NARRATOR (V.O.): Previously, on Tits for Tates! The Tate brothers became the Tate sisters. Reality rewrote itself. Alex became Alexis, Brad became Brandy, and somewhere along the way, everyone forgot they were ever men. Everyone except them! Tonight: A date with destiny.
Living in a reality that had been rewritten around you was, Alexis Tate had discovered, remarkably similar to being the only person at a magic show who could see the wires. Everyone else gasped at the levitation while you sat there thinking "that's clearly a harness" and wondering if you were the one losing your mind.
It had been five days since the dinner party. Five days since reality performed the largest retcon in history, casually editing forty-three and forty-one years of personal history like a freshman with access to Wikipedia's edit function and no adult supervision.
Alexis Tate was forty-three years old, just like Alex had been. She was still Creative Director at McMann & Tate—Richard had been delighted with her performance at the dinner, had talked about fast-tracking her toward VP—but the experience of being a woman in advertising was teaching her things she'd never noticed as Alex. The way junior designers would talk over her in meetings. The way clients would address questions to male colleagues even when she was leading the pitch. The way "assertive" had become "aggressive" and "confident" had become "bitchy" somewhere in the translation from male to female.
Her closet was filled with the clothes of a forty-three-year-old professional woman who had learned that "appropriate office wear" meant blouses with sensible necklines and slacks that didn't draw attention. Her blonde hair was cut in a practical pixie cut that required minimal styling—the kind of haircut you got when you'd stopped trying to turn heads and started trying to just get through the day.
The alimony payments had vanished, which would have been cause for celebration if they'd been replaced by anything other than "never existed in the first place." No ex-wives. No divorces. No romantic history at all, according to the careful absence of photos in her apartment and the complete lack of relationship questions from anyone at work. Alexis was, apparently, married to her career.
Brandy had discovered she was a senior CrossFit instructor at CorePower Studio. The serious kind of instructor who taught 6 AM classes to finance bros who wanted to pretend they were athletes and lunchtime sessions to stressed professionals who couldn't do a proper squat to save their lives.
The gym was full of young women who came in full makeup and matching Lululemon sets, more interested in getting the perfect gym selfie than actually working out. Brandy had watched three of them this morning spend twenty minutes posing by the weights they never actually lifted, giggling as they checked their Instagram engagement.
She'd found newspaper clippings in a box in the garage. Articles about her collegiate soccer records, her failed attempt as a professional athlete, certifications for a fallback career in personal training. A whole history she didn't remember living.
Brandy returned to the house on that fifth day, exhausted after teaching three classes that day but still somehow brimming with energy. Her body seemed to always want to be moving, to remain active even when her muscles screamed for relief.
She and Alexis had barely spoken since the dinner party. Every conversation was a minefield, every irritation a potential trigger for another complaint that could rewrite them further. Another loss, another piece of themselves rewritten by a contract that seemed determined to punish them for the cardinal sin of being siblings who didn't get along.
They were still furious with each other, each blaming their new sister for the changes to their lives. But they couldn’t risk it, so they avoided each other. Came and went at different times. Left notes instead of talking. Kept their mouths shut and kept their distance.
Entering the house, Brandy found a note tucked in the mail slot. Simple white paper, casual handwriting.
Alexis & Brandy— We owe you dinner for saving Mittens! We’ll be at Aqua tomorrow at night. Come meet us! It will be, as you Americans say, a date? —F & A
Alexis emerged from her room, wearing pajamas that Alex had never purchased. Pink with little flowers, because apparently that's what Alexis wore to bed.
"What's that?"
Brandy handed her the note.
Alexis read it. Her eyes widened. "A date?"
"That's what it says."
They stared at it in the kitchen, standing on opposite sides of the room—the maximum distance the space allowed, which was approximately four feet but felt like a demilitarized zone.
"We can't go," Alexis said, her breathy voice making the statement sound less definitive than she'd intended. Everything she said now sounded like pillow talk. She'd stopped taking phone calls from male clients. Too many had gotten the wrong idea.
"We have to go," Brandy said, her perky voice making it sound like she was inviting everyone to a juice cleanse.
"But we're—" Alexis gestured at herself, at Brandy, at reality as a general concept. "We're women now. And they're women. Why would they—"
"I don't know." Brandy felt something flutter in her chest that might have been hope or might have been delusion. "Maybe they're... into women?"
