Chapter 9
chapter nine
Christine muttered under her breath, scowling at her reflection. “If you wanted to apply mouth-to-mouth, I wouldn’t stop you.”
She groaned, pressing her forehead against the mirror. “Fantastic. Just brilliant. Next time, why not throw in finger guns and a wink?”
She pressed her fingers against her swollen lip, wincing as a fresh jolt of pain shot through her chin. A deep bruise was already blooming: a lovely mix of purple and blue, with the faintest sickly yellow creeping in at the edges.
As she dabbed at the dried blood with a washcloth, the bathroom mirror brightened slightly in response to her presence. A notification flickered in the corner of the glass: her afternoon digest, weather updates, a reminder to pay her supply distributor by midnight.
She ignored it.
Gruit hopped onto the counter, immediately shoving his big dumb face into the sink.
Christine side-eyed him. “No.”
He ignored her, his tail thumping wildly as he licked at the faucet.
“You literally just had water.”
In response, he dramatically flopped his entire body across the sink, legs dangling off the edge like he was some tragic heroine in a soap opera. His eyes bore into her as if she were the problem here.
Christine sighed. “You are the reason I can’t have nice things.”
The mirror auto-dimmed, switching to eco mode in response to inactivity.
Gruit snorted.
The front door clicked open.
“Chris?”
Gruit perked up, ears twitching, before catapulting himself off the counter.
Christine barely dodged him as he launched into the hallway like a furry missile.
His tail slammed against the wall so hard that a framed digital photo of Christine and Spencer wobbled, flickering briefly before stabilizing.
Christine exhaled slowly. “Jesus Christ.”
From the front room, Spencer’s voice rang out, wary. “What happened to his paw?”
Christine didn’t answer.
A beat of silence.
Then, “Christine!” Spencer called. “He has underpants in his mouth.”
Christine squeezed her eyes shut. Fucking Gruit.
Gruit sprinted back into the bathroom, his tail knocking over a bottle of hydration-boosted lotion that cost way too much money, and proudly presented a very damp, very chewed pair of granny panties.
Spencer followed a second later, eyes narrowing. “Are those yours?”
Christine swiped them from his mouth. “No.”
“Yes, they are!” Spencer screamed. “Christine, why do you even own those?!”
Christine threw the panties across the room. “You can’t prove anything.”
Spencer pinched the bridge of her nose. “Christine.”
Then Spencer finally looked up, eyes drifting to Christine’s chin, and froze. “Holy shit. What did you do to your face?”
Christine waved it off. “I met a gorgeous veterinarian, invited her to the brewery tonight, and then immediately spun around too fast like a socially anxious tornado and smacked straight into a towel dispenser. Just, wham, Spence. Full face.”
Spencer cackled so hard she had to brace herself on the bed. “I’m sorry, what? What the fuck, Chris?”
Christine gently poked her cheek. “It’s not that bad. I thought it’d be worse.”
Spencer snorted. “And how’s your dignity doing?”
“Oh, she didn’t make it. Passed away on impact.”
Gruit took this opportunity to launch himself at the bed, full speed, miss, and slam headfirst into the nightstand.
Christine and Spencer both turned to stare at him.
He stood, shook himself off, and trotted away like nothing happened.
Christine pointed. “That. That’s the kind of energy I bring to the world.”
Spencer ignored her, rummaging through her sister’s dresser. A soft chime from her earpiece signaled an alert, but she dismissed it with a flick.
“You need to get ready right now.”
Christine groaned. “I’m not going.”
“You are going.”
Spencer tossed a pair of jeans at her like a threat.
Christine held them up, eyeing the waistband. “These show my muffins. Which, yes, are artisanally crafted, but I prefer to control the reveal.”
Spencer snorted. “Okay, calm down.” She swiped through the closet’s digital display, outfits flicking past like a slideshow of aggressively beige energy. “Why do you have nothing cute?”
Christine rolled her eyes. “Those aren’t my clothes. I never set that thing up. I can dress myself, thanks.”
“So this is… what? The last tenant’s capsule wardrobe?”
Christine gestured at the sea of oatmeal tones. “Apparently, she was a minimalist divorcee with a beige fetish.”
Spencer took a cautious step back. “I feel like I need to sage this room.”
“Just open the closet, Spencer. You don’t need a touchscreen to pick out a flannel.”
“No. No flannel. Flannel is a privilege, Christine. And you abused it.”
