I grit my teeth and massage my temples before forcing the words from my scorched throat.
“I started my period.”
Silence filters through the door for a moment.
“What do you need?”
Irrational anger snaps through me.
“You said you’d help me, not ask a million questions.Just bring me another pair of pants.I’ll figure it out.”
He sighs, and my imagination fills in him running a hand through his hair and fixing his glasses.
“I’ve never dealt with this before.Ever.”He surprises me with the admission.“You’re the only woman I would ever do this for, besides maybe our daughters, if we have any.”
An unexpected sob wrenches from my chest, launching me into another relentless round of coughing.I don’t even know why I’m crying.
The moment my fit ceases, I slouch and rest my head against the wall.Misery flows through me as I realize how horribly my body betrays me.Coughing and menstruation is a disgusting mix.
I cringe and force the damning words from my sore throat.
“I need menstrual pads.No tampons.Preferably overnight with wings.And acetaminophen.”
“On it.”
As his footsteps move away, I sag and dab at my eyes with toilet paper.
He cut ties with the family when I was twelve.I didn’t have my first period until I was thirteen, and I was devastated by it, so I can’t imagine how he feels right now.
I shouldn’t have snapped at him.He doesn’t know.He never needed to know.Most men never care.Hell, even women act like it’s the most embarrassing sin on the face of the planet.
Brennan returns.
“Unlock the door, baby doll, so I can hand you these pants.”
Not a chance in hell I’m letting him see me sitting on the toilet.
“No.Set it outside the door and walk away,” I demand.
He doesn’t move.
“I am not getting up until you leave the bathroom and lock the door behind you.My legs are going numb,” I snarl.
“Go ahead and take a shower while I make a trip to the store.I’ll be back when you’re done.”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as the thought of him grabbing sanitary pads off the shelf and hiding them in his coat until he reaches the register hits me.Before I can call out to tell him I’ll make do with what I have—my stained panties and toilet paper—and buy them myself, the bathroom door shuts.I sit in mute shock as the security system announces his exit from the penthouse.
I’ll never live this down.
I open the door and fight another surge of tears.
Sitting on the floor within arm’s reach is a fresh set of clothes, a packet of wet wipes, and a tray with acetaminophen, a chilled water bottle, a steaming cup of coffee with an overabundance of creamer, and several chocolate bars.
I use several wet wipes, wash my hands, move everything to the counter, take medicine, suck down half the coffee, pop a square of chocolate into my mouth, and do a quick clean up of the water closet before jumping into the shower.
By the time I peek into the bedroom, plastic grocery bags line the edge of the bed.
I stare in disbelief before shuffling forward and shifting through the piles of stuff.