They stared at each other, trying to figure out if they were reading too much into two simple words or not enough.
"We should go," Brandy said finally.
"Yeah."
"Even if it's not—"
"Yeah."
Friday evening, Alexis dressed in what she considered appropriate for a nice dinner: a pale pink blouse with pearl buttons, paired with tailored black slacks. Added a pink cardigan because the evening might be cool. Sensible flats because heels at forty-three felt like an invitation to ankle injury. Her pixie-cut hair required minimal styling, which was one of its few benefits. A touch of lipstick, some mascara.
Brandy now owned exactly one category of clothing: activewear. She pulled on black leggings, her mint green cropped hoodie with the zipper perpetually undone, and her white sneakers. It was what she'd worn to the grocery store, to coffee, to literally everywhere for the past five days because it was all she had. Her wardrobe had become a capsule collection of "woman who lives at the gym." She pulled her brown hair back into her usual ponytail. Minimal makeup.
The Uber was a silver Prius driven by a guy in his late twenties with a man bun–”Topher,” according to the app–who spent the entire drive making conversation that walked the very fine line between friendly and creepy.
"You ladies going somewhere fun tonight?"
"Just meeting friends," Alexis said carefully.
"Friends, huh?" He glanced in the rearview mirror with the knowing look of someone who'd driven this route before, to this club, with women of a certain age dressed for a certain purpose. "Aqua's a young crowd, you know. Good for you, though. Never too late to get back out there."
The implication hung in the air like cheap cologne: cougars on the prowl.
Brandy and Alexis exchanged a look that contained volumes of unspoken horror.
Topher dropped them off at 9:03pm with a "have fun, ladies" that sounded like he was sending his divorced aunts to bingo night.
Aqua announced itself with bass so deep it could be felt in dental work. The building glowed toxic blue—not a natural blue, but the kind of blue that in nature usually means "stay away" or "this frog will kill you if you touch it." The sign pulsed with light that could probably be seen from the International Space Station.
"This is the dinner they promised us?" Brandy asked.
"Maybe they meant drinks?" Alexis said weakly.
"They specifically said dinner."
They exchanged a look. Neither of them knew how young people dated anymore.
The line to get in stretched down the block and moved with the speed of continental drift. Full of young, beautiful people in clothes that could charitably be described as "suggestions of fabric." Women in bandage dresses that defied physics and good judgment. Men in shirts with precisely three buttons undone, revealing chest hair groomed with the kind of attention usually reserved for topiary.
Brandy and Alexis joined the line and immediately felt out of place. After twenty minutes—during which time approximately three people had been allowed entry—they finally reached the front of the line.
The bouncer was a brick wall of a man in his thirties, built like someone who'd played college football and never quite let it go. He had a neck wider than most people's thighs and an expression of professional boredom that suggested he'd seen it all and been unimpressed by most of it.
"Club’s full, ma’am," he said, his voice a rumble.
Alexis blinked. "What?"
He scanned them, his eyes traveling over Alexis's work clothes and Brandy's athletic wear. Behind them, two women in metallic dresses and six-inch heels swept past the rope without even stopping, waved through by the door person like visiting dignitaries.
“You just let them in! How can it be full?” Brandy demanded.
The bouncer sighed. "Look, this isn't that kind of club," he said, handing back their IDs.
"What kind of club?" Alexis asked.
"The kind where you dress like you're going to the office." He gestured at the people behind them in line. "Next!"
"Wait—" Brandy started.
"You're not getting in dressed like that. Next!"
They stepped aside, out of line, both stinging with humiliation.
"This is ridiculous," Alexis said, her voice tight. "I dressed up! This is a nice outfit! Maybe you could’ve worn something different?"
"What? It's your fault," Brandy shot back, defensive energy already rising. "You look like you're going to a PTA meeting. At least I tried to look casual!"
"Casual?" Alexis gestured at Brandy's athletic shoes. "You're wearing sneakers! To a nightclub! You look like you just finished teaching a class and came here directly!"
"Well you look like—"
But the changes were already beginning. The shift. The terrible accommodation. The roommate agreement reaching out to solve a problem no one had actually asked it to solve.
Alexis felt her silk blouse shimmer against her skin, the fabric tightening, the neckline plunging, sleeves shrinking. The blouse and slacks melted together, reforming into a single piece. A dress. A very short, tight dress that clung to every curve and left her legs bare from mid-thigh down.
