyes. The new sharpness to her cheekbones, like she hadn't been eating enough. The way her hands trembled slightly at her sides.
And when Dani stepped forward and pulled Laurel into a hug—fierce, desperate, immediate—the first thing Laurel noticed was the smell.
Smoke. Dani smelled like cigarette smoke, layered under soap and her familiar vanilla perfume.
When had Dani started smoking?
But that question dissolved, along with every other thought in Laurel's head, as Dani's arms tightened around her and she felt herself being held for the first time in what felt like forever. Really held. Like she was something precious. Like she was something worth keeping.
"You're here," Dani whispered, her voice cracking. "You're really here. You're real."
Laurel's own arms came up, wrapping around Dani's back, pulling her closer. She could feel Dani shaking—or maybe that was her, maybe they were both trembling, caught in this impossible moment.
"I'm here," Laurel managed. "I'm sorry. Dani, I'm so sorry—"
"Don't." Dani pulled back just enough to look at her face, her hands coming up to cup Laurel's cheeks, her eyes searching. Those brown eyes, so familiar, swimming with tears. "Don't apologize. I just—I need to look at you. I need to see you."
Laurel stood still, letting herself be seen. She watched Dani's gaze travel over her face, cataloguing the changes—the sharper jawline, the hint of stubble she couldn't quite eliminate, the hollow cheeks. But also the makeup Jess had so carefully applied, the braid, the clothes that actually fit.
"You look beautiful," Dani said, and her voice broke on the word.
"I look like a mess."
"You look so fucking pretty Laurel." Dani's thumb traced along her cheekbone. "I missed you.”
A throat cleared behind them. Laurel looked past Dani to see Sam standing in the small living room, arms crossed, expression a complicated mixture of amusement and emotion. Sam had changed more than anyone—taller now, or maybe just standing differently. His green hair was longer, swept to one side. He was wearing a flannel shirt over a t-shirt that said "PUNK'S NOT DEAD," and there was something different about the way he held himself. More confident. More settled.
More himself.
"Hey, L," Sam said, his voice deeper than she remembered. "Long time no see."
"Sam." Laurel felt a smile spreading across her face despite everything. "You look... good. Really good."
"I know, right?" Sam grinned. "Turns out when you stop trying to be someone you're not, everything else falls into place. Who knew?"
Jess stepped inside, closing the door behind them. "Hi. I'm Jess. We've sort of met, but..."
"The library," Sam said, nodding. "I remember. You're the one who's been keeping Laurel alive out here."
"One of them," Jess said, glancing at Laurel. "She's got more people in her corner than she realizes."
"Come in," Dani said, finally releasing Laurel but keeping hold of her hand. "Sit. We've got... a lot to talk about."
The apartment was small—really small. Barely more than a studio, with a kitchenette in one corner, a futon that probably doubled as Sam's bed, and a door that presumably led to a bathroom. But someone had tried to make it homey. There were twinkle lights strung along the ceiling, a few posters on the walls, a worn but colorful rug on the floor. It felt like Dani. Chaotic and warm and trying its best.
They arranged themselves in a loose circle—Dani and Laurel on the futon, Jess in a secondhand armchair that creaked when she sat, Sam cross-legged on the floor with his back against the wall. For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of the reunion hung in the air, too massive to address directly.
Then Laurel's eyes found the scarf again, the teal wool bright against Dani's dark hoodie.
"You're wearing it," she said softly. "The scarf."
Dani's hand went to the fabric, her fingers tracing the familiar pattern. "Yeah. I... I made a new one. After..." She swallowed. "I never found the old one. When Richard took you, when he cleared out the apartment—everything was gone so fast. I tried to get your stuff, tried to save something, but by the time I got there, the movers had already..." She trailed off, her jaw tightening. "I spent weeks looking. Called storage places, thrift stores, anyone who might have ended up with donated items. But the old scarf—your scarf—I never found it."
"You made a new one."
"Same pattern." Dani's voice was thick. "Taught myself from the same YouTube video, actually. Took me three tries to get it right. I kept messing up the stitch."
