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The cardboard boxes sat like tombstones in the living room, half-packed and leaning awkwardly, like even they didn’t quite believe this was happening. Ellie stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed tight over her chest, chin ducked like she was bracing for a blow. Joel was in the kitchen, wrapping dishes in newspaper with that same methodical calm he used for everything, like the world would wait for him to finish.
She didn’t speak at first. Just stared at the walls, the ones they painted together when she turned thirteen. The crack in the corner where her bookshelf used to sit. The faded sticker on the light switch, a dumb cat she slapped on there when Joel wasn’t looking.
"You serious about this?" she finally asked, not looking at him.
Joel didn’t answer right away. That was his thing, pausing just long enough to make you wonder if he heard you at all. Then his voice, low and even, cut through the silence.
"Yeah. I am."
Ellie’s jaw worked, but no words came out. She hated how her throat burned. "Jackson?" she asked. "As in, cows and snow and nothing to do Jackson?"
Joel chuckled under his breath. "It ain’t the end of the world."
“No, that already happened,” she muttered. “Five times, actually. Want me to list the foster homes?”
He stopped wrapping, hands going still over a ceramic mug. The mug she got him for his birthday; a dumb one that said 'Best Grumpy Dad Ever' in crooked letters.
"Ellie," he said, soft but firm. "This ain’t like before."
“Yeah? That what the others said too?”
Joel leaned on the counter, arms braced. He looked tired, the kind of tired that went bone-deep. “I know it’s not easy. But this ain’t leavin’ you behind. This is takin’ you with me.”
Ellie scoffed, trying to mask how much those words cracked something open in her chest. “Why now?”
“Tommy and Maria’ve been askin’ for a while. Said they got space. Schools better, safer town. Figured you deserved more than just… this.”
"This is home," she said, sharp.
"It’s four walls and a roof. You’re what makes it home."
She stared at him. Joel, in all his weathered, quiet, awkward glory. The man who let her pick dinner every Friday night even when she made him eat tofu once. The man who taught her to drive in an empty parking lot and didn’t yell even when she nearly took out a light post. The one who always came when she had nightmares and never said a word about the crying. He’d never said forever. Never said I’m your dad now, or anything dumb like that. But he stayed. And stayed. And stayed.
She picked at the edge of her sleeve, then finally nodded, just once. “You sure they’re not gonna hate me?” she asked, voice smaller than she wanted.
Joel’s gaze softened. “Ain’t possible.”
Silence stretched. Then, quietly: “Do I get my own room?”
He smiled. “Biggest one in the house.”
Ellie rolled her eyes. “Liar.”
“Maybe.”
She huffed. But some of the tension eased out of her shoulders. “Fine. But I’m not helping pack the garage. That’s where spiders live.”
Joel gave a grunt that might’ve been a laugh. “Deal.”
She walked over, grabbed a roll of tape, and tossed it to him. He caught it with one hand, raised an eyebrow.
"Guess you’re helpin’ now."
“Shut up.”
And just like that, it was decided.
She didn’t know it yet, but Jackson would change everything. A new school. A guitar gifted on a quiet winter morning. And a girl with curls and a sharp grin named Dina, who would sit beside her at lunch and make her feel like maybe, just maybe, forever could mean something good.
--
Jackson was supposed to suck. That’s what Ellie told herself the whole drive there, arms folded across her chest, boots up on the dash until Joel grumbled at her to knock it off. She’d pictured a tumbleweed town with nothing but cows, a broken vending machine, and some middle-aged mayor with a megaphone. A place where time slowed to a crawl and never picked up again.
But it wasn’t like that.
The streets were clean. The houses had porches with chipped paint and flowerpots and wind chimes that sang when the wind hit just right. There was a school, a diner, a co-op garden, and an old movie theater that still did weekend matinees. Kids ran through the streets in packs, laughing like they weren’t stuck in the middle of nowhere.
It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t cool.
But it felt like home.
