Chapter 2
Dina
I pull my headband up after freshening up my face, securing my short curls behind it in a riot of soft coils that immediately bounce free like rebellious little gremlins.
Figures. Even my hair refuses to be tamed.
The headband’s black with hot pink zebra stripes, because duh, subtlety is boring , and it perfectly matches my hot pink leggings and the Pizza Girls t-shirt I’m rockin’ today.
Yeah, I’m cute and coordinated. Sue me.
Besides, I designed the logo on this shirt. I painted the mural that greets every customer who walks through our doors. It’s bright, whimsical, and just a little bit weird— in a good way .
Kind of like me.
What can I say? I’m a creative girly.
Not the suffering-for-my-art type, though.
Sorry-not-sorry, but you will not find me chain-smoking clove cigarettes in a Parisian garret while crying over unrequited love.
I prefer my masterpieces with a side of mozzarella and a drizzle of garlic oil.
And yet— here’s the kicker —some people, ahem, my sisters , think I’m wasting myself, squandering my talents here.
Carina and MJ love me, obviously.
They’d straight-up murder anyone who hurt me, and I’m not ruling out the possibility that Carina literally could, now that she’s dating a Bear Shifter who looks like he wrestles trees for fun.
But still, they worry.
They think I’m stifling myself by working in our family-run pizzeria instead of taking my art seriously.
But the truth? I love it here.
I love the rhythm of the kitchen, the crackle of the oven, the warmth of people gathering, laughing, and connecting.
I love creating the perfect pizza. I mean, hey, that’s art too, no matter what the snobs say.
Watching someone bite into my work and let out a satisfied moan? Chef’s kiss.
I live for that moment. It’s like painting the Sistine Chapel, but with pepperoni.
Maybe it’s not stylish to want simple things, but I do.
I like New Jersey. I like my small, loud, weird life.
And hey, I’m still finishing my degree at Rutgers. I’m still making art. It’s not like I gave up on my dreams.
I simply redefined them.
Moving on from my ex, Eric, aka The Human Dumpster Fire , has been harder than I admit out loud.
Especially since he and his obnoxious bro-pack keep showing up here.
No shame.
No tips.
Just entitlement and the lingering odor of too much body spray.
And yeah, I am this close to making a sign that says:
No shoes. No shirt. No respect? Get the fuck out.
Carina would probably veto the language, but honestly? Worth it.
Still, my sisters expect me to eventually find my calling .
But maybe my calling isn’t some fancy gallery or prestigious art collective.
Maybe it’s right here.
Making food.
Creating colorful murals and pizza logos.
And sketching magical things hardly anyone sees but me.
God, though, sometimes it’s lonely being the only sister currently not dating.
Carina has Horace now. He’s gruff, sometimes furry , and head over heels for her.
It’s disgustingly adorable.
MJ is always going on dates. She is a natural flirt, flitting about like the social butterfly she is.
Meanwhile, me?
I’m over here doodling Werewolves and Witches in my sketchbook, listening to love songs, and pretending it doesn’t sting when nobody looks at me that way.
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?
I don’t want a fling.
I don’t want a nice guy who thinks I’m cute, even though I’m chubby, and then tries to change me.
I want someone. My someone.
Someone who sees me, the pizza-slinging, headband-wearing, art-loving hot mess that I am , and still wants me.
Someone who gets me.
Who thinks my short curls are adorable and my weird art is brilliant.
Who understands that simple doesn’t mean dumb.
Someone who chooses me.
And yeah, recently, ever since the supernatural world sort of crash-landed into my orbit, I’ve found myself wondering, could that someone be something more than human?
I mean, lately, my art’s been full of Wolves, Bears, and beings that don’t belong to fairy tales anymore.
I even sold a few of those pieces under my secret alter ego, DinArt (yes, cheesy, but whatever—branding matters).
Maybe it’s nothing.
Or maybe, just maybe , it’s the universe, or the Fates themselves, leaving neon-bright breadcrumbs right in front of me, practically screaming this way, dummy!
I glance down at my phone, and there it is.
That little pink icon for Date to Mate practically winks at me, like some mischievous digital cupid.
Uncle Uzzi’s creation.
Equal parts charming and wildly chaotic. Kind of like that sweet old man himself, now that I think about it.
I hesitate, chewing my bottom lip like it holds all the answers to the universe.
The screen glows softly, patient but persistent.
My half-finished profile stares back at me.
Judging. Waiting. Teasing.
Just grab your ovaries and do it, Dina.
Bold words for someone currently being bullied by an app.
I take a breath, summon whatever reckless, lonely, slightly lovesick goddess lives deep in my soul, and hit save.
There. Done.
Somehow, the air feels different.
Charged.
Like I’ve just signed up for something bigger than pizza orders and mural commissions.
Like destiny might actually be paying attention.
Something tells me things are about to get a whole lot weirder.
And you know what?
I really, really hope so.