Laurel remembered Christmas Eve 2014. Sitting on the couch of the Marisol Heights apartment, Dani's hands cold in hers, the teal scarf wrapped around both of their necks because Dani insisted on sharing even though it meant neither of them was properly warm. I made it myself, Dani had said, shy in a way she rarely was. It's probably not that good, but...
It's perfect, Laurel had told her. It's the most perfect thing anyone's ever given me.
She'd worn that scarf every day for almost three years. It had been the last piece of her old life she'd touched before Richard's lawyers had packed everything away.
"I love it," Laurel said now, her voice barely above a whisper. "I love that you made a new one."
The silence that followed was different—softer, more laden. Sam shifted against the wall, and Laurel caught his expression: something like recognition, something like understanding. He was watching Dani and Laurel with eyes that saw too much.
Laurel looked at the three faces around her—Dani, still holding her hand like a lifeline; Sam, steady and present; Jess, her protector and guardian angel. These people. These people who had traveled across the country, who had waited in a hostile town, who had refused to give up on her even when she had given up on herself.
She owed them the truth. All of it.
"I don't know where to start," she admitted. "There's so much..."
"Start with after I last saw you," Dani said. "Start with when Richard took you."
So Laurel did.
The words came slowly at first, halting and painful, like pulling shards of glass from an old wound. She told them about the sterile condo in San Francisco, about Eleanor's brittle kindness and Richard's cold calculation. About the night Richard had called her into his study and explained, in his reasonable lawyer's voice, that he was discontinuing her "course of treatment."
"He took my hormones," Laurel said, and her voice cracked. "He just... cancelled the prescription. Said my mom wasn't in her right mind when she helped me transition. Said the whole thing was a mistake he needed to correct."
Dani's grip on her hand tightened painfully.
"I tried to run." Laurel wiped at her eyes, smearing the makeup Jess had so carefully applied. "Twice. The first time, I made it six blocks before his driver caught up with me. The second time, I tried to buy a bus ticket home, but he'd frozen my bank account. He thought of everything. He's a lawyer—building airtight cases is what he does. I was just... another case."
Sam's jaw was set, his eyes hard. "That's kidnapping. That's abuse."
"It's legal guardianship," Laurel said bitterly. "He had the paperwork. My mom—she never expected to die, never set up any kind of contingency. When she..." She couldn't say the words. "When it happened, Richard was made my legal guardian."
"Your dad?" Jess asked quietly.
"It was complicated, lawyers and custody agreements I never fully understood. Richard had the legal standing. Richard had the money. Richard had all the power. At the time I thought I was getting sent to Richard and Eleanor because of my dad's abuse but it turns out my mom didn't document it correctly at the time.”
She took a shaky breath and continued.
Newport. The facility that called itself a wellness center but operated like a prison. The intake with Dr. Reeves, the woman with kind eyes that never reached her smile. The navy polo shirts and khaki pants and the absence of mirrors. The medication that made everything fuzzy and distant.
"They… they sent me to conversion therapy, in Newport, Washington… They tried to convince me I was crazy," Laurel said. "That my identity was a trauma response. That I was rejecting masculinity because boys had beaten me when I was twelve, not because I actually am a girl." She laughed, a hollow sound. "They even tried to make me believe I'd been... that the attack was worse than I remembered. That I'd been sexually assaulted and repressed it. They tried to plant false memories."
"Jesus Christ," Sam muttered.
"I played along." The words tasted like ash in her mouth. "I learned to say what they wanted to hear. To cry on cue, to nod when they made their points, to pretend I was 'making progress.' I became such a good actress that sometimes I couldn't tell where the performance ended and I began."
She told them about Tyler, the boy with the hollow eyes who had helped her plan an escape. About running through the dark forest toward the road, hitchhiking to Spokane, finding refuge with Tyler's cousin for two brief days of freedom.
"Richard's lawyers found us," she said. "Police officers. A court order. We were sent back. Both of us. I don't know what happened to Tyler after that. They separated us, put me in isolation, started me on medication..."