People waved at Joel when he passed, like they knew him. One lady brought over a pie their second day there. Some guy named Seth offered to fix their porch railing. No one asked Ellie where she came from. No one looked at her like she was a warning sign.
She wasn’t used to that.
So, when Joel handed her a twenty and told her to walk down to the hardware store for “that weird sandpaper I like,” Ellie rolled her eyes, muttered something about being his indentured servant, and shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie.
The walk took five minutes. The store smelled like sawdust and paint thinner, and had exactly two aisles. A bell chimed when she walked in.
And that was when she saw her.
Behind the counter, trying (and failing) to shove a box onto the top shelf, was the cutest girl Ellie had ever seen. Dark curls bounced as she reached, her flannel shirt slipping off one shoulder. There was a smudge of paint on her cheek, and she was muttering to herself, half annoyed, half laughing.
Ellie froze. Brain: static. Words: gone.
The girl turned, spotted her, and grinned. “Hey! One sec, I’m losing a fight with this stupid box.”
Ellie blinked. “Uh. Yeah. No worries. Take your time. I’ll just… exist over here.”
The girl laughed; a short, bright sound that lit something up in Ellie’s chest.
“Need anything specific?” she asked as she dropped the box onto the counter with a dramatic thud. “Or just here for the ambiance?”
Ellie opened her mouth. Closed it. Then, finally: “Sandpaper.”
“Riveting.”
“Yeah, I like to live dangerously.”
The girl grinned again and turned toward the back. “What grit?”
Ellie blinked. “Huh?”
“Like...how rough do you want it?”
Ellie flushed. “Oh. I...uh…don’t know. Something in the ‘grumpy old man who builds birdhouses’ range?”
The girl laughed again, this time tossing a look over her shoulder that made Ellie’s stomach do something weird. “Got it. Medium grit. Classic choice.”
She handed it over a minute later, and their fingers brushed. Ellie felt it like a jolt.
“I’m Dina, by the way,” the girl said.
Ellie stared at her for a second, then remembered how names worked. “Ellie.”
“Well, Ellie,” Dina said, “if you ever need more dangerous tools, I’m here Monday through Friday. And sometimes Saturday if I feel like being responsible.”
Ellie didn’t say anything as she left, didn’t trust her mouth to work right but she grinned the whole walk home. Joel raised an eyebrow when she handed him the sandpaper.
“What’s got you all smiley?”
Ellie shrugged. “Nothing. Just… Jackson’s not the worst.”
And maybe, just maybe, it was exactly where she was meant to be.
--
Ellie didn’t even like dances. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many chances to say or do something stupid. But Joel had insisted. Gently, in his Joel way, which meant a lot of gruff muttering about how “you’re not gonna meet anyone sittin’ on the damn porch every day,” followed by him awkwardly shoving a flyer at her and refusing to meet her eye.
So, she went. She let Maria braid her hair because it felt easier than arguing. She wore jeans and a flannel, because the idea of a dress made her feel like she was crawling out of her skin. And she showed up just as the sun dipped behind the hills, painting Jackson in gold. The dance was out on the community green. String lights hung between trees, swaying in the summer breeze. Someone had set up a table of lemonade and pies. A local band played from a little wooden stage, the kind of old country stuff that got your foot tapping even if you didn’t want it to.
And it was nice.
Kids ran around playing tag while the adults swayed to the music. People waved at Ellie, smiled, said her name like it wasn’t something heavy. She found herself near a firepit with a plastic cup of juice in her hand, listening to someone named Cat joke about how they almost set their kitchen on fire trying to bake.
She laughed. Real and loud. And it felt good. New.
Then she saw Dina.
Dina in a flowy red shirt and jeans, hair down, gold hoops catching the light. She was dancing, laughing, spinning in the grass with Jesse, who had kind eyes, and the easy kind of charm Ellie had always been allergic to. He dipped Dina, and she laughed like the world was perfect. Ellie looked away, throat tight. It wasn’t a crush. Not really. More like… admiration. Maybe a tiny, helpless ache.
