She rolls over in bed, clutching her stomach. Eden knows she’s been blessed with relatively light periods. It normally only lasts three or four days, but the first day is always the worst. It’s almost as if her body made a trade-off with some unnamed fertility goddess. In exchange for a short cycle, all of her monthly side effects are crammed together into one day.
Eden can normally get by on an ibuprofen or two, often with the assistance of a microwaveable heat pack. She’s used to brute forcing her way through the day, as most women around the world are wont to do. She’s got shit to get done, a kitchen to run.
What a shame her uterus is trying tokillher.
She never takes time off from work, never calls in sick—even though it’s probably a health violation not to do so—but Eden isn’t sure if she can make it through her shift like this. The pain’s too great, and she’s worried that she’ll only get in everybody’s way if she goes to work like this. So, after about five minutes of mental back and forth, Eden reaches for her phone on the bedside table.
Eden: I don’t think I can come in to work today.
It surprises her how quickly Alexander responds back.
Alexander: What’s wrong?
Eden: Feeling sick.
Her phone starts to buzz. Alexander iscallingher.
“Do you think it’s the flu?” he asks the second she picks up. “Freddie called out sick, too. Stomach bug or something. I’m worried something’s going around.”
“This is definitely not a stomach bug,” she croaks. “If you really need me to come in, I can—”
“No, no. It’s fine. Tonight’s going to be quiet, so it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’ll be a good learning opportunity for Drenton. Get some rest.”
“Thanks, Chef.”
“Don’t mention it.”
* * *
The rest of the day is torture. She’s hungry, she’s angry—the textbook definition of hangry. Eden tries taking a hot bath, eating chocolate, doing some light stretches, but all in vain. She’s just going to have to suck it up and nap it off like she does every month. She’s curled up under several layers of her fluffiest blankets on the couch with the TV switched on to Jeopardy. The moment she’s found a partially comfortable position to lie in…
There’s a knock at the door.
“Good grief,” Eden mumbles, dragging herself up with a groan. “The volume isn’t even up all the way, Mrs. Jefferson!”
It’s not Mrs. Jefferson.
“Do you not get along with your neighbors?” Alexander asks.
“She lives downstairs,” Eden explains. “She’s always yelling about how my TV’s too loud or that I’m stomping around.”
“Do you want me to have a word with her?”
He sounds so serious about it that Eden can’t help but laugh. “No, please don’t. Pretty sure she’d eat you alive. I’d prefer you in one piece.”
“Your concern is greatly appreciated.”
“What are you doing here?” she asks softly. “Aren’t you supposed to be at La Rouge for closing?”
“Drenton can take care of it. He’s familiar enough with the procedure by now. Besides, I wanted to check on you. Are you feeling any better?”
Eden’s face flushes with heat. “Look, this is really sweet of you, but I’m… I’m notsicksick.”
Alexander’s brow furrows ever so slightly. “I don’t understand.”
