Page 78 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
I blinked at her incredulously, then realized I was acting far too eager for someone who supposedly didn’t believe in that crap.
I collected myself, cleared my throat, and uttered a quiet “Fine” before going back to editing a video for TikTok, trying very hard to ignore the slight smile on Dove’s face.
And I couldn’t tell if I wanted to laugh or scream at the smugness radiating off her.
Maybe both, but between Dove’s quiet competence and Liv’s relentless commentary and meddling, I realized I could still feel that part of me bracing for impact—my foot still resting on an imaginary brake no one else could see.
DOVE
Tip #12: Don’t interrogate grief, just sit next to it and let it breathe.
The car museum reeked of history and information plaques, the kind of thing that excited Ellis, bored me, and sent Liv off the deep end as she plopped herself into every car she saw. It was definitely the sort of place old men probably lost sleep over, or had wet dreams about. A cavernous warehouse filled with gleaming chrome and slick paint jobs.
“Jesus, this leather feels expensive, even in death,” Liv gasped, running her hands along the seat of a bright yellow antique-looking car.
I squinted at the plaque.1927 Kissel “Gold Bug,” pre–World War One.
I let out a low whistle.
Liv dramatically mimed putting the car into gear, her expression severe as she gripped the wheel. I had to resist the urge to laugh. Instead, I turned on my heel and let myeyes sweep across the car-filled warehouse, a few other tourists hovering near displays or posing for photos.
Ellis stood a little off to the side, phone in hand, filming content. We’d just secured another Polaroid, which had been tucked away with the rest we’d collected along the way.
She spoke into the camera with a soft, lilting smile that softened her whole face, made her look less stoic and, in my opinion, a lot less constipated. She seemed more at ease in front of the camera today. Not so fakely animated… still engaged, but... lighter. I chewed the inside of my lip as I wandered toward a teal Chevy Bel Air, pretending to read the plaque but really watching Ellis from the corner of my eye.
Last night, while piecing together her birth chart as she snored softly beside me, I had decided that she was annoyingly attractive. Today, her red hair hung in natural waves down her back, the ends slightly curled without trying. She’d pushed her sunglasses up onto her head to hold back a few strands, and her skin practically glowed beneath the warehouse’s fluorescent lights.
She wore a black tank top and those same blue mom jeans. Her white sneakers were still somehow immaculate, how she pulledthatoff, I had no idea.
Still, I felt a little less intimidated by her now.
Yes, she had her binders, her detailed trip notes, and laminated maps, but the image from yesterday had taken up permanent residency in my brain, and I was still riding the high of it.
Ellis, standing helpless by the side of the road, looking at me with those wide green eyes, asking if she should call roadside assistance—because, lo and behold, put-together, organized Ellis couldn’t change a tire.
And then, when the rain started, how she crouched beside me with the world’s smallest umbrella, her expression caughtbetween awe and disbelief as I jacked up the car and got to work. There had been no binder to help her this time. No Google Doc. No laminated emergency protocol.
It had beenmewho saved her in that moment.
And yes, I had thrived.
And hell yes, it had given me a complex.
I looked back down at the plaque as Ellis stopped her recording and slipped her phone into her pocket. I didn’t want to get caught staring. Again. Instead, I crouched beside the vehicle, pretending to inspect the suspension. She’d already caught me staring this morning over breakfast, and I’d stupidly blurted out that I had never seen someone order eggs so aggressively before.
She’d given me a slow blink and an arched brow in response.
I didn’t really know what had gotten into me, but ever since she’d offhandedly offered up the “I sometimes date women” line yesterday, it had been echoing in my brain. It landed with an unexpected weight, and now... well, now it felt different.
I had always found her attractive. That wasn’t the point.
The point was, I had definitely pegged her as straight, and therefore never tried to actually make her like me.
Hell, I thought I hadn’t even liked her.
Did I like her? Or was I just succumbing to some sort of lesbian cliché, where she was the only other queer girl in the room and therefore the universe was contractually obligated to make us hook up?
It didn’t help that I had also managed to find her online channels and had watched way too many videos, going back way too many years. What she’d been through, her health, left me feelingwrongafter I closed the tab. She hadn’t brought it up, and I hadn’t asked. And even though the videos were public, it still felt like I’d breached her privacy.