They weren’t close, not yet. Ellie had made up excuses to visit the hardware store all summer; light bulbs, duct tape, even a hammer she didn’t need. Their conversations were quick and easy, a few minutes here, a joke there. Ellie memorized the curve of her smile and the way she tucked her curls behind one ear when she was thinking.
But Dina had a boyfriend. Jesse. He was nice. He helped Ellie carry plywood to the truck once. He asked what music she liked. So, nothing happened. But Dina saw her, then. Across the firelight, through the haze of music and laughter. She waved. Beckoned. Ellie hesitated. Then stood, wiping her palms on her jeans, and crossed the lawn.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Dina said, beaming. “Joel drag you out?”
“Basically shoved me down the hill,” Ellie said.
Dina laughed. “Well, I’m glad he did.”
They talked. Nothing special. Music. School. A dumb joke about how Ellie still hadn’t used the hammer she bought two weeks ago. Jesse wandered off to talk to someone, and for a moment, it was just the two of them, standing under the string lights, laughing at absolutely nothing. Ellie didn’t ask for more. Didn’t want to ruin it. Because for the first time in her life, she had friends. Real ones. She was invited to things. She had people who texted her just to say hi. Cat, who taught her to make caramel popcorn. Owen, who was terrible at guitar but tried anyway. Jesse, who made bad puns and brought her comic books from the thrift store.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t some fairy tale. But it was hers. And as she stood beside Dina, firelight dancing across her skin, Ellie let herself believe, maybe for the first time that she belonged.
--
Life didn’t explode. It just… moved. Quick. Quiet. Like river water under ice. It surprised Ellie, how things softened without fanfare. There was no dramatic shift, no turning point she could name. Just a slow easing, like her shoulders stopped creeping up toward her ears. Like she stopped looking for the exits everywhere she went.
School started, and she found herself settling. That was new. She wasn’t the weird new girl anymore. She was just Ellie; the one who could draw anything if you gave her a pencil. The one who always brought two sandwiches and gave the extra one away. (She’d gone hungry too many times). The one who always brought her guitar to the party. The one who never started trouble but always finished it.
And people started to get her. Not just tolerate her but really see her.
Jesse was first. The kind of guy who made friends with everyone but never made it feel fake. He sat next to her in English and spent half the semester passing her dumb doodles and worse puns on crumpled notebook paper. He had an easy laugh, an easier smile, and a weird ability to get her to open up without even trying.
Dina came next.
They knew each other already, the hardware store visits, the small talk, the shared glances. But once school started, it became real. They sat together at lunch. Teamed up for projects. Shared playlists and homework answers. Ellie found herself leaning toward Dina in crowded hallways, sharing earbuds and eye rolls, feeling something warm and steady coil in her chest.
And somehow, without warning, the three of them just became. Ellie. Dina. Jesse. A triangle that didn’t wobble.
They had movie nights in Jesse’s basement, fought over pizza toppings, made dumb bets over arcade games. Dina mocked Jesse’s music taste. Jesse tried (and failed) to teach Ellie how to skateboard. Ellie kept score on all their arguments with a doodle-filled whiteboard she mounted in Dina’s room. And god, it felt good. It felt like something permanent. Which was terrifying, of course. Because nothing in Ellie’s life had ever stayed. Homes, people, safety; they’d always vanished, burned down, moved on. But Jackson was stubborn. The friendships she built there didn’t crack when she pushed. They held.
She kissed a girl named Rebecca behind the gym one afternoon. It was messy and quick, more curiosity than chemistry; two girls wondering, trying, smiling through the nerves. Ellie’s hands shook a little. Rebecca’s nose bumped hers. But the kiss still meant something.
Afterward, Rebecca smiled, said “cool,” and walked her to class. Ellie didn’t stop smiling for an hour.
