Chapter 13
chapter thirteen
Monday mornings weren’t supposed to feel this tragic.
“No,” she muttered. “I’d like you to delete Monday from existence.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“You bitch.”
She sat up, pressing the heel of her hand into her forehead, the past week's events swirling in her mind like a cursed sitcom rerun. The vet clinic. The towel dispenser. Her laughable attempts at flirting with Oakland.
She needed a distraction. Unfortunately, the brewery was closed on Mondays—a hard-earned luxury she now regretted, as it meant a whole day of solitude, self-loathing, and absolutely nothing to do.
The smart glass mirror brightened as she entered the bathroom, scanning her face with a soft chime. A faint prompt blinked in the corner: “Would you like to conceal recent bruising?”
Christine sighed, poking at her chin. Her lip downgraded from “bar fight survivor” to “maybe just clumsy.” The yellow-green bruising faded into her skin like a half-forgotten story.
She tapped ‘yes,’ and the mirror responded with subtle adjustments, smoothing out her features, eliminating her flaws, and softening her shadows.
She watched it all happen in real-time and shook her head. What a stupid fucking feature, she thought. As if anyone needed to see a fake version of themselves in a mirror. She was annoyed that it made her feel a little better.
Normally, she’d spend her day off taking Gruit on a grand adventure, maybe a deep trek through the solar park or one of the new green spaces that city officials implemented to offset the climate crisis. But given his still-healing leg, a marathon of bad movies and snacks would suffice.
As if summoned by the thought, Gruit stood at the front door, leash in mouth, wagging his tail with pure, undiluted capitalism in his eyes.
Christine crouched, rubbing his ears. “I see you’ve come to negotiate. A walk in exchange for… sleeping in tomorrow?”
Gruit just stared. Judging.
Christine sighed theatrically. “Fine. But allow me a moment to locate pants.”
She grabbed a pair of jeans from the laundry retrieval slot, sliding them on just as Silver strolled out from the kitchen, sipping a coffee—real coffee, not the lab-grown synthetic crap that was popular these days.
Silver smirked, leaning against the exposed brick wall. “You know he’s playing you, right?”
Christine squinted at Gruit. Betrayal.
Silver stretched her arms, looking far too smug. “I took him out twenty minutes ago. We went to the park, played fetch, and even hit up one of those artisanal dog treat pop-ups. He ate a biscuit that cost me like seventeen credits, Christine.”
Christine’s head snapped toward Gruit.
“Park, fetch, and treats?”
The words might as well have been an ancient incantation. Gruit wagged his tail so hard his entire body wobbled like a malfunctioning bot.
Christine scowled. “You little con artist!”
Gruit, utterly unbothered, panted happily.
Silver snorted. “And yet, you’re still taking him.”
Christine sighed, already snapping the leash onto his harness. “Yeah, yeah. He wins.”
* * *
She didn’t mean to walk past the vet clinic. Really.
But somehow, as she turned onto 10th Avenue, the sleek glass exterior loomed ahead—medical blue LEDs glowing above the door.
Christine stopped, pretending to be surprised by her own navigation choices. “Oh wow, what an unexpected coincidence,” she muttered to Gruit.
He gave her a profoundly skeptical look.
She needed an excuse—a reasonable reason to step inside. Maybe Gruit wasn’t eating enough? Perhaps he was sluggish? Maybe?—
Fuck it. A follow-up exam was normal. Responsible. Not insane.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.
And locked eyes with her mortal enemy.
Nancy.
As Christine approached the front desk, a fat tabby cat perched beside the monitor let out a warning hiss.
“Whoa there, Meatball,” she said, eyeing the cat like it might pounce.
Nancy, seated behind the desk, straightened slowly and blinked. “Excuse me?”
Christine flinched. “No, Nancy! I meant the cat! You know, fluffy? Round? Not… you.”
Nancy paused. Her eyes dragged slowly over Christine’s face.
“Oh.” She leaned back in her chair, deadpan. “Your face still looks pretty rough.”
Christine forced a smile. “Aw, Nancy. I hoped you’d be the first person to tell me how stunning I look today.”
Nancy smirked. “I like to keep my compliments in reserve. Wouldn’t want you getting a big head.”
Christine leaned on the counter. “Too late. I’m already insufferable.”
Nancy clicked her pen.
Christine found herself enjoying the banter today, until a voice cut through the room.
“Hi, Christine.”
Her stomach somersaulted into another dimension.
Oakland leaned against the exam room doorway, her scrubs slightly wrinkled. A tablet was tucked under her arm. She looked way too good for someone who had probably worked all morning.
Christine blinked. Say something. Be smooth.