Dani's whole body was vibrating with rage. Laurel could feel it through their joined hands—a fury so intense it was almost physical.
"They released me to Richard for Christmas." Laurel's voice dropped. "Christmas Eve, 2017, only about two months after my mom… I was back in San Francisco, in that perfect condo with the perfect Christmas tree, and Richard was watching me like I was a bomb about to go off. Eleanor wanted to schedule extra therapy sessions after they caught me crying… The medication they'd given me—I'd learned to palm it at Newport, to spit out the pills when no one was watching. But at the condo... I stopped taking it completely. And when the fog lifted..."
She stopped. This was the part. The part she hadn't told anyone, not even Jess. The part she had buried so deep she sometimes convinced herself it had happened to someone else.
"Laurel." Jess's voice, gentle. "You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do." Laurel closed her eyes. "I owe you all the truth. The whole truth."
She felt Dani's hand tighten around hers, an anchor in the storm.
"On Christmas Eve, I took a bottle of Seroquel. The mood stabilizers they'd sent me home with. Almost thirty pills. I swallowed them all at once, standing in front of the bathroom mirror."
The silence was absolute. Laurel couldn't look at any of them, couldn't bear to see the horror or the pity or whatever else might be on their faces.
"I didn't really want to die," she continued, her voice barely audible. "I just... I couldn't see any other way out. I'd been fighting for so long, and nothing had worked. Richard was never going to let me be Laurel. Neither was Derrick. The courts, the doctors, everyone in my life—they were all determined to erase me. And I was so tired. So tired of fighting. I thought... I thought if I couldn't exist as myself, maybe it was better not to exist at all."
Dani made a sound—a small, wounded noise that pierced Laurel's heart.
"I woke up in the hospital," Laurel said. "They'd pumped my stomach. Richard was furious—not because I'd almost died, but because the suicide attempt meant the hospital had to notify Derrick as my other legal guardian. Suddenly there was a custody battle. Derrick was claiming Richard was unfit. Richard was claiming my mom had never documented Derrick's abuse properly. Lawyers on both sides, everyone fighting over me like I was a piece of property, and nobody—nobody—was actually asking what I wanted. Because they thought what I said wouldn't help. That I wasn't in the right state of mind.”
She opened her eyes. Looked at each of them in turn. Sam, whose face had gone pale, whose hands were clenched into fists. Jess, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. And Dani—
Dani, who was looking at her with such raw, devastating love that Laurel felt something inside her break open.
"Derrick won," Laurel finished. "The court decided—I don't know exactly how or why—that Richard's home was more dangerous than Derrick's, even though Richard at least pretended to care about my mental health and Derrick..." She trailed off. "So here I am. Back in Laurel, Montana. Back with the father who made my childhood a living hell. Back pretending to be Montana Payton like the last four years never happened."
Dani moved before Laurel could blink. She pulled Laurel into her arms, holding her with a fierce intensity that said more than words ever could. Laurel felt herself collapse into the embrace, finally letting the tears come—real tears, not the performative ones she'd learned to produce on demand, but the genuine expression of grief and relief and exhaustion that she'd been holding back for so long.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed into Dani's shoulder. "I'm so sorry I left. I'm sorry I couldn't fight harder. I'm sorry I tried to die. I'm sorry I didn't find a way to contact you, to let you know I was alive—"
"Stop." Dani's voice was rough with emotion. "Stop apologizing. You survived. That's what matters. You're here, you're alive, and you're not alone anymore. You're never going to be alone again."
Laurel clung to her, breathing in the familiar-yet-different scent—vanilla and something floral, layered over that new note of cigarette smoke. Dani's arms around her felt like home in a way nothing had felt for over a year. This was where she belonged. This was where she had always belonged.
But even as she let herself be held, even as the tears subsided and her breathing steadied, Laurel was aware of a strange distance inside herself. A numbness that persisted even in this moment of reunion. She loved Dani—she knew that, had never stopped knowing it. But things were not the way it used to be.
Something had gone quiet in her when she'd swallowed those pills. Something that hadn't fully woken up again. She felt so hollowed out by the detransition and suicide attempt. It still felt like she was just a bystander watching her life unfold.
