Chapter 16
chapter sixteen
Christine perched on the edge of the counter at Birkenbrew, swinging her heels lightly against the wood as she stared at her phone. The glow from the screen softened her expression, but the slight furrow in her brow gave her away.
She put effort into her appearance today—hair brushed, eyeliner sharp enough to be considered a lethal weapon, and a clean sweater instead of her usual beer-stained hoodie. It would be the first time Oakland saw her looking like a functional human instead of a lovable mess.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, the text already typed out.
…
Hey, something came up. Rain check?
A lie. Nothing came up except the gnawing doubt twisting in her gut. This whole thing—whatever it was—felt like stepping into waist-deep water without knowing what lurked beneath.
She could back out now. Stay in the shallows where it was safe.
With a sharp sigh, she deleted the message and locked her phone with a flick of her finger. She was being ridiculous. It was just food. Just Oakland. A casual meal with a hot girl who made her stomach do flippies. No big deal.
Then, the door slid open with a soft mechanical hum punctuated by a cheerful digital chime.
And there she was.
Oakland stepped inside, cheeks flushed from the cold, snowflakes melting in her dark blonde waves, disappearing into the wool of her jacket. She stomped her boots on the entry mat and ran a hand through her hair, shaking off the last bits of winter.
Christine was so, so screwed.
“Hey, you.” Oakland’s voice was warm, grounding, and just smug enough to make Christine’s pulse misfire. She peeled off her puffy jacket and slung it over a barstool, sending a quick command to her phone, some auto-lock setting Christine didn’t recognize, before finally looking up with a grin.
Christine’s brain went static.
A plastic bag rustled as Oakland crossed the space between them, all easy confidence. “I brought us some quinoa from the grocery unit,” she said, setting down the containers. “Figured our bodies deserved something that wouldn’t kill us after that garbage we ate last time.”
Christine smirked, tilting her head. “Quinoa? Who are you?”
Oakland smirked right back. “Someone who enjoys having functional organs.”
“Shame. I had you pegged as more of a ‘live fast, die hot’ kind of girl.”
Oakland shrugged, leaning against the counter. “Oh, I am. I just like to leave my options open.”
Christine arched a brow. “And by options, you mean…”
“Living long enough to see what you do next.”
Christine’s stomach did a flip. She covered it by scoffing and opening the takeout container. “You’re lucky this smells okay, or I’d be reconsidering this entire date.”
Oakland propped an elbow on the counter, chin resting in her palm as she watched her. “You look good.”
Christine’s pulse stuttered, but she managed to swallow without embarrassing herself. “Oh?” she said, arching a brow, recovering quickly. “So you do have taste, after all.”
Oakland’s smirk deepened. “Barely.”
Christine narrowed her eyes, then, without breaking eye contact, took another slow bite of quinoa. “Mmm,” she hummed. “Too bad. I was gonna kiss you as a thank you, but now I’m reconsidering.”
Oakland exhaled through her nose, clearly amused. “Tragic.”
The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was thick, humming, full of things unsaid but very much understood.
And then, as if the moment was getting too soft, Oakland leaned back with a sigh.
“So.” She tapped her fingers on the counter. “Should we talk about the elephant in the room?”
Christine raised an eyebrow. “You mean the Mormon thing?”
“Yeah. The Mormon thing.”
Christine grinned. “I’ve just never dated someone who had to break up with Jesus before dating me.”
Oakland huffed a laugh, a little red creeping into her cheeks. “Okay, well, technically, I haven’t broken up with him yet. We’re… on a break.”
Christine sighed, setting her fork down. “Alright. Hit me with it.”
Oakland shifted, one leg sliding off the stool as if that could make the conversation easier. “Okay, full disclosure, I’ve known I was into women for a long time. Like, really into women. But I’m also… in pretty deep with the church. My entire family is wrapped into it.”
Christine’s brows knit together. “I’m not sure I follow.”
Oakland inhaled like she was bracing for a punch. “The church doesn’t exactly support being gay. But they do acknowledge we exist. You know… as a concept.”
Christine let out a dry laugh. “Wow. So generous. We get an honorable mention in the apocalypse.”
Oakland gave her a pointed look, but her voice was playful. “Can I finish?”
Christine raised both hands. “By all means. I’m riveted.”
Oakland’s fingers toyed with the hem of her sweater. “Gay Mormons have four options,” she said quietly. “First, you can marry someone of the opposite sex and try to live like that part of you doesn’t exist. Not fun. Also, not fair to the other person.”