She told Dina first. It was a week after the kiss with Rebecca, in the back row of the art room, where the light slanted just right through the high windows and made everything feel softer than it really was. Ellie had her boots up on the rung of the stool, her sketchpad balanced on her knee, but her pencil had been still for ten minutes.
“I kissed a girl,” she said, voice low, like it might shatter if she pushed it too hard.
Dina didn’t flinch. Just looked up from her watercolor and grinned like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “About time,” she said, and bumped her shoulder.
That was it. No ceremony. No weirdness.
Just warmth.
And a week after that, Ellie sat across from Joel at the little kitchen table, nervously ripping the crusts off her sandwich like they’d personally wronged her. Joel was nursing a coffee, half-reading something on his phone, his brow furrowed in that way it always was.
She didn’t plan it. Didn’t rehearse it.
She just… said it.
“I’m into girls.”
Joel didn’t look up right away. Just let the words settle between them like dust. Ellie felt her pulse in her throat. Then, quietly: “Okay.”
She blinked. “That’s it?”
Joel finally looked at her, properly. His eyes were tired, but steady, soft beneath the weight of years. “You want me to make a banner?”
She snorted. Loud. Sudden. It caught her off guard. “Nah,” she said, shaking her head. “Just wanted to know if you’d still drive me to school tomorrow.”
He reached across the table, tapped her knuckles with one calloused finger, solid and grounding. “Every damn day.”
She never told him about Riley. Not the full story. Just that there’d been someone, once. A girl she met back in a group home, the kind where the lights always buzzed and the staff only called you by your last name.
Riley had kissed her one night under a busted streetlamp. Told her to run when they got caught sneaking out. Told her she'd catch up.
Ellie had run.
Riley hadn’t.
She didn’t even have a photo. Just a name and the memory of her laugh, bright and defiant in the dark. Joel didn’t press. He just listened. Sat with it. Gave her the kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything back. And that, more than anything, told her he understood.
--
Dina’s world was a different kind of orbit. Louder. Brighter. Messier, but beautiful. And Jesse was always somewhere in it.
They weren’t quite crashing comets, but they weren’t stable planets either. Their relationship was gravitational, unpredictable, always shifting its shape. They’d break up, swear it was final, and then Ellie would find them sharing fries in the cafeteria two weeks later, smiling like nothing had happened. Another month would go by, and there’d be slammed locker doors, long silences, bitter jokes under their breath. Then a school dance, a drunk text, a slow song, and suddenly they were a thing again.
It was exhausting. Maddening. Ellie kept her mouth shut. She didn’t say anything when Dina showed up at her window crying, hoodie strings pulled tight and voice raw from holding everything in. Didn’t say anything when she helped her sneak back into her house at midnight, climbing the lattice with her boot scraping against the siding like some awkward teenage raccoon. Didn’t say anything when Dina curled up on her bed and whispered, “Maybe I’m just hard to love.”
Ellie just stayed. Sat beside her on the roof, legs swinging off the edge, two sodas between them and the stars overhead. She passed her the grape one; Dina’s favorite. Let her talk. Let her not talk. Dina didn’t need advice. She needed someone. And Ellie could be someone.
Their friendship was everything Ellie had never dared to hope for. It didn’t blaze like her memories of Riley; all fire and chaos and fast, impossible wanting. It was steadier. Softer. It was laughter so loud it made her stomach hurt, and inside jokes scrawled on their arms in pen. It was movie marathons in Jesse’s basement, arguing over popcorn seasoning and quoting every terrible line in The Princess Bride.
The three of them made sense.
Ellie had never been part of a group before. Not one that felt like this, like a tangle of warmth and weirdness and something permanent. Jesse would drag them on hikes that turned into mud fights. Dina would organize art nights with glitter that stayed in their clothes for weeks. They played Mario Kart until someone cried (usually Jesse), and Ellie kept a running scoreboard in her sketchbook that only she was allowed to update. She belonged. Even on the bad days. Even when Jesse and Dina were in one of their “not speaking” phases, and Ellie ended up stuck in the middle, passing messages like a war-time carrier pigeon. Even when she caught herself staring too long at the way Dina threw her head back when she laughed. Even when her heart clenched when Jesse put his arm around Dina’s shoulders and she let him.