After a long moment, Dani pulled back slightly, her hands coming up to cradle Laurel's face. "I thought I lost you," she whispered. "When you disappeared, when Richard took you—I thought you were gone forever. Sam and I, we searched everywhere. Called everyone. Nobody would tell us anything. It was like you'd just... vanished."
"I know." Laurel covered Dani's hands with her own. "I wanted to reach out. I tried, when we escaped to Spokane—but I couldn't remember your number, couldn't access any of my accounts. Richard had everything locked down."
Jess had been silent throughout Laurel's confession, but now she spoke up, her voice thick. "I had no idea. When you came back to Laurel... I knew something was wrong. You were like a ghost walking around, I knew something was off. But I didn't know..."
"How could you?" Laurel turned to look at her. "I was doing everything I could to forget. The memories of California, of being Laurel—I buried them so deep I almost convinced myself they weren't real. It was the only way to survive."
"But you remembered," Dani said. "Eventually."
"Mom's journal." Laurel felt a fresh wave of grief wash through her. "Derrick gave me a box of her things. There was a letter in there from her. And when I read it—when I saw her handwriting, saw her calling me Laurel, her daughter—everything started coming back… slowly. All of it. California, and you, and who I really was."
Sam shifted, drawing his knees up to his chest. "You know what happened to Tyler? The kid from the facility?"
"No." Laurel shook her head. "I've thought about him a lot. Hoped he made it out eventually. But I have no way of knowing."
"We could try to find out," Sam said. "If you wanted. Once things settle down. Reach out to his cousin, maybe."
"Maybe." Laurel wasn't sure she could handle that—knowing what had happened to him, whether it was good or bad. Another weight to carry. "Not now, though. I can barely handle now."
The conversation drifted into silence again, but it was a different kind of silence now. Warmer. The truth had been spoken, the wounds had been shown. Whatever came next, they were all standing on the same ground.
Sam's eyes moved between Dani and Laurel, then flicked to Jess, a knowing expression crossing his face. He'd always been perceptive—too perceptive, sometimes. Laurel wondered what he was seeing, what patterns he was recognizing in the way they all oriented toward each other.
"Hey," Sam said, unfolding himself from the floor. "Laurel, you want to see the roof? There's a great view of the sunset from up there, and I could use some fresh air after..." He gestured vaguely at the emotional weight hanging in the room.
"The roof?" Laurel blinked.
"Fire escape goes all the way up. It's technically against the lease to access it, but Margaret —the landlord—doesn't seem to care. As long as we don't fall off and sue, I think we're good."
Laurel looked at Dani, then at Jess. Both of them nodded—Dani with a small, encouraging smile, Jess with an expression that suggested this had been planned.
"Okay," Laurel said. "Fresh air sounds good."
Sam led her through the cramped apartment to a window that opened onto a rusted fire escape. The metal creaked as they climbed, but it held their weight, and soon they were emerging onto the flat gravel roof of the building. The sun was just beginning its descent, painting the Montana sky in shades of orange and gold and deep purple.
It was beautiful. Heartbreakingly beautiful, in the way that nature could be beautiful even when everything else was falling apart.
"Careful," Sam said, steering her away from the edge. "The railing's not exactly up to code. But over here—" He led her to a spot near the center of the roof, where someone had dragged up a couple of lawn chairs. "Ta-da. The Laurel, Montana Rooftop Lounge."
Laurel sank into one of the chairs, feeling the exhaustion of the day settling into her bones. Sam took the other chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.
For a moment, they just sat there, watching the sunset.
"You've changed," Laurel said finally. "A lot."
Sam laughed softly. "That's one way to put it. Last time you saw me, I was still… Pretending to be a girl because I didn't know what else to do."
"When did you figure it out?"
"After you left." Sam's voice was quiet. "Watching you—being friends with you, seeing how much happier you were when you got to be yourself—it planted a seed. And then you were gone, and I was just... existing. Going through the motions. And eventually, I couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't keep pretending."
