Chapter Text
Cambridge, Massachusetts – September 2025
Week 1
MJ’s first class on Thursday morning is ‘Queer-Feminist Poetry.’ The room she walks into is smaller than she expected—much smaller than the busy lecture halls she spent most of her Wednesday in. This space feels strangely intimate in comparison. Morning sun is filtering in through windows speckled with dust, and it’s quiet, the low murmur of student voices almost blending into white noise. Her gaze sweeps the room in search of an empty seat. It lands on a spot in the second row and then immediately trips over the girl in the next seat over, who looks up as if she can tell that MJ is looking at her.
Eyes like wide-open skies meet MJ’s.
It’s the eyeliner and the slightly too long, side-swept bangs and what might be a side-shave hiding under shoulder-length blond hair. It’s the oversized cream sweater that should be too warm for early September, pink shirt peeking out at the collar, and the way she smiles at MJ when MJ drops her backpack on the floor and slides into the empty seat next to her.
“Hi.”
It’s also the warmth in her voice that draws MJ in and she isn’t even going to pretend for a second that she just wants to be friends with this girl. Before MJ can do more than echo the greeting, a tall Black woman in an ankle-length floral dress and a half-sleeve of delicate black ink, traveling all the way from the dark brown skin of her wrist up to her elbow, sweeps into the room and the chatter around them dies down.
“Good morning! My name is Dr. Hannah Quinn and this is ‘Queer-Feminist Poetry.’ If this is not the class you’re meant to be in, now is your chance to leave.” She scans the rows of seats. “I see no one is abruptly exiting the room. Nice. A warm welcome to all the new faces and, of course, to my favorite repeat offenders. I promise we’ll be having a gay old time between now and Christmas.” She pauses. “Yes, these are the kinds of jokes I make. There’s still ample time to leave.”
Professor Quinn tells them to call her Hannah and starts to hand out printed copies of the syllabus despite the fact that they have digital access to the class materials and MJ already read through all the information at the beginning of the week.
“I recommend buying a paper copy of the queer poetry collection. They have used copies at the on-campus bookstore, so you can get one for cheap and resell it later. Or, if you want to go on a little adventure, I recommend heading to All She Wrote over in Somerville. They have some copies too, and it’s a really lovely, queer-owned bookstore.” The box braids twisted into a half-up bun sway across her back as she walks back to the front of the room and faces the class again. “You can absolutely use the digital material, no problem. That’s what it’s for. But I think it’s nice to have a physical book you can work with, especially if it’s poetry.”
Professor Quinn—MJ can’t bring herself to call her Hannah, even in the privacy of her own head—takes a breath to let the new information sink in before she picks up her own copy of the syllabus, which she covered in at least three different colors of highlighter.
“Over the next few weeks, we’ll be discussing a wide range of authors, including many who would not have called themselves ‘queer’ or ‘gay’ or a lesbian, because they didn’t have that vocabulary. We’ll talk about romantic friendships and the Boston marriage of the 18th and 19th century and make our way all the way to the lesbian-feminist movement of the 1960s and 70s, which includes writers such as Audre Lorde and Pat Parker. We’ll discuss some of my favorite trans authors and then finish out the term with a look at some contemporary musicians and song lyrics.”
After going through the syllabus in more detail, she hands them each a sheet of paper with a few short poems and excerpts, tells them to pair up, and pick a poem or two to discuss.
“You won’t have to present this to everyone else later. This is for you to get an impression of what we’ll be doing in this class and maybe make a friend.”
Most people around MJ start pairing up; it seems like everyone already has a friend in the class. As MJ looks around for a partner, the blond girl leans over.
“Hi again.” The smile again. “I’m Gwen.”
“MJ.” It’s more a reflex than an intentional reply.
“Do you already have a partner?”
“I . . . I don’t. No.”
“Do you wanna work together?”
MJ shakes herself out of her surprised stupor and manages a smile of her own. “Yeah, yes, that would be great.”
They are both silent as they scan their handouts.
“So what’s MJ short for?”
MJ looks back up at the question.
“It’s Michelle Jones. Well, technically, my full name is Michelle Jones-Watson, but I go by MJ.” She fidgets with her pen, brain searching for a question to ask in return to keep the conversation going. “So are you an English major?”
“No, Biochemistry. I picked this as an elective. My very queer ass couldn’t pass up the opportunity to talk about Sappho.”
MJ lets out a snort of laughter, then immediately slaps a hand over her mouth and glances around the room to make sure nobody heard that. Or that at least everybody is pretending they didn’t.
Gwen grins at her, clearly pleased that she made her laugh—or something vaguely reminiscent of a laugh.
“What about you?” Gwen asks.
“I was thinking maybe Math or Philosophy, but I don’t know, yet.”
“That sounds cool. So you like complicated things.”
She says it as if Biochemistry isn’t the most complicated thing on the planet. MJ hesitates for only a second before she replies, “I also like arguing and being right.”
The corners of Gwen’s mouth lift up once more at her response. “Do you maybe wanna get coffee after this?”
Week 2
The first time MJ visits Gwen at her place, she feels a bit like a detective. It’s a nice apartment, well-kept and close to campus. Gwen shares it with a roommate. In lieu of a tour, she points out the obvious living room and adjacent kitchen area, “bathroom, Marianne’s room, and this is me.”
Gwen’s space is a mix of white-lacquered Ikea furniture and real wood thrift store finds. There’s a built-in closet on the left and the bookshelf on the right is flanked by two windows letting in the afternoon light. A bed that “came with the room” against the far wall takes up most of the space. The mattress is new, though. Gwen’s grandma insisted.
