walking in on Olive making out with Ethan Townes in her bedroom when she was sixteen, and a conversation about condoms, which ended with Ramona setting a box on Olive’s nightstand while her sister fled into the shower.

Still, in all her excitement over Olive’s future, she had to admit, facing an empty nest at the age of thirty-one was a bit overwhelming.

“Dates?” “Yeah. Romance. Hot people. Sex?”

April’s words, DNA-altering sex.

Also, she had such a hard time finding unique pieces to fit her plus-size figure—her boobs in particular—she designed most of her own clothes back then.

“Oh, it’s true,” Marion said. “The movie is one of those ‘love is love’ stories, so you two ought to like that.”

both she and April devouring any queer romance they could get their hands on.

a Black trans woman who had started transitioning when she was only sixteen and living with her supportive widower father in south Georgia

She fired Vance, fired her assistant, and spent the next six months locked up in her house eating delivery food and reading multiple novels a week, consuming anyone and everyone’s story except her own, and feeling ridiculously sorry for herself.

Ramona’s chest tightened. Everything April was saying was essentially true—she did have dashed dreams and she had deferred her career plans, all of which Olive knew about—but she never wanted Olive to feel as though she was second place or a backup plan or, even worse, had ruined Ramona’s life.

Dylan Monroe didn’t matter—she was just an actor, a wild one at that, and Ramona had more important things to focus on. Plans. Aspirations. Goals. And Dylan had nothing to do with any of that. Nothing at all.

Ramona couldn’t seem to make herself turn around. Not yet. Of course, she’d known for three weeks that Dylan Monroe was playing Eloise. And she knew that they were going to film some scenes in Clover Moon, but none of that really clicked until this moment. Ramona hadn’t thought she’d even see Dylan—why would she? If filming was happening in the café, the studio would bring in trained extras for the patrons, for the other servers, wouldn’t they? She had no clue how movies worked on that end, had only ever been interested in costuming, but Ramona never imagined she’d be here, at her place of work, about to help Dylan Monroe serve coffee and french fries. “Ramona?” Owen said from behind her. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Dylan shifted to look at her, eyes so dark brown, they seemed fathomless. And freckles. Ramona had so many freckles—Dylan never knew she liked freckles, but god, she did. And paired with Ramona’s long lashes and pert little mouth, Dylan was having a hard time focusing.

“You’re right. We’re just hanging out.” “Exactly. Like gal pals.” “That sounds gay.” “It is gay.”

And then their lips touched. Gentle and sweet, like a whisper. Ramona felt her whole body light up, like glitter, like a firework, like happiness. They bumped noses, and laughed, and then kept kissing, figuring each other out, and it was weird and wonderful and awkward and perfect. When they finally pulled away, they laughed again, then kissed again, and it went like that for a few minutes, a dreamy cycle Ramona couldn’t believe was really happening.

“I’ve never been so disappointed to be straight,” Olive said dreamily, shaking Dylan’s hand too. Dylan tilted her head. “That sentiment might be a sign you’re not.”

“Summer before tenth grade.” “Ninth.” Ramona stared at her, almost like a dare. Dylan stared back, expressionless but blinking rapidly, holding her gaze for about five seconds before she jutted her thumb toward the lane. “Do you think Olive would mind if I bowled her turn?”

First—Of course, yes, right, ninth grade, how could I forget, wink-wink.

And the summer before ninth grade…that summer was how she knew. Because of Cherry. The name popped into her mind. She’d thought of it before, of course, the fake name of the first girl she’d ever kissed, that cherry-print shirt and fireworks on Clover Lake’s shore, and— Hello, Dolly

Dolly. Hello, Dolly. No. It couldn’t be.

Impossible. Except was it?

Ramona smiled at Dylan. A sort of wince-smile, but it was enough. A shock, like lightning flashing on a familiar scene, but with such intensity, you noticed all these little details you didn’t notice before—the way a tree leaned to the left or how the mailbox’s flag was a little rusty. Because right there, on the left side of Ramona’s face, was a dimple.

Dylan couldn’t look at her. Not in the face, or the eyes. Not anywhere, really, because if she started looking now that she knew, she’d never stop. Cherry.

And when Blair walked into the café as Mallory, Dylan did exactly what she was supposed to do—act completely annoyed with this posh woman asking for an oat milk lavender latte with low foam and a shot of collagen. “Collagen?” Dylan asked as Eloise.

“You remember,” she said, her voice quiet. “I remember you,” Mallory said.

“I’m fine,” Dylan said.

“If I’m the one who fucked things up,” Dylan said, “which, let’s be honest, I would be, I’d want to do something where you wouldn’t feel trapped.” Ramona frowned. “What do you mean?” “So many grand gestures in books and movies are like…I don’t know. They feel intrusive sometimes. Like, ‘Hey, here I am, the person you’re furious with! Talk to me!’ ”

Ramona wasn’t sure how to process that. She’d always assumed Olive did in fact tell her everything, because that’s the way she and Olive had always been. They were Lorelai and Rory from Gilmore Girls, complicated parental issues and all, granted without the teen pregnancy and Lorelai’s constant horrible decisions.

Dylan clenched her teeth. “Is Jocelyn coming to town for her original song?” Carrie just looked at her coolly. “At some point, yes.” “What? Seriously?” Dylan rubbed her forehead. “Mom, I don’t want her here, and it’s not fair that you just swoop in and—”

“Just let me say this,” Carrie said, then took a deep breath. “Your dad and I messed up a lot. And I get that you’re angry about that. You’re hurt. And you should be. I’m sorry, Dylan, I can’t express how sorry we are. If I could change it all for you, I would.” Dylan’s throat went thick, aching as though a snake had curled around her windpipe. “But at some point, baby…” Carrie trailed off, her lower lip bobbing. Her hands went to Dylan’s face, cupping her cheeks like she was a little girl. “At some point, you’re going to have to choose. You either forgive us, and you accept the life we’re trying to build now. Together. With you. The efforts we’re making, however imperfectly. The work we all need to put in to be a family. Or…”

DTR

Something in Ramona went cold, a warning. “Arrangement?” she asked. Noelle slipped off her glasses. “Yes, arrangement.” She sounded impatient, but Ramona just waited for her to go on. “Dating to smooth over her image? Isn’t that what you two are doing? At least, that’s what Gia wanted.”

“Dylan,” Ramona said. Not softly. Not gently. Just her name. Utilitarian and emotionless. But there was nothing else to say, was there? So Dylan hiked up the dress that Ramona herself had no doubt prepared for this scene—this breakup scene where everything came out between Eloise and Mallory and everything went to hell—and walked away.

Letting someone in is always a little scary. No matter who you are or what you’ve been through. But it’s always worth it. Blair’s words echoed through her thoughts for the millionth time since the wrap party. It’s always worth it.