"Was it hard? After you came out?"
"Hard doesn't even begin to cover it." Sam's smile was wry. "My parents were... not great about it. Still aren't, really. I'm out here with Dani instead of at home, which tells you something. But Dani—Dani was amazing. She didn't even blink. Just started using my new name, new pronouns, treating me like it was the most natural thing in the world. She said..." He paused, his voice thickening. "She said watching you taught her how important it was. Being there, for people like us, I mean. She said if she'd learned anything from you, it was that having people around you, ones you can understand and be there for, shouldn't be taken for granted."
Laurel felt tears prick at her eyes again. She'd been so afraid that her disappearance had only caused pain—and it had, clearly—but hearing that something good had come from it, that her presence had helped Sam find himself...
"I'm proud of you," she said. "I know I wasn't there for any of it, but—I'm so proud of who you've become."
"Same to you." Sam reached over and squeezed her hand. "Surviving what you survived, making it through to the other side—that takes a kind of strength most people can't even imagine. You're still here. That's what matters."
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the colors deepen in the sky.
"Can I ask you something?" Sam said eventually.
"Anything."
"Dani and Jess." Sam's tone was careful. "They both love you. You know that, right?"
Laurel felt her cheeks flush. "I... I don't..."
"It's pretty obvious," Sam said gently. "The way they look at you, the way they orbit around you. Dani's been in love with you since we met you. I thought at first, she was just being her regular slightly flirty self, but I soon realized she loved you from the start. And Jess... I don't know her as well, but watching her tonight? She's got it bad too."
Laurel stared at the sunset, her heart doing something complicated in her chest. "I don't know what to do with that," she admitted. "Since I... since last year... I haven't felt much of anything. Romantically, I mean. It's like that part of me went quiet. I love Dani—I know I do—but it's not like it was before. And Jess... Jess has been my lifeline here, my best friend, and I care about her so much, but..."
"But?"
"But I don't know if I can be what either of them needs." Laurel's voice was small. "I don't know if I can be anyone's girlfriend right now. Maybe ever. Maybe I'm too broken."
"You're not broken," Sam said firmly. "You're just starting to heal. There's a difference. And for what it's worth—I don't think either of them expects anything from you. They just want to be near you. Whatever form that takes."
Laurel thought about that. About the way Jess looked at her in the mirror while doing her makeup. About the way Dani's hands had trembled when she'd reached for her face. About the strange electricity that sometimes flickered low.
"What if I'm not ready to figure it out?" she asked.
"Then you're not ready." Sam shrugged. "Nobody's rushing you. The important thing is that you're here. You're reconnecting with the people who love you. Everything else can happen on your timeline."
Below them, through the window, Laurel could hear the murmur of voices—Dani and Jess, having their own conversation. She wondered what they were saying. Whether they were talking about her, about the impossible situation all three of them had found themselves in.
"Thank you," she said. "For being here. For coming all this way to find me."
"Like I was going to let Dani drive across the country alone?" Sam grinned. "Please. Someone had to be the voice of reason."
"Has she always been this impulsive?"
"Always. It's part of her charm." Sam's grin softened. "She would have walked through fire for you, Laurel. She kind of did."
Laurel nodded, her throat tight. She knew. She'd always known.
The question was what to do about it.
Jessica Perot, Laurel, Montana, October 22nd, 2018
The moment Sam led Laurel up the fire escape, Jess felt the atmosphere in the apartment shift. It was just her and Dani now—two girls who loved the same person, who had been circling each other warily for weeks, finally alone with no buffer between them.
Dani moved first, crossing to the small kitchenette and pulling out a bottle of whiskey that looked like it had seen better days. "Drink?"
Jess hesitated. She wasn't much of a drinker—her mom had strong opinions about teenagers and alcohol—but this felt like the kind of conversation that might need lubrication. "Sure. Small one."
Dani poured two glasses, more generous than Jess had expected, and handed one over before settling onto the futon. Jess took the armchair again, its springs creaking familiarly.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. They just sipped their whiskey—Jess trying not to grimace at the burn—and avoided each other's eyes.
