Chapter Nineteen
Abigail-Ann
“At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.”
~Plato
T he bookstore was quiet, the kind of stillness that amplified every rustle of a page and every sigh I let escape. It was my third week working at Book Culture, and though I was getting the hang of it, anxiety still gripped me tightly. Was I shelving books too slowly? Did I smile enough at customers? Did my coworkers think I was weird?
This week’s struggle wasn’t just anxiety—it was a whole new level of hell. My period arrived, bringing the full wrath of endometriosis with it. The cramps clawed at my insides like a monster, my lower back felt like it was being pummeled by a jackhammer, and nausea, bloating, fatigue, and a complete loss of appetite formed a relentless symphony of misery .
At least this month, I could get out of bed. That wasn’t always the case. Some months, it left me paralyzed, helpless as my body waged war against itself.
Pushing through a shift while feeling like death was an accomplishment in itself. Just making it in was a victory. At least I didn’t have to explain an absence to my new boss—dodging that conversation in my first month was a small mercy.
If anyone would’ve noticed something was wrong, it was Mikkel. He always checked in, asked questions, and never took ‘I’m fine’ at face value. Even when I brushed him off, he’d still call or text just to make sure. But today, he was in Chicago for business, and I didn’t want to burden him with this.
Halfway through my shift, I heard a familiar voice.
“Abigail-Ann!”
I turned, and saw Azzaria, grinning like she’d won the lottery. My spirit lifted immediately.
“Azzy! What are you doing here?”
“You’re way too hard to catch these days, and I thought I’d come and say hi on your break.”
During lunch, we sat in Central Park with sandwiches and sodas, catching up. I vented about work, my period, and the urgent need for locks on my apartment since my parents kept nagging me about safety. She had a knack for making everything feel less overwhelming.
“Abi,” she said between bites of her sandwich, “you need to get those locks before they book a flight from California to do it themselves.”
I laughed, grateful for her. “I’m gonna do it.”
After lunch, I called my parents during a lull in customers. My mom warmly asked about work, while dad joked about helping with “heavy books,” though we both knew he’d just be checking up on me.
“I’m fine, Dad,” I reassured him. “But seriously, locks are happening soon.”
The rest of the shift passed in a blur. By the time closing rolled around, the cramps had dulled to an ache, and I was ready to crawl into bed. Stepping into the cool night, phone in hand to book an Uber, I spotted a familiar white Rolls Royce idling at the curb.
My heart stuttered. No way.
The driver’s side door opened, and Mikkel stepped out, his tall frame as composed as ever, but his face showed a genuine, soft happiness as he walked toward me.
“Mikkel?” My voice broke with surprise.
“Red,” he replied, his tone like a caress.
I stopped in front of him. “You’re supposed to be in Chicago.”
He grinned, a boyish tilt to it that made my chest ache. “Came back earlier.”
“Why?”
He looked down at me. “I had better things to do.”
I couldn’t stop the smile spreading across my face. “Better things?”
He tilted his head toward the car. “Come on, let me take you home.”
I nodded, unable to resist the tenderness in his gaze. As he opened the car door for me and I slid in, he handed me a bag.
Inside were a bag of barbecue Lay’s, a slice of chocolate cake, a bouquet of primroses, and— holy fuck —a heating pad.
I looked up at him, stunned. “Mikkel…”
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking shy. “It’s your time of the month, so I thought these would help. If it’s too much—”
I placed my hand over his, stopping him mid-sentence. “This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you.” My throat tightened, but I fought back the tears threatening to spill.
His smile softened, and the overthinking thoughts that usually plagued me faded into the background.
As he started the car, he glanced at me. “Have you eaten?”
I shrugged. “Not really. I was thinking of ordering Chipotle when I get home.”
“Alright,” he said with a nod.
As we drove, music began to play softly through the speakers. It didn’t take long to recognize the playlist—it was the Songs for You playlist he’d made for me. I smiled, the ache in my body melting away, replaced by something softer, more comforting.
Out of nowhere, I blurted, “What’s your middle name?”
He chuckled, glancing at me briefly before focusing back on the road. “Andrés.”
My eyebrows shot up. “That’s…hot.”
He laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the car. “What’s yours?”
“Charlotte,” I said, feeling shy for some reason.
He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. “That’s beautiful.”
I smiled back, a comforting sensation spreading through my chest. For once, I didn’t overthink it; I just let myself feel. With that thought in mind, I kept asking him random questions, and he answered without hesitation.
Favorite color? White.
Favorite hobby? The gym.
Favorite song? Video Games by Lana Del Rey.
Favorite season? Fall.
Biggest pet peeve? “No offense” after an insult or dirty dishes in the sink.
Fun fact? He speaks four languages fluently: English, Spanish, Italian, and Mandarin.
I glanced out the window and realized the car was pulling into a Chipotle parking lot. I turned to him, surprised.
“You didn’t think I’d actually let you order in, did you?”
I laughed, unsure of what to say.