She grabbed at her cardigan instinctively, pulling it closed against her chest, trying to cover the plunging neckline, the tight fabric, the exposure. But the cardigan was changing too. It shed off her shoulders completely, flowing to her hands and reforming as a small pink clutch purse, sparkly and frivolous.
Her practical flats reshaped beneath her feet. For a moment she felt herself falling, off-balance, and then suddenly she was taller—heels had added four inches to her height. Her weight shifted forward onto the balls of her feet, her calves flexing, her entire posture changing. She grabbed Brandy's arm to steady herself, feeling precarious.
Brandy couldn’t be bothered to notice.
Her mint green hoodie had tightened against her torso, becoming a shiny thin spandex, rising up to expose her midriff. The hood disappeared, leaving a high-necked crop top in mint green with black trim.
Her leggings tightened, the fabric becoming a sleek and shiny leather-look material. Cutouts along the sides showed strips of skin from hip to ankle. The material was so tight it looked painted on, showcasing every curve of her legs and the bubble butt that had been the contract’s complaint-induced gift. Her athletic shoes melted and reformed into heeled ankle boots—black leather with silver buckles, three-inch heels that added height she didn't need.
Both felt makeup blooming across their faces like flowers in time-lapse. Brandy's ponytail gained volume, became deliberately tousled with pieces framing her face. Her pixie cut styled itself, gaining volume and edge, the platinum blonde catching the light in a way that suggested "Karen who bought a convertible after her divorce."
In seconds, they'd gone from "women dressed for a casual evening" to "women in their forties trying desperately to look younger."
Alexis looked down at herself in horror. The pale pink dress was so short. So tight. She could see the entire length of her legs, pale and feminine, ending in heels that made her feel like she was constantly about to tip forward. The dress clung to her breasts, creating cleavage she'd never wanted. When she moved, she felt everything. The fabric sliding against her skin, the hem riding up with each step.
She clutched the pink purse as if it were a life preserver, feeling ridiculous.
Brandy touched her exposed stomach, feeling the cool air on skin that shouldn't be visible. The cutouts in her leather-look leggings made her hyperaware of her thighs. She took a step and felt the boots change her walk, felt her hips rolling differently, felt the mint green crop top exposing her midriff in a way that made her want to suck in the gut she no longer had.
"What—" Brandy touched her face, feeling makeup she hadn't applied. "Oh my god."
"Oh my god," Alexis repeated, staring at her exposed legs. "We complained. We triggered the contract. We—"
The bouncer glanced over at them. If he noticed anything had changed, he didn’t show it. As far as he was concerned, here were two women in their forties wearing clubwear, looking like they were trying to recapture their youth.
He gave them a slight nod, his lips quirking in what might have been amusement as he unhooked the velvet rope. "Have a good night, ladies."
They stumbled through the entryway, both in heels neither had worn before, both dressed in outfits that showed more skin than they'd shown in public in decades.
"We need to be more careful," Alexis hissed, her voice tight with barely controlled panic. "We can't keep triggering the agreement!"
"Stop talking!" Brandy shot back, tugging at her crop top. "Let’s just get inside.”
Inside Aqua, Alexis felt approximately one thousand years old.
The music was loud enough to liquify internal organs. Glass installations caught the light like frozen waves. Chrome fixtures reflected everyone into infinity.
A young woman in a dress that was more concept than clothing bumped into Alexis, looked her up and down with the kind of pitying expression usually reserved for injured animals, and said to her friend: "Did you see that outfit? Someone's mom got lost."
Her friend giggled. "At least she's trying?"
They disappeared into the crowd. Poor middle-aged ladies, their faces said. Trying so hard.
A group of men in expensive-looking shirts pushed past, one of them doing a double-take at Brandy's outfit. He elbowed his friend, and they both laughed. "Check it out. Midlife crisis in leather pants."
His friend: "Money says she asks someone to show her how TikTok works."
They disappeared toward the VIP section, still laughing.
Alexis felt her face burning. She knew what they were thinking. She'd thought the same thing when she was younger, when she saw women her current age trying to dress like teenagers.
Pathetic.
"This was a mistake," Brandy said, grabbing Alexis's arm. "We need to leave. We don't belong here."
"This is so humiliating," Alexis agreed. "I feel like someone's mom who wandered into the wrong party."