Finally, Dani broke the silence. "So. We should probably talk."
"Probably," Jess agreed.
"About..." Dani gestured vaguely. "This…. uh Laurel. The whole mess."
"The whole mess," Jess echoed. "That's one way to put it."
Dani laughed, a sound with sharp edges. "I don't know what else to call it. I show up in this frozen hellscape of a town, spend weeks trying to find my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend? I don't even know anymore—and end up hooking up with Ana in the backseat of my car. Meanwhile, you've been here the whole time, taking care of her, being the person she needed when I couldn't be."
Jess blinked. She hadn't expected Dani to address the Ana situation so directly.
"The Ana thing—"
"I'm not proud of it," Dani cut in. "For what that's worth. It was stupid and self-destructive and... and I was hurting. I was so fucking scared, Jess. Every day that passed without finding Laurel, I became more convinced she was dead. I was just running in circles, then I found her against all odds, and she ran. And then there was Ana, all that messed-up energy, and I just..." She took a long swallow of whiskey. "I made a bad choice. Several bad choices, actually. It happens."
"I know about bad choices," Jess said quietly. "I made plenty of them freshman year, after Ana destroyed my life.”
Dani's eyebrows shot up. "Oh… shit I'm sorry I didn't realize.”
"Ana was my best friend. Before freshman year, we were… close. Inseparable actually. And then her boyfriend cheated on her.” Jess winced, taking another sip. “And she used me to get back at him. She kissed me, and told me everything she could to make me confront him. So I did. I punched him in the face, got a severe warning because of my good reputation.”
Jess closed her eyes. Shutting them tightly. “She got back with him. And started spreading rumors about me that I was a psycho lesbian who punched her boyfriend. When things kept getting worse, at cheer practice… I punched her and got kicked off cheer… She's been living off my busted reputation to hide her own bullshit for years.”
"Shit." Dani shook her head. "This town really does eat people alive, doesn't it?"
"It tries." Jess swirled the whiskey in her glass. "But we're still here."
The silence stretched out again, but it was less tense now.
"You love her… Laurel I mean." Dani said. It wasn't a question.
Jess felt her face flush. "I..."
"It's okay." Dani's voice was gentle. "I'm not angry. How could I be? You were there for her when I couldn't be. You saw her when nobody else could see past the disguise. You probably saved her life."
"She saved herself," Jess said. "I just... I just helped her remember who she was."
"Same thing, sometimes." Dani leaned back against the futon, staring at the ceiling. "Can I tell you something weird?"
"Sure."
"When I first saw you—at the library, that day you came to vet us—I wanted to hate you. You were so obviously in love with her, so obviously the person she'd been turning to, and I felt like... like you'd stolen something that belonged to me. My place in her life. My role."
Jess's chest tightened. "Dani—"
"But then I actually talked to you. Watched you. And I realized—" Dani laughed again, self-deprecating. "You're pretty great, actually. You've got this whole protective thing going on, but you're also really kind underneath it.”
"I'm what?"
"Take the compliment, or I'll have to give more," Dani said bluntly.
Jess choked on her whiskey and her face flushed.
Jess coughed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "I... you... that's..."
"So what do we do?" she asked. "About Laurel, I mean. About all of it."
Dani was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was softer, more serious. "I don't think we 'do' anything. Not right now. Laurel's been through hell. She's still going through it—living with that monster of a father, hiding who she is, just trying to survive until she turns eighteen. The last thing she needs is two girls fighting over her or putting pressure on her to choose."
"So we just... wait?"
"We support her. We be there for her. We let her heal." Dani met Jess's eyes. "And maybe, somewhere along the way, we figure out what we are to each other. If anything."
"That sounds... mature," she said finally. "Annoyingly mature."
Dani laughed. "Don't get used to it. I'm usually a disaster."
"Noted."
They clinked glasses, a toast to uncertainty and possibility and the strange roads that had brought them both to this moment.
And when Laurel and Sam came back down from the roof a few minutes later, the tension in the apartment had shifted again—still complicated, still charged, but warmer now. Softer. Like the beginning of something rather than the end.