We both stepped out, and I walked eagerly toward the door—only to find it locked. My shoulders slumped.
“It’s closed,” I muttered, disappointed.
Mikkel stood beside me, unfazed. “I know of another one if you’re up for the drive.”
“Are you sure?” I met his gaze.
He shrugged with a small smile. “Let’s go.”
“Okay,” I said, following him back to the car .
As he started driving again, the conversation shifted. I asked him how Chicago was, and he told me about the meetings, mentioning his assistant’s antics and how he was ready to be back. He turned the questions back on me, asking about my day at the bookstore. It felt natural, the ebb and flow of our exchange.
“For once, there’s no traffic,” I commented, staring out at the unusually clear streets.
“It’s usually smooth sailing around these times,” he replied, adjusting the playlist.
I fidgeted with the box containing the slice of chocolate cake, unable to resist running my fingers over the edges.
“You can eat it, you know,” he said without taking his eyes off the road.
I shook my head. “I’m saving it for when I get home.”
“Red,” he said, his tone playful but firm, “if you want to eat it, eat it. I can always get you another slice.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Alright then.”
I gave in, carefully opening the box and taking a bite. The rich, chocolate flavor melted on my tongue, and I sighed in satisfaction.
I really love chocolate cake.
The car grew quiet, and before I knew it, the cake was done and my eyes grew heavy. I must’ve dozed off, because the next thing I knew, we were slowing down, and I opened my eyes to see we were pulling into Chipotle.
“The other two before this were also closed,” Mikkel said, his voice soft. “We’re in Brooklyn.”
I froze, turning to him. “You drove to Brooklyn?”
“You wanted Chipotle,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“Mikkel…”
“It’s what you deserve,” he cut me off, his tone teasing. “Are you coming, or should I pick for you?”
I laughed, shaking my head. “I’m coming.”
After we ordered, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. He’d driven over an hour just so I could have a burrito bowl. Who does that ?
Back in the car, he glanced at me as I hesitated to dig into the bag.
“You can eat if you want.”
“Most people freak out about crumbs in their car,” I said, amused.
He grinned, glancing at me. “I’m not most people.”
That silenced me in the best way, and I began eating. The heat of the food, combined with his quiet presence, made me feel at ease.
He pulled into a small parking lot, breaking the silence. “I have to make a quick stop,” he said, stepping out.
I kept eating, a small laugh escaping me. He was so…unpredictable. A moment later, he returned, carrying another small box.
“Is that—”
“Another slice of chocolate cake.” He handed it to me with a wink.
“You are something else,” I said, shaking my head.
“As long as it’s something you want me to be.”
The ride back to my building was quiet but comfortable. We arrived just before midnight, and as he pulled up to the curb, he asked, “How are your cramps?”
“They’re better,” I said, and after a pause, I added, “It’s endometriosis. I don’t think I’ve told you before.”
He glanced at me, his expression shifting to concern. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I nodded. “It’s… a lot, but it’s irregular, so I don’t get twelve periods like most women. Sometimes it’s less; sometimes it doesn’t come at all. But when it does, I can barely get out of bed. It’s not just the pain—it’s the nausea, exhaustion, bloating, everything. I feel like it controls my life sometimes. But this isn’t so bad, which I’m grateful for.”
He listened intently, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. “That sounds incredibly hard, Red, but you’re strong for handling it.”
I smiled faintly. “Thanks. Most people don’t get it.”
“I want to,” he said softly.
I looked down, my voice quieter. “Is this pace too slow for you?”
“What?”
“Us. The pacing. ”
He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Anyone who rushes you doesn’t deserve you.”
My chest ached, but in the best way. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He got out of the car and came around to open my door, helping me gather my things. “Thanks for the drive, the Chipotle, the snacks, and the cake,” I said as I stepped onto the sidewalk.
“My pleasure, amor. ” 41
I hesitated, before once again asking, “Why’d you leave Chicago early?”
“The girl I like wasn’t feeling well. Thought I’d make sure she was okay in person.”
I froze, his words sinking in. My heart raced as my mind started to spiral, but then he gently took my hand, bringing it to his lips.
“You deserve more than just a text,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Or a call.”
“Buenas noches, carino . 42 ”
I smiled, a little breathless. “I know that one.”
His chuckle was low, rich. “Sweet dreams.”
I stepped toward the door, then hesitated. “Aren’t you going to drive off?”
“Not until you’re inside.”
Something in my chest pulled tight—unexpected, lingering. I turned away before he could see it.
Once inside, I sent a quick ‘ I’m in’ text and barely blinked before his reply popped up.
I set the flowers in a vase, tucked the cake into the fridge, then collapsed onto the couch. But the moment I stilled, emotions crept in—thick, consuming. My stomach ached, my body drained, but my mind refused to quiet.
My phone buzzed.
S: There’s a possibility you’ve already seen this, but I still wanted to share it.
S: I’m going to do more research when I get home.
A link followed. Remedies for endometriosis. Simple. Thoughtful.
The tears came, unchecked. But for once, they weren’t heavy.