"You look like someone's mom who wandered into the wrong party." The words came out before Brandy could stop them. Sharp, mean, the old pattern reasserting itself under stress.
Alexis’ eyes flashed. "Oh, and you look so much better? You look like you're having a midlife crisis! Like you raided your daughter's closet!"
"At least I don't—"
And then they both felt it.
The transformation started in their faces. Alexis felt it first. A stretching, a smoothing, like invisible hands were pulling her skin taut. The fine lines around her eyes disappeared. The slight softness under her chin firmed. Her face became rounder, fuller, the way faces are when you're in your early twenties and your bone structure hasn't settled yet.
Brandy felt the same shift. Her face smoothing, rounding, the gray hairs at her temples darkening back to brown.
But it didn't stop at their faces.
Alexis felt her pixie cut growing. Felt hair lengthening against her neck, against her shoulders, the strands multiplying and extending like time-lapse footage. It kept going, past her shoulders, down her back, becoming longer and longer until it reached her waist. The weight of it pulled at her scalp.
Brandy's ponytail exploded with length, her brown hair cascading down her back until it reached her hips. She felt it growing, felt each strand extending. The kind of hair that should have been heavy enough to give her neck strain but somehow wasn't. She developed natural highlights, honey and caramel tones weaving through the brown.
And their bodies.
Alexis felt her skin tightening everywhere. The slight softness that came with forty-three years of living just... firmed. Her body became tauter, tighter, more resilient. Her breasts sat higher, firmer. Her stomach flattened. Not just flat, but the kind of flat that suggested she'd never heard of carbohydrates. Everything about her body became more elastic, more bouncy. The way bodies are in your early twenties when they can stay up all night and bounce back by noon.
Brandy felt the same transformation. Her instructor-fit body became tighter, more elastic. Her skin glowed with youth. A layer of softness covered the sinewy muscle underneath, leaving her with a body that screamed “wellness coach” instead of “crossfit enthusiast.”
The whole transformation took maybe ten seconds.
When it stopped, Alexis glanced down at the ID in her hand, which she’d been clutching since the bouncer check, and hadn't thought to put away yet. The photo had changed. A fresh-faced twenty-four-year-old blonde woman with long platinum waves looked back at her.
Name: LEXI TATE DOB: March 15, 2002
Not Alexis. Lexi. Twenty-four year old Lexi.
The universe had clearly decided Alexis was too mature, too old-sounding, someone who had been named after a soap opera character from the Eighties. Lexi was what you called a twenty-four-year-old in a short pink dress with long blonde hair and a sparkly clutch.
Lexi was young. Lexi was fun. Lexi went to clubs and took shots and made terrible decisions.
Brandy was staring at her own ID, her long brown ponytail bouncing around her shoulders as she looked down.
Name: BRITTANY TATE DOB: August 8, 2004
Not Brandy. Brittany. Twenty-two year old Brittany. Because Brandy sounded like someone's aunt who sent birthday cards with five dollars inside. Brittany was perky. Brittany did hot yoga and posted gym selfies. Brittany definitely didn't have a blog about sitcom history and a dead wife.
They looked at each other. Two women who'd been in their forties five minutes ago, now looking like they had student loans and had never heard of the Clinton administration or what dial-up internet sounded like.
Lexi touched her hair, felt the impossible length of it. It was everywhere—falling in her face, brushing against her bare shoulders, sliding against the pink fabric of her dress.
"Oh god," she whispered.
And then the attention started. The switch had flipped instantly. One moment they were invisible middle-aged women. The next, they were magnets.
A guy materialized at Lexi's side. Mid-twenties, expensive watch, predatory smile. "Hey! Can I buy you a drink?"
"I—" Lexi started.
Another guy appeared next to Brittany. "You ladies here alone? Want some company?"
"We're waiting for—" Brittany tried.
A third guy pushed between them, clearly drunk. "Oh shit, you two are gorgeous! Are you models? You look like models!"
More men were circling now, drawn by the presence of two beautiful young women who looked lost and available. Hands reached out, touching shoulders, lower backs, trying to guide them toward the bar, toward the dance floor, toward anywhere these men wanted them to go.
"No thank you," Lexi said, trying to pull away, but her heels made her unsteady. She felt panic rising in her throat.
"Lexi! Brittany!"