Because Dina was her best friend now. Not like Riley had been. Riley had been a flash of light in a dark place; too bright, too brief. Danger and spark and heartbreak all wrapped up in one hoodie-wearing, rule-breaking girl. Riley had made her feel alive in a way that burned. Dina didn’t burn her. Dina held her. She was warmth and gravity and safety, and sometimes when Dina fell asleep with her head on Ellie’s shoulder during movie nights, or when she called Ellie her favorite person without blinking, Ellie let herself think: Maybe this could be enough.
Maybe wanting her didn’t have to ruin it. Maybe loving someone didn’t have to mean losing them. So, she stayed. Said nothing. Loved quietly. Patiently. Even if it hurt sometimes. Because Jesse and Dina would break up again. And maybe again after that. And Ellie would be there, holding grape soda and a place beside her on the roof, no matter what orbit Dina spun into next.
--
A year had passed. Since the first dance. Since everything had started to shift slowly, patient rotations, like the moon pulling the tide.
Twelve months of karaoke nights at the pub, where Dina sang terribly and confidently, and Ellie laughed until her ribs ached. Of late-night guitar sessions on the roof, where Ellie played half-written songs she never let anyone else hear. Of shared fries at the diner. Of walks home under the stars. Of stupid jokes and stupid arguments and the kind of comfort Ellie never thought she'd have with anyone again.
Somewhere in all of it, Ellie realized: she loved her. Not the kind of love you could file neatly into boxes. It wasn’t just romantic, or just friendship, or just the echo of Riley and what could’ve been. It was everything. All tangled up and real.
Real love.
Even if she couldn’t name it. Jesse and Dina were off again, for real this time, maybe. Or maybe not. It wasn’t Ellie’s place to ask, and Dina didn’t bring it up. Not much. Not lately.
So when the dance rolled around again, there were string lights, music, cider in paper cups, Ellie almost didn’t go. Part of her was scared of how much could change in one night. But Dina showed up on her doorstep with a crooked smile and a lopsided bun and said, “C’mon. One more tradition.”
So Ellie went. The green was lit up in gold and amber this time, the music a little louder, the crowd a little bigger. She stood on the edge at first, watching, the same way she had last year, only this time, her fingers weren’t clenched. Her jaw wasn’t tight. This time, she belonged.
She was watching a couple twirl near the stage when she felt a hand slip into hers. Warm. Familiar. Dina. “Dance with me,” she said.
Ellie stared. “Seriously?”
Dina gave her that look. The one that was half teasing, half challenge. “Yeah. Seriously.”
So, they danced. Slow, swaying, not entirely in time with the music. Dina’s hands found Ellie’s shoulders. Ellie’s hands found her waist. Their foreheads almost touched. They laughed, then fell quiet. The lights glowed behind Dina’s curls. Her eyes were darker in the dusk, but soft. Steady.
Ellie felt the world narrow; not in a scary way, but in that rare, electric way it sometimes did, like everything was aligning just right. And then Dina kissed her.
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a mistake. It was real. Soft. Sure. A press of lips that said I see you. I know you. I’ve been waiting too. Ellie kissed her back before she could think. Before she could be afraid. Before she could convince herself not to.
And when they pulled apart, Dina didn’t look away. “Was that okay?” she whispered, voice barely audible over the music.
Ellie nodded, stunned, breathless. “Yeah. More than.”
Dina smiled. Rested her head against Ellie’s chest as they kept swaying, the song changing behind them.
And Ellie knew; not in the vague, hopeful way she had last year, but deep in her marrow that she was home. Not just in Jackson. Not just in Joel’s house. But here. In this moment. With her. Finally, completely, without a doubt.
Home.