She cracked her knuckles, loud in the stillness, restlessness radiating off her in waves.
“Second, you stay celibate. Channel your energy into work, family, service… whatever. Still not fun, but tolerable for many. This is me.”
Christine bit down on a sarcastic response. Lifelong celibacy sounded like a dystopian plot twist no one asked for.
“Third,” she continued. “Some of us stay in the church and do the gay stuff in secret. More fun, but also very risky and unsustainable.”
“And the fourth?” Christine asked anyway, though she already knew.
Oakland met her gaze. “Leave the church.”
The words were tentative, almost like Oakland didn’t want to say them. Christine felt it in her chest—how quiet the room got around it.
“Why not just leave then?”
Oakland let out a breath, her voice softening. “Honestly? I think about this every day, Christine. I don’t know if I believe in any of it, not how the church describes it. I’m a scientist. I trust what I can test, observe, and measure.”
She gave a small, humorless laugh.
“But still… walking away feels like cutting off a limb. Like losing the language I grew up speaking.” She glanced down at her hands. “It’s home. Even when it hurts.”
Christine studied her for a moment, the usual sharp remark pressing at the tip of her tongue, but for once, she swallowed it down. Instead, she nodded, fingers drumming lightly against the counter’s edge.
“I get it,” she said finally, voice softer than usual. “Maybe not the religion part, but the whole ‘this is my world, how do I walk away from it?’ thing.”
Oakland tilted her head slightly like she was surprised Christine wasn’t pushing. “Yeah?”
Christine shrugged. “Yeah. Sometimes it’s not about belief, just… roots.”
Oakland’s expression shifted, like that answer landed somewhere real. She nodded, eyes flickering down briefly before she smirked. “That was surprisingly insightful for someone who just accused me of lacking taste five minutes ago.”
Christine grinned. “Oh, I absolutely think you have terrible taste. This,” she pointed dramatically at the quinoa, “is exhibit A.”
Oakland gasped. “You said it smelled good!”
“Yeah, like wet bird food.”
Oakland’s laugh cracked through the tension, easing it like steam off a kettle.
They sat in that lighter silence for a while, and Christine could feel the weight of it—the delicate balance of something more lingering just out of reach. It would be so easy to push, to close the gap between them, to chase the undercurrent humming between them.
But that wasn’t what Oakland needed.
So instead, Christine leaned back against the counter and stretched her arms behind her head, all lazy ease. “Alright, so where does that leave us?”
Oakland raised a brow. “Us?”
“Yeah, us. You know, the two people sitting here, sharing bird food, looking devastatingly attractive?”
Oakland rolled her eyes, but there was warmth there now. “Oh, is that what’s happening?”
Christine spread her hands. “Look, I’m just saying, we clearly enjoy each other’s company. You are unreasonably entertained by my presence, and I…” She let her gaze drag over Oakland. “Well. I’m open-minded.”
Oakland chuckled, shaking her head. “Christine.”
Christine softened, tilting her head. “But seriously. I like you. And I’m happy to just… be here. No pressure, no expectations.”
Oakland’s smirk faded into something more thoughtful. “You mean that?”
Christine held up a hand like she was making a solemn vow. “Swear on my worst beer.”
Oakland snorted. “I can’t tell whether that should be reassuring or not.”
“Hey, it’s legally binding in some circles.”
Oakland shook her head, but she was smiling, and when she reached for her water, Christine noticed her hands weren’t quite as tense anymore.
Christine leaned in, resting her chin on her hand. “You know, for someone in the middle of a full-blown identity crisis, you’re still distractingly hot. It’s honestly rude.”
Oakland blinked, mid-sip, then slowly set her glass down like she was bracing for impact. “Do you ever stop to hear the words that come out of your mouth?”
Christine gasped, hand to her chest like a scandalized debutante. “Excuse you. My filter is highly calibrated. It’s just… permanently on sabbatical.”
Oakland snorted. “Let me guess. Somewhere tropical and morally questionable?”
Christine pointed at her, dead serious. “Exactly. Probably doing shots in Tulum with a drag queen named Gloria B. Hole.”
Oakland shook her head, trying not to smile. “You are so much.”
Christine leaned in, grinning. “And yet here you are. Enduring me voluntarily. Which means you’re either wildly into me… or the quinoa is laced with drugs.”
Oakland raised an eyebrow, taking another bite. “I mean, it is suspiciously fragrant today.”
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