Two voices cut through the chaos, loud and authoritative. Male voices. Deep, with a particular Scandinavian accent. The crowd of interested men parted like a wave.
Two men pushed through the crowd of circling predators. Tall, blonde, objectively attractive in that Nordic way that suggested they were probably related to Vikings. They reached the sisters and immediately put themselves between the Tates and the other men.
"There you are!" the taller one said, pulling Lexi against his side. "We were starting to worry!"
"It is so crowded!" the other one added, his arm going around Brittany's shoulders. "Did you catch traffic?"
The circling men backed off immediately, recognizing the universal signal of "these women are taken." They dispersed back into the club, already looking for easier targets.
Lexi and Brittany stood there, stunned, trying to process what had just happened. Who were these men who'd rescued them, who were now grinning down at them with obvious delight?
"We're so glad you made it!" the taller one said. "We've been looking forward to this all week! I told Mittens that he owed you—"
Mittens.
The word clicked everything into place.
"Oh my god," Lexi whispered, staring up at the man whose arm was around her. "You're—"
"Fredrik," he supplied helpfully. "He is Anders. It is okay, even our own mother cannot tell us apart."
Fredrik. Anders.
Not Freja and Astrid.
The reality rewrite that they’d triggered at the dinner party hadn't just transformed the Tates, it had adjusted everyone in their orbit. The beautiful Swedish women who'd invited them to dinner became beautiful Swedish men, because they’d promised to take the Tates out to dinner and the Tates were now women. Reality obviously valued consistency above all else.
Lexi stared at Fredrik, then at Anders. "How many people?" she whispered. "How many people did we change?"
Brittany leaned over to her sister, eyes wide. "It's like they recast the characters mid-season! Same people, different actors. Usually happens when one of the original cast members has a contract dispute or—"
"Can you NOT right now?" Lexi hissed.
Fredrik and Anders exchanged amused looks. "You two are funny," Anders said, squeezing Brittany's shoulder. "Come on, we have the best booth in the place!"
They let themselves be led to the booth, the twins' arms still around them, and settled into the curved leather seating. The booth was intimate, designed for couples. One twin on each end, one Tate sister tucked between them and the wall. Split seating. No easy escape.
They were on a date.
With men.
[COMMERCIAL BREAK]
The booth was designed for intimacy, which was unfortunate because intimacy was the last thing either Tate wanted. Fredrik slid in and patted the seat next to him. Anders mirrored him on the opposite side. One twin per Tate. Divide and conquer.
"We already ordered!" Fredrik announced as fruity cocktails materialized. "To new friends! And to Mittens!"
They clinked. Lexi sipped. It tasted like a mistake she was about to make worse.
"Actually," she said, setting down her drink. "I just remembered we have work early tomorrow. Both of us. We should probably—"
"Tomorrow's Saturday?" Anders pointed out gently.
Lexi blinked. "Right. Saturday. I meant—"
"You must be tired from the week!" Fredrik jumped in, concerned. "But just stay for one drink? We just got here!"
Despite her best efforts, Lexi felt her people-pleasing compulsion take over. She settled deeper into the booth. Her smile felt automatic, performative, the kind of smile that said I'm having a good time even when every cell in her body was screaming to flee.
Brittany glared at her from across the table.
"So!" Anders leaned forward with genuine interest. "Tell us about yourselves! What do you do for work?"
"Brittany's a fitness instructor!" Fredrik jumped in before anyone could answer. "I follow her Instagram. Those workout videos are intense!"
"Oh. Thanks." Brittany's tone suggested she'd rather be anywhere else. Including a root canal. Or a tax audit. Or both simultaneously.
"And Lexi, you work in...?" Anders looked at her expectantly.
Lexi opened her mouth. Felt her brain searching for the answer like a computer trying to load a corrupted file. Creative Director was right there, trying to come out, but the second she reached for it her brain rejected it completely. It felt wrong, like claiming she was an astronaut or the Queen of England. She was twenty-four. Twenty-four-year-olds weren't Creative Directors.
So what was she?
Her brain spun, searching, coming up blank. The silence stretched. Everyone was looking at her.
"Marketing!" Brittany jumped in.
"—advertising," Lexi supplied at the same time.
Fredrik's smile didn't waver. "Marketing and advertising! That's great!"
"What kind of advertising?" Anders asked.
Lexi's mind went blank. "Pet food?"
"Fashion," Brittany said simultaneously.
