“You deserve happiness, Elena.”
She doesn’t respond, but I hear the soft sniffle of her emotions. I feel the silent tears that drip from her cheeks and onto my arm. I don’t know how many times throughout my life she’s lain beside me in the depths of night, crying herself to sleep over thoughts of my brother. I don’t know how many times I tried to save her from that pain, and how I could’ve failed us both so miserably.
I don’t know how we’ll ever escape it now.
21
VICE
“OLDER” - LIZZY MCALPINE
Another stabof pain slices through my lower abdomen, and I groan, bracing my arms on the counter as I drop my head between my shoulders.
I grind my molars as I ride out the wave, the pounding in my temples not helping things, and the obnoxious fucking song echoing through the cafe worsening all other symptoms.
I normally don’t mind Dahlia’s taste in music, but whatever pop anthem is blaring through the speakers right now is about to make me fucking violent.
I take a deep breath, glancing around to ensure there aren’t any customers who need to be helped before I duck into the break room and grab my bag. I locate my bottle of ibuprofen and my CBD-infused essential oil roller before returning to the register.
I take two pills, chasing them with my third iced coffee of the day, before rubbing the essential oil over each of my temples. The smell of lavender and eucalyptus invades my senses, immediately calming my racing heart.
Years ago, when I was first diagnosed with PMDD, my doctor told me that overconsumption of caffeine could worsen the condition, and I don’t doubt that’s true, but if my head is goingto pound and my uterus is going to try to fucking kill me, iced coffee is a necessary evil.
I was placed on hormonal birth control to help with the symptoms, and it somewhat has, but my luteal phase is still a monthly thorn in my side—literally.
After so many years doing sedentary work, I’ve forgotten how straining seven hours of standing and moving can be when I’m experiencing a flare-up. I’ve only been working for three hours, and I’m not sure I’m going to survive the rest of my shift, but as of now, I’m the only barista working. Peggy, Dahlia’s pastry chef, is in the kitchen baking, and I’ve been covering the early morning shift for Dahlia while she and Darby are in Kansas.
Their father was finally tried for his long, long rap sheet of embezzlement and fraud, and they both wanted to travel out there for the sentencing. It sounds like it has been a rough year for them since Dahlia handed over evidence of his crimes to the authorities, essentially severing whatever family ties they may have had left.
I don’t blame her. In fact, I probably would’ve done worse if he were my father.
Both of my brothers encouraged them not to go, but they felt they needed the closure of facing their dad and telling him just how terrible he was to them, and how much better off they are now that they’ve escaped him.
Unfortunately for me, with Dahlia gone, I’m not due to be relieved by another barista for two more hours, which means I have no choice but to tough it out behind the counter.
There was a rush earlier, but as I glance around at the buzzing cafe now, all patrons appear to be happy. It’s a beautiful day beyond the bakery’s front windows, the sun shining down on the whitecaps past the pier, making the water look particularly turquoise this morning. Surfers dot the horizon, and a few people stroll along the boardwalk outside, but it’s still earlyin the season, and things are fairly slow. I take advantage of the easy morning by pulling a barstool behind the counter and flopping myself atop it, resting my head on my arms.
Sometime later, a familiar, muffled voice comes from behind me before my brother filters through the back door. I knew Everett had a meeting at Heathen’s this morning with Leo, August, and the small business initiative—I had him pick me up on his way in. I typically walk to work, but when starting so early in the morning, I don’t have the damn energy, not to mention the flare-up hitting me today.
I was uncomfortable on the drive over, and when he asked me what was wrong, I told him it was just a headache. I’m not surprised he decided to come back and check on me after his meeting. He’s a fucking mother hen if I’ve ever known one.
If it weren’t Everett, it’d probably be my mother. I’m glad he’s the one who ended up with a kid—he got all of Mom’s nurturing nature. I’ve never known that woman to be a coffee drinker, but she seems to be stopping by almost every day. If it’s not to check on me; it’s to check in on one of her many, many other children who work on the boardwalk.
She may have only birthed two of us, but she claims all six.
They likely feel it’s the only time they can see me. I know it’s my fault for being such a nightmare. I know that they worry, and I know that I shut them out. Even before…everything, I’ve always been somewhat reclusive. A homebody. I love my family, but too much social interaction overwhelms me, even with the people I love most. It’s an awful trait to have, but it’s how I am.
Before I moved to New York, I had a routine of meeting up with my parents about once a week or so, and I know I’ve gotten much worse at that since being back in Pacific Shores. It’s certainly something I can make more of an effort on, though I have dragged myself to two Sunday dinners in the last three months, which seemed to make my family happy.
The back door swings shut behind Everett, and his eyes narrow the second he takes me in. I try to force a smile at my brother, lifting a hand to wave, but concern floods his features, and he picks up his pace, reaching me in just a few steps.
“So, it is a flare?”
I nod, and he places a hand on the center of my forehead.
“You don’t feel warm.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just bad cramps and a killer headache.” I rarely have a fever when I’m experiencing a PMDD flare, but it has happened before.