Instead, she blurted: “Uh, Gruit.”
Oakland smirked. “Why don’t you two head into Room Four? I’ll be right with you.”
Nancy cleared her throat.
Christine caught the quick look between them—Nancy irritated, Oakland just mouthing it’s fine.
* * *
By the time Oakland strolled into the exam room, Christine worked herself into a mild panic, which was ridiculous because she was a grown woman, fully capable of forming coherent sentences in front of attractive people. In theory.
She straightened as Oakland set down her clipboard and crouched in front of Gruit, offering the dog a warm smile as she scratched behind his ears. Gruit, little traitor, wagged his tail furiously and lifted his injured paw like a perfect gentleman.
“You’re a smart boy, huh?” Oakland murmured, running her fingers gently along his leg. “You remember what to do.”
Christine watched, maybe a little too intently, as Oakland’s hands moved. God help me.
“What brings you guys in today?” Oakland asked, looking up.
Your cute little ass. Christine thought, but instead, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“He’s gassy.”
Oakland paused mid-exam, raising an eyebrow. “Gassy?”
Christine, now in too deep to turn back, nodded like this was a perfectly normal concern. “Yeah. Like, aggressively.”
Oakland glanced at Gruit, who stared back with his big, sweet, completely unbothered eyes.
Christine cleared her throat. “It’s, uh… been a real problem.”
Oakland, impressively composed, tilted her head. “A real problem,” she repeated, as if offering Christine one final chance to reconsider all her life choices.
Christine, predictably, did not take it. “Cleared an entire room yesterday. Like, left no survivors.”
A beat of silence stretched between them. Then, Oakland, with impressive professionalism, said, “I see.”
Christine groaned, rubbing her hands down her face. “That was a lie.”
Oakland finally let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I figured.”
Christine peeked through her fingers. “I panicked.”
“I also figured.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Oakland smirked, scribbling something on her clipboard. “Diagnosis: chronic flusteredness. Prognosis: grim.”
Christine dropped her hands with a dramatic sigh. “I hate it here.”
Oakland just grinned. “Do you, though?”
The air between them thickened, something unspoken settling in. Christine felt it in the way Oakland’s shoulders tensed, in the way her fingers stilled against the clipboard like she was too aware of the space between them.
Christine let the moment linger before tilting her head, voice teasing. “So… you didn’t come to the brewery last week.” She crossed her arms, leaning back just enough for the movement to look effortless. “I looked for you.”
Oakland’s grip on her clipboard tightened before she forced a casual shrug. “I wanted to.”
Christine arched a brow. “Wanted to,” she echoed, tapping her fingers against her bicep. “But didn’t.”
Oakland met her gaze, just for a second too long, before looking away, rolling her pen between her fingers. “I was tired,” she said, but the way she shifted, the way her jaw tightened, said otherwise.
Christine let the silence stretch, just long enough for Oakland to feel it. Then, finally, she smirked. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Oakland let out a breath of laughter. “I’m not lying.”
Christine just looked at her.
Oakland sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Okay, fine. I just… wasn’t sure if I should.”
“Why not?”
Oakland hesitated, her tongue flicking out to wet her lips, gaze moving toward Christine’s cleavage before snapping back to a safer target. “I didn’t know if I’d be comfortable there.”
Not technically a lie.
But she did go there. She made it about five feet inside, her heart nearly exploding as she worked up the nerve to find Christine. And then she let some random girl kiss her.
Now, standing here with Christine looking at her like she mattered, Oakland wanted to fling herself into traffic.
For a moment, Christine said nothing. Then, voice softer than before, she murmured, “Well, you’d be welcome there anytime.”
Oakland swallowed.
Christine pushed off the exam table, brushing a hand over Gruit’s head, but her eyes stayed locked on Oakland.
She didn’t miss how the doctor’s gaze flicked, just briefly, over the line of her neck, the exposed stretch of collarbone beneath her jacket.
Christine bit back a knowing grin. Interesting.
She stepped toward the door, tossing a smirk over her shoulder. “Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous today.”
Oakland exhaled, tilting her head. “Oh yeah?”
“Mm-hm,” Christine said, flashing an easy, lazy grin. “I think you owe me lunch.”
Oakland blinked. “I do, huh?”
Christine shrugged, walking backward through the door, fully aware of how Oakland’s eyes followed her. “Yeah. Emotional distress. You stood me up. My heart? Devastated.” She placed a hand over her chest, mock solemn.
Oakland rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her. “Okay, fine. When do you want to have lunch?”
Christine pulled out her phone, checked the time, and then looked up with an innocent head tilt. “I dunno… now?”
Oakland huffed a laugh. “Wow. Subtle.”