“Just put your things down wherever. I’ll be right back.”
MJ drops her bag by the desk next to the bed. There’s a cork board on the wall above it with a few pinned photos: Gwen and a group of people in graduation gowns, Gwen and what must be her family, the resemblance too close for them to be anything else, and a younger Gwen (sans undercut) sitting behind a set of drums. Huh. Interesting. Next to the photos is a color-coded class and lab schedule with too many details to fully grasp at a glance. MJ starts to skim the bookshelf (loads of text books and an Emily M. Danforth novel) before she spots a record player on top of the dresser and a wooden crate of records next to it on the floor. It’s a collection of mostly female artists. She recognizes an old Taylor Swift album. Joan Jett sounds familiar, but she has no idea who Letters to Cleo are.
“Those are some of my faves.”
MJ looks up to find Gwen standing in the doorway, holding two steaming mugs. She sets them on the floor before plopping down next to MJ on the rug. MJ picks up the mug closest to her.
“You actually have chamomile tea at home? After I’ve seen you drink nothing but coffee?”
The coffee drinking makes a lot more sense now that she’s seen Gwen’s schedule. MJ doesn’t understand how Gwen manages to do all her work while still having enough energy left to hang out with her.
There’s a hint of laughter in Gwen’s voice when she replies, “Not usually, no. I bought that yesterday after you texted me about wanting to come over. I haven’t seen you drink coffee once, so I figured I should get you something else.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
The answer is more thoughtful than MJ expected. She considers the floral pattern on the mug, runs her thumb along the rim until it catches on an invisible chip. “I have trouble sleeping. That’s why I don’t drink coffee.”
Week 3
“Hey, Em? Do you maybe wanna go to Somerville next week? Check out the bookstore Hannah recommended?”
~ * ~
“I think it’s a date.”
“I’ve never been on a date with a girl.”
“I mean, you’ve never really been on a date with anyone.”
MJ turns her head on the picnic blanket to scowl at Ned. They’ve found themselves a spot on Killian Court, a long stretch of campus lawn flanked by elms and oak trees, the historical shape of the Great Dome at one end and a view of the Charles River and the Boston skyline at the other.
“Thanks, Ned. That’s really helpful.”
Without taking his eyes off the canopy of leaves above them, Ned reaches over and pats her thigh. “You’re welcome.”
MJ snorts, face slowly turning back toward the blue September sky peeking through the green. It’s been an unexpectedly warm weekend. “Shut up.”
“Let me know how that date goes.”
“If it actually is a date.”
Week 4
It’s definitely a date. On Saturday morning, they take the Red Line across the river and then the Orange to Assembly, the T stop closest to All She Wrote Books. Gwen takes MJ’s hand when they transfer at Downtown Crossing. And later, at the store, when MJ mentions it was her birthday the weekend prior, Gwen insists on buying her a book and a tiny rainbow heart sticker. She sticks it on an empty page at the front of the book right before she writes MJ a short birthday message MJ isn’t allowed to read until she gets home that night.
~ * ~
“I don’t really have much luck when it comes to getting close to people.”
They’re sitting on a bench in Baxter Park, close to the Somerville riverfront, observing the ducks as they waddle across the grass, two paper takeaway boxes with the remains of the cake Gwen also insisted on buying MJ for a belated birthday celebration forgotten next to them.
“What do you mean?”
MJ can feel Gwen watching her.
“I don’t know. It’s hard for me to connect with people, to find things to talk about. I mean, my best friend, Ned, he’s at school with us, but we don’t have any classes together, so . . .” MJ shrugs and looks down at her hands, at the bit of skin around her left thumbnail she was picking at the night before. It’s still sore. If she starts fiddling with it again, it’s bound to start bleeding. She presses her hands together and slips them between her knees. “It was different with you. You were the one who spoke to me that first day. You made it easy.” She looks at Gwen, at her open face, the serene blue of her eyes. “You make it all feel so easy.”
MJ has barely even acknowledged the urge before her mouth connects with Gwen’s, softly and slightly off-center, but once Gwen tilts her head and their lips slide together properly, her hand coming up to cradle MJ’s cheek, it’s like fireworks with the sound turned down. It’s a quiet hum of magic that turns on the light in a forgotten room inside of her. It makes MJ’s heart feel bruised.
“You did mean to kiss me, right?” Gwen’s brow wrinkles as she takes in MJ’s stunned reaction to her own bravery.
MJ nods.
“And you did want me to kiss you back.”
“No, yeah, I did.” (She really, really did.)
“Okay. Cool.”
The warmth of Gwen’s smile melts through MJ like honey.
“Do you wanna do it again?”
MJ does and leans in again. Gwen tastes like chocolate and sprinkles.
~ * ~
When MJ gets back to her dorm room at the end of the day, it’s late and she has all but forgotten about Gwen’s note. As she rummages through her backpack in search of her phone, her fingers touch the spine of the book through its thin paper bag wrapping, and a tiny thrill of anticipation zings through her body. She unearths the book, sits down on her bed, and slowly turns each page until she comes across the one with Gwen’s looping handwriting.
MJ,
I want to read you poetry each night until you fall asleep.
I hope we get to celebrate your birthday together next year.
Love,
Gwen
MJ’s heart is in her throat and her hands holding the book are shaking a little as she reads the hastily written message for a second and third time. It’s the most intimate thing anyone has ever said to her.
She dreams of Gwen that night. Dreams of her hands, her mouth, Gwen’s body on top of hers, between her thighs, careful fingers touching and pressing and sliding across skin. The next morning, MJ wakes up tangled in her own sheets, the fabric of her t-shirt sticking to the sweaty skin of her back.