Christine rolled her eyes and flopped back onto the bed.
Her dark brown hair spilled across the pillow in a choppy halo: scruffy, wild, hot.
She liked it that way. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone most days, and it still worked.
But when she wanted to? When she slicked it back and stepped into something that hugged just right?
She could turn heads without breaking a sweat. She knew it.
Christine fucking loved her body.
The world didn’t always get it, but she did.
She wasn’t toned, wasn’t delicate. She was curves and softness and thighs built to be held, not hidden.
At 5’6”, she was solid, grounded. Next to Spencer’s long, athletic frame, she felt shorter, maybe, but never small.
She had big boobs, wide hips, the kind of body that made high-waisted pants a power move.
Some days, she played the part, put on the armor, and turned every curve into a statement.
But most days, she just wanted to breathe. And there was strength in that, too.
She sat up with a groan, glaring at the jeans. “What if I just, hear me out… wear sweatpants?”
Spencer pulled her hair into a ponytail and marched over like a woman on a mission. She grabbed Christine’s wrist with zero patience, slapped her boob way harder than necessary, because why not, and barked, “Get the fuck up. You need to look hot.”
Christine yelped. “Ow! That’s not a doorbell!”
Without thinking, she slapped Spencer’s boob right back, equal parts instinct and justice.
“Ouch, you fucker!” Spencer yelped back, swatting at her again and missing. “That one really hurt.”
Christine just laughed, letting herself be dragged upright like the reluctant star of a queer makeover montage. She flopped against Spencer with all the weight of gay melodrama. “Okay, but my face? It’s giving lesbian fight club.”
Spencer rolled her eyes and pulled up a makeup tutorial on her phone. “You’re lucky your younger, hotter, more competent sister is about to become a bruise-blending wizard.”
Christine blinked. “Okay, debatable on the hotter. I inherited Grandma’s big tiddies. You got… whatever those are.”
She gestured vaguely at Spencer’s chest like it had disappointed generations.
Spencer didn’t miss a beat. “These are aerodynamic. I could outrun God and do a backflip. You can’t even jog without filing an insurance claim.”
* * *
As Christine begrudgingly pulled on real pants, a sudden burst of static crackled from the living room.
The TV was left on, with the volume low but persistent: just background noise, until it wasn’t.
A familiar voice filled the space, smug and measured, dripping with that rehearsed brand of calculated sincerity that set Christine’s teeth on edge.
“…this is about protecting our children. Libraries across the city will undergo a full review to ensure the materials available to young readers reflect the values of this great state. We will not allow radical agendas to infiltrate these institutions under the guise of education…”
Christine and Spencer both turned toward the sound, shoulders tensing in unison.
Spencer exhaled through her nose. “This asshole again.”
Christine flopped back onto the bed. “Yeah, God forbid a child stumbles across a book with, I don’t know, a gay character just existing.”
Spencer crossed her arms, glaring at the scrolling headlines: public library closures, bans on gender-affirming education, and a list of flagged libraries.
“I swear to god if I see one more pearl-clutching mom crying about The Gay Agenda? like it’s a secret cult initiation…”
Christine smirked, but the moment settled between them like dust, quiet and heavy. Spencer’s arms stayed crossed, her jaw tight, eyes fixed on the screen even though the words had stopped registering.
They’d grown up here in Minnesota, a state that once felt like it was moving forward. Marriage equality came early. Pride festivals shut down entire city blocks. Queer teens actually had resources, support, and a sense that the future could be bright.
It wasn’t perfect. But it felt like momentum.
Now? It just felt like backpedaling in slow motion.
Christine exhaled, her smirk fading. Then, deliberately, theatrically, she yanked on a tight black top that was basically a tribute to her boobs.
“Alright, fine,” she said, her voice just a touch too bright. “Let’s go before you start crying about my lack of fashion sense again.”
Spencer huffed out a laugh, but it caught in her throat.
“I only cry when you wear cuffed jeans and think you’re being subtle. The rest is just… disappointment.”
Christine swatted at her. “I cannot believe I share DNA with you.”
Spencer grinned. “You can hate me later. Right now, those ta-tas have a destiny.”
Christine rolled her eyes, but as they left the bedroom, the news ticker scrolling across the TV screen caught her attention.
Governor Tate announces city-wide library audits… Federal morality laws gain traction…
Without hesitation, Christine flicked off the TV on their way out the door.
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