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“Not exactly.”

“Sounds like security.”

Ms. Grover exhales. “You would need to follow the rules. No swearing. No threats. No confrontations with other parents.”

“Maybe if they don’t come at my woman—” I catch myself and clear my throat. “My neighbor. If those oat-milk committee terrorists don’t come at my neighbor again, there won’t be a problem.”

Ms. Grover closes her eyes. “This is what I mean by confrontation.”

“Yeah, well.” I stand. “I’ll behave.”

When I step out of her office, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Carmen.

Finally.

She hasn’t checked in all morning. I know she’s at school. I know she’s probably fine. None of that stops my brain from acting like she’s been abducted every time she takes longer than twenty minutes to reply.

I unlock the screen.

Carmen: I’m home now. But I still have my period.

I stop walking and stare at the message for a long moment. I have no fucking clue what to do with that information. Does that mean stay away? Does it mean come over? Does she need something? Does she want to be left alone? Is she in pain? How much pain is normal? How much is a problem? Should I ask? Is asking weird?

It’s probably weird.

I sit in the Mustang for ten full minutes, staring through the windshield like an idiot. Then I do the only thing I can think of. I pull out my phone and search: what to do when a woman has her period.

Thirty minutes later, I’m standing in the chemist with a basket full of shit I never thought I’d buy.

Ibuprofen. A heating pad. Some herbal tea with a woman standing peacefully in a field on the box. Fancy chocolate. Magnesium tablets because one article sounded aggressively certain about them. I’m staring at a shelf of stuffed animals, frowning, when the sales assistant drifts over.

“That one’s very soft,” she says, pointing to a brown bear with ridiculous round ears and “Get Well Soon” stitched across its stomach.

“A grown woman wouldn’t like this shit, would she?” I ask. “A smart one.”

The sales assistant’s gaze drifts over me, lingering a second too long on my torso before returning to my face. “I think most women like sweet things.”

I look at a little bear holding a heart.

Sweet.

Carmen keeps calling me that like she’s trying to ruin my reputation. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab the bear and stuff it in my basket.

The sales assistant’s smile widens as she rings everything up. “Your wife is a lucky woman.”

I should correct her. Tell her Carmen is just my neighbor.

Instead, I take the bag from her and say, “Yeah.”

Then I walk out before I can think too hard about that.

By the time I pull into my driveway, I feel like a complete idiot. I grab the bag anyway and pound on her door.

Carmen opens it wearing sweats and a messy bun. Her face is softer than usual, a little tired, but just looking at her does something stupid to my chest.

I hold up the bag. “Got you some stuff.”