“Umm…” her meek voice floats through the door, “I have a situation.”
Instantly, I’m on high alert.
“What situation?” I ask, trying to sound as calm as I can, even with my insides telling me I need to break this door down and protect her from all her demons.
“Could you maybe ask the waitress to come to the door?”
“No. Tell me what it is.” My mind is running a mile a minute at her deflection.
“Well, I started my cycle, there isn’t any feminine product in here, and I can’t leave. It’s like Shark Week in here.”
It takes a full minute for what she said to sink in, and then I’m off. In full situational control mode. I know firsthand what this is like—having a little sister will do that to you. I remember it like it was yesterday, when my baby sister, Ava, got her first cycle. Without our mom, Ava grew up without that steady female figure to guide her through the awkward years. My dad was incredible, and together we did our best, but some things require a softer, more feminine touch. Thank goodness for my Aunt Maeve. She made sure Ava had someone to talk to, someone to teach her the things we couldn’t.
Still, when it came to the day-to-day emotional storms and hormonal roller coasters of Ava’s teenageyears, I became the stand-in expert. We were five years apart, and I made it my mission to always have her back. If that meant the occasional late-night run to the store for tampons and a Snickers bar, then that’s exactly what I did.
Making my way to the hostess stand, I spot the waitress. Not wasting a minute on pleasantries, I get right to the point.
“Do you have any spare feminine products?”
Her brows shoot up. “Umm, I don’t know. I can check.” Confusion flickers across her face; she’s probably not used to a guy asking her that, let alone one who’s six-four and covered in ink.
She disappears for a moment and comes back shaking her head. “Sorry, no luck. There’s a convenience store two shops down. They should have something.”
I nod once, already shifting into motion. No hesitation. I rush back toward the restroom to let her know I’m heading out to grab what she needs.
“The waitress didn’t have anything on hand, so I’m heading next door to the convenience store to get you what you need.” I start to turn around, but then remember I’m technically her captor, so I add, “Don’t try anything funny.”
* * *
The bell above the glass door jingles as I push through the front door. The place is quaint, just what youwould expect from a small town. Rows of narrow aisles stretch out in front of me—chips and candy bars stacked in neat chaos, soda bottles sweating in refrigerated coolers along the back wall.
It takes me a second to scan the personal care aisle—razors, toothpaste, travel-size deodorant—before I find the shelf I’m looking for. Does she prefer pads over tampons? Does she like the pads with wings or without wings? Without hesitating, I grab one of everything since I don’t know what she prefers.
My arms are full, and I don’t care if I look ridiculous as I make my way to the front checkout. An older man stands behind the counter. He looks a little like Santa Claus with his round belly and a full gray beard, but his eyes are sharp, bright, almost mischievous.
“You got the whole store here,” he says, his voice gravelly but warm as he scans the boxes of tampons and pads, dropping them into a paper sack. His lips twitch, fighting a grin.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say casually, shifting the armful onto the counter.
He chuckles, the sound low and knowing. “She must be someone special. Back in my day, a man only braved this aisle if he was married. Or desperate.”
“It’s, uh, not like that.” I clear my throat, scanning the impulse-buy items. I spot the Snickers bars, sliding two in with the rest of my items.
His eyebrows lift, his beard twitching with the beginnings of a smile. “She could use someone in her corner. You take care of her now.”
Before I can get him to elaborate, he pushes the paper bag toward me and waves a hand at the door.
Puzzled, I make my way back to the diner.
* * *
Placing a gentle knock on the door to not startle her, I ask, “You good in there?”
“Not really,” she says, her voice sounding defeated and tired. “This issoembarrassing.”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about. Normal biological function. I got you what you need. I’ll just leave it here at the door, and I’ll be at the booth when you’re ready.” Setting the bag down gently, I turn to walk away without another word, giving her the space she needs.
13