They both froze.
Anders looked between them. "Pet food fashion?"
"It's a niche market," Lexi said weakly.
"Very niche," Brittany agreed, kicking her under the table.
Lexi kicked back harder.
Anders turned to Brittany, desperate for a simpler topic. "Being a personal trainer must be rewarding?"
"It's fine," Brittany said shortly.
Lexi kicked her under the table. Be nice. They're being nice.
Brittany kicked back. Stop kicking me.
"Just fine?" Anders seemed surprised. "On socials you’re so passionate about health—"
"She's not that passionate," Lexi muttered before she could stop herself.
Brittany's head snapped around. "Excuse me?"
"I just mean—" Lexi caught herself. Don't criticize. Don't engage. "Nothing. You're very passionate."
"I'm adequately passionate," Brittany said through gritted teeth. Her foot found Lexi's shin again.
"Do you help each other?" Anders asked. "You two could collaborate! Brittany could use her platform, Lexi could help with the marketing strategy—"
"We don't really work together," Brittany said shortly.
"Oh." Anders looked surprised. "But you're sisters, and—"
"We like to keep work and family separate," Lexi jumped in quickly, trying to smooth over Brittany's bluntness. She smiled at Anders, a big, accommodating smile that made her face hurt. "It's healthier that way! Boundaries!"
"That's very healthy," Fredrik said approvingly.
Brittany made a sound that might have been agreement or might have been choking on her cosmo.
"That makes sense," Anders said generously. "Are you close? You seem very different."
"We're extremely close," Lexi said warmly.
"Not particularly," Brittany said at the same time.
Another pause.
"We're... working on it," Lexi amended with another bright smile. Under the table, her foot found Brittany's. Stop being rude.
Brittany's return kick was harder. Stop being fake.
"That's good," Fredrik said, clearly unsure how to interpret any of this. "Fredrik and I are very close. We do everything together."
"Everything?" Brittany's tone suggested this was a form of mental illness.
"Well, not everything," Anders laughed. "But we're close. We talk every day. Support each other."
"That's... great," Lexi managed, trying to imagine a universe where she and Brittany talked every day voluntarily. And managed not to fundamentally alter the other one when doing so.
"Do you have similar interests?" Anders asked.
"Not at all," the Tates both said in unison.
Finally, agreement.
"That's healthy!" Fredrik assured them. "Anders and I are very different too. I'm more social, he's more serious—"
"I'm plenty social," Anders protested.
"You spent last weekend alphabetizing your books!"
“Enough! We must not bicker here in front of the sisters.”
"You are right!" Fredrik agreed. “Do you bicker like this? What drives you crazy about each other?"
Warning lights flashed in Lexi’s mind.
"Nothing!" Lexi said quickly, trying to change topics.
"Everything," Brittany said simultaneously.
They both froze.
"Well, not everything," Lexi amended desperately. "Just normal sister stuff!"
"She's a people-pleaser," Brittany said dismissively.
"At least I'm not a—" Lexi bit off the insult before she said “bitch.” Her foot connected with Brittany’s shin under the table, harder this time. No complaints, remember?
Brittany kicked back. FINE. The cosmos sloshed dangerously.
"Sisters!" Fredrik laughed, oblivious to the mounting violence happening below table level. "Always fighting but always loving each other."
"So much love," Lexi said through clenched teeth.
"Just overflowing with love," Brittany agreed, her eyes promising murder.
"What are your parents like?" Anders asked innocently.
Oh, fuck.
"Dead," they both said in unison.
"Oh!" Fredrik looked stricken. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—"
"It's fine," Lexi said quickly.
"So you two only have each other," Anders said gently. "That must make your relationship even more important."
"Super important," Lexi said, glaring at Brittany.
"The most important," Brittany added, glaring back.
"That's beautiful," Fredrik said with genuine emotion. "When you only have one person, you have to cherish them."
Lexi's shin was throbbing. Brittany's toes were crushed in her heeled boots. They were both approximately three seconds from saying something that would trigger another transformation.
"We should all hang out more!" Fredrik suggested brightly. "The four of us. We could go hiking! Or to the beach! Or to the—"
"Bathroom!" Lexi announced, sliding out of the booth so fast she nearly fell in her heels. "I need to use the bathroom."
"Me too," Brittany was already moving. "Girl emergency. Very urgent. We'll be right back."