Jess watched Laurel cross to the futon, watched Dani make room for her, watched the way they fit together like puzzle pieces. And she felt not jealousy, exactly, but something more like anticipation.
Whatever came next, she was going to be part of it. All three of them were.
And maybe—just maybe—that was going to be okay.
Laurel Melody Parker, Laurel, Montana, October 22nd, 2018
The sunset had faded into twilight by the time Laurel and Sam came back inside. The apartment was warmer now—not just the temperature, but the atmosphere. Jess and Dani were sitting closer together on the futon, their body language easier, their expressions lighter. Something had shifted while Laurel was on the roof.
"Hey," Dani said, patting the space beside her. "Come sit. We were just talking about you."
"All good things, I hope," Laurel said, settling onto the futon between them. Jess was on one side, Dani on the other. She felt like the center of a constellation.
"Mostly good." Jess's shoulder brushed against hers. "Dani was telling me about the time you tried to teach her a flag toss in guard and she dropped it right on her foot.”
"It was a rifle, actually," Laurel corrected, a smile tugging at her lips despite everything. "And she didn't just drop it—she launched it straight up into the air and then panicked when it came down."
"It was terrifying!" Dani protested. "That thing was basically a weapon! I'm much better at sabres anyways."
"It's a piece of wood."
"A piece of wood that tried to murder me. Like twice.”
The banter was so familiar, so achingly normal, that Laurel felt tears prick at her eyes again. This. This was what she had missed. Not just Dani, but the rhythm of their relationship, the easy back-and-forth that had always made her feel like she belonged.
Sam settled back into his spot on the floor, watching the three of them with an expression of quiet satisfaction. "This is nice," he said. "Having everyone together. It's been..." He shook his head. "It's been a rough year."
"Understatement of the century," Dani muttered. But she reached out and squeezed Sam's shoulder, affection evident in the gesture.
They talked for another hour as the night deepened outside. About California, about the apartment they'd shared with April, about the small moments that had made up their life before everything fell apart. Laurel told them about the hormones she'd ordered, about Jess's help, about the two-week wait that felt simultaneously too long and terrifyingly soon.
"You're really doing it," Dani said, wonder in her voice. "Taking your life back."
"Trying to," Laurel said. "One day at a time."
"That's all any of us can do."
Eventually, the conversation wound down. Laurel's eyes were heavy, her body exhausted from the emotional weight of the day. Jess checked her phone and winced.
"I should probably get her home," she said reluctantly. "Derrick's going to lose his mind if she's out too late on a school night."
"Right." Dani's jaw tightened at the mention of Derrick. "The monster."
"The monster," Laurel confirmed. "For now. Just... until the 4th of January.”
"Until I'm eighteen. Until I'm legally free."
Dani walked them to the door, pulling Laurel into one last hug before she left. "Thank you," she whispered. "For telling us. For trusting us."
"Thank you for not giving up," Laurel whispered back. "For coming to find me."
"Always." Dani pressed a kiss to her forehead—gentle, chaste, full of love that asked for nothing in return. "Always, always, always."
Jess was waiting on the landing, her car keys already in hand. She and Dani exchanged a look that Laurel couldn't quite interpret—some new understanding they'd reached while she was on the roof.
"Take care of her," Dani said.
"I will," Jess promised. "Take care of yourself."
"Working on it."
The drive back to Derrick's house was quiet. Jess held Laurel's hand across the center console, her thumb tracing soothing circles on Laurel's palm. The streets of Laurel, Montana rolled past—dark and cold and empty, but somehow less menacing than they had seemed that morning.
"Thank you," Laurel said as they pulled up to the house. The lights were on; Derrick was home. "For everything. For today. For... all of it."
"You don't have to thank me," Jess said. "I told you—I'm not going anywhere."
Laurel looked at the house, at the window of her room on the second floor, at the life she still had to survive. Then she looked back at Jess—beautiful, fierce, loyal Jess—and felt something warm flicker in her chest.
Not romance. But there was something.