They fled before the twins could respond.
Once in the bathroom, Lexi whirled on her sister. "Stop contradicting me!"
"Stop giving wrong answers!" Brittany shot back. "Pet food fashion?"
"I didn't know what to say! I don't know what I do! Every time I tried to say Creative Director my brain said 'that's not right' but it didn't give me a replacement!"
"So you said pet food?"
"It was the first thing that came to mind!"
"We can't keep doing this," Brittany said, pressing her hands against the sink. "Every question is a potential trigger. And they want to hang out MORE. They want to go to the beach, Lexi. Where we'll have to wear swimsuits. That's assuming we even make it through tonight without triggering the contract again."
"I know." Lexi leaned against the wall. "This is a disaster. But we can't just leave!"
"Why not? You want to stay here?"
"No, but—" Lexi struggled to articulate what she was feeling. "They're nice! They invited us! They're being so sweet and leaving now would be incredibly rude!"
"Stop being FAKE!" Brittany's voice rose. "Sitting there with that plastic smile, pretending to be interested in their boring stories about Sweden and—"
"They're being kind to us!"
"So? That doesn't mean you have to sit there performing like a trained seal! 'That sounds wonderful!' 'Communication is so important!' It's pathetic, Lexi. You're pretending to care about them when you don't. You're lying to them. You're not actually interested in—"
The shift hit Lexi mid-breath.
She felt it in her skull. That terrible rewiring. Something fundamental changing, like switches flipping in her brain.
And suddenly Fredrik's face was in her mind. His smile. His laugh. The way he'd looked at her with genuine warmth.
And she realized she wanted him to keep looking at her like that.
"Oh my god," she breathed.
"What?" Brittany looked suspicious.
Lexi turned to stare at her sister. At the person who'd just been sitting at that table being rude. Being dismissive. Being cruel to Fredrik and Anders who'd been nothing but sweet and kind and—
"You just—" Lexi's voice shook. "You just changed me."
"What are you talking about?"
"The agreement!" Lexi's hands clenched into fists. "You complained about me pretending to be interested in them. And now I'm—" She swallowed hard. "I'm not pretending anymore."
Brittany's eyes widened. "Oh shit."
"Yeah. Oh shit." Lexi's voice was getting louder. "And you know what? Now that I actually CARE about them? I can see exactly how rude you've been! Sitting there sulking like a child, giving one-word answers, making it obvious you don't want to be here—"
"Lexi—"
"They're nice, Brittany! They're genuinely kind and sweet and they invited us out and they're trying so hard and you can't even be bothered to be civil! You're sitting there being deliberately rude and ruining everything—"
"Stop—"
"You're not interested in them at all! You don't even care! You're just being difficult and—"
The shift hit Brittany like a freight train.
She gasped, her hand going to her chest. Felt the same terrible sensation Lexi had just felt. Her orientation rewiring. Her attraction to women fading, being replaced with—
"Oh god," she whispered.
"Yeah," Lexi said, her voice hollow. "How does it feel?"
They stared at each other in the bathroom mirror. Two women who'd just destroyed another part of each other. Again. Because they couldn’t help themselves.
"We should go back," Brittany said finally, her voice hollow.
"Yeah."
They walked back to the booth in silence, where Fredrik and Anders were waiting, both smiling when they saw them return.
"Everything okay?" Fredrik asked.
Lexi felt something flutter in her stomach when she looked at him. Something warm. Something that made her notice his shoulders, his smile, the concern in his blue eyes.
"Everything's fine," she heard herself say, sliding back into the booth next to him, and when his arm went around her shoulders, she leaned into it instead of pulling away.
Across the table, Brittany was doing the same thing with Anders. Smiling at something he said. Her whole body language changed.
Fredrik was talking about something—Sweden, his childhood, something—and Lexi was barely listening because she was too busy noticing things about him. The way his hands moved. The warmth of his body. How good his cologne smelled.
Stop it, she told herself desperately. This isn't real. You're not actually attracted to him.
But it felt real. When his hand found hers on the table, fingers lacing together, she felt butterflies.
And the worst part was that she liked it.
NARRATOR (V.O.): Next time on Tits for Tates: Trapped in an elevator. Trapped by each other. And trapped by four decades of being siblings who never learned when to stop. The endgame approaches. Don't miss the shocking season finale—same Tate time, same Tate channel!
[END EPISODE 7]