Chapter 25 Brin
Brin
The only thing that wakes me up faster than a hand-delivered caffeinated beverage is the dawning realization that I’ve started my period.
“Shit,” I say, rolling onto my back. Merry Christmas to me.
“Brin, you okay?” Marco calls from the living room. Our bedroom door is closed.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Last night after the party we’d crossed another item off our sex to-do list: shower sex. Or, really, it was more Marco watching me with the showerhead, which was wildly hot. My cheeks heat just thinking about it.
I sling an arm over my eyes, attempting to pull myself together enough to check to see if I bled onto my sheets—Marco’s sheets, at that. Doubly embarrassing.
I need to shower and—I sit bolt upright. “Fuck.”
“Brin?” Marco’s edge of concern in his voice has increased. “I’m coming in.”
The door opens and Marco peers around the room before settling his gaze on me. His brows draw together. “What’s wrong?”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and quickly check the fitted sheet behind me. Oh good, there’s no stain. “I started my period.”
“Oh.” He relaxes in the doorway. “Merry Christmas?”
I snort. “The best part is that Bea took the rest of the tampons. In her defense, she texted me a reminder to pick some more up and I forgot.” Of course Bea remembered to pack tampons for her trip. She probably uses one of those apps that tracks her cycle so she’s always prepared.
As for me, I have attempted a few times to make notes in my phone’s calendar about when my period starts, but whenever it hits I always think I’ll make a note later, until I realize my period’s over and I can’t remember which day it started and I never made a note.
So yeah. Not very effective.
“Do you need me to run to the store?” Marco doesn’t wait for an answer, but grabs his wallet from his nightstand.
“You don’t mind?”
He shakes his head. “What else might you need?”
I tick off the other period supplies: Midol, panty liners, and a heating pad if it gets really bad. All present and accounted for, so I tell Marco what tampons to get and he heads out.
I shower and put in a liner when I get dressed, hoping it’ll last till he gets back. I go to light my Christmas candle—it made it all the way to the day of Christmas!—but the lighter goes click-click-click and produces no flame.
Hmm.
I think I have another lighter in the closet, so I root around in there looking for it.
We’ve got one of these fabric shelf organizers hanging from the middle of the rod, designating a his side/her side approach to things. But as I’m digging through the stuff on my side, some of Marco’s things fall out of the closet.
Two things, actually. Cranberry-red pillars that smell like Holiday Sparkle.
I hold them both up. They’re about as equally burned down as the one on my nightstand.
Why does Marco have two more of my candles?
The front door opens and I push the candles back to roughly where they came from. I meet Marco at the door to our bedroom.
“Tampon delivery.” He holds up the box.
“Thanks.” I grab the box and retreat to the bathroom. When I come out, Marco’s lounging on the couch.
“What do you normally do on period days?” he asks me.
I snort. “Pop some Midol and go to work.”
“Okay, let me rephrase the question. What would you like to do on a period day when you don’t have to go to work?”
I purse my lips, thinking. “Build a pillow fort, lie in it with a heating pad while eating ice cream and watching movies.”
He rolls off the couch. “Let’s do it.”
Fifteen minutes later I’m relaxing in the pillow fort. The heating pad is plugged in behind me, and even though the cramps haven’t been too bad yet, it feels good.
Marco had told me he was going to make me a proper Christmas morning breakfast instead of ice cream. I’m not entirely sure what he considers a “proper Christmas morning breakfast.” His usual breakfast is overnight oats, so I’m hesitant.
Also, based on our cookie baking adventure, I’m concerned about leaving Marco alone in the kitchen. The living room still smells like raw dough.
But it is being overpowered by the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. Cinnamon and browning butter and sugar.
“What do you want on your French toast?” Marco yells.
This I have to see. I leave my warm cocoon and walk into the kitchen just in time to witness Marco flip the last slice of bread in a pan. All four pieces are now brown side up, which explains the smells.
I fold my arms and lean my hip against the counter. “We had ingredients for French toast?”
“I bought them yesterday.”
Yesterday, when Marco was letting the floodgates open on Christmas. There’s a selection of toppings on the counter: whipped cream, maple syrup, strawberries, chocolate sauce. Basically anything to satisfy a sweet tooth craving, and he bought all this before I started my period.
Wait.
“Did you know I was going to start my period today?” It wouldn’t surprise me. Marco’s observant enough to notice signs, whether they are tampon wrappers in the trash can or two temperamental roommates.
Marco raises an eyebrow. “How would I have known that?”
I shrug. And then squint suspiciously at him. “So you happened to buy French toast supplies?”
Marco piles the slices on a plate. “I wanted to do something nice for you. After yesterday—I mean, we both worked really hard on the scavenger hunt, and this is a way to say thank you.”
He hands me the plate and starts another batch. “Go ahead back to your pillow fort and pick a movie. I’ll be there soon.”
A couple hours later we’ve finished watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas—the animated version, not the Jim Carrey one—A Charlie Brown Christmas, and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
Marco had joined me while I was still working through my pile of strawberry-and-whipped-cream-covered French toast, and he hadn’t said a peep about my movie choice.
I’ve turned off the heating pad and have curled up on my side in the pillows.
Our plates are on the coffee table, which I pushed over to the side of the room under the window. The French toast was amazing, though Marco refused to match my sweet tooth bonanza and instead had poured an austere amount of maple syrup over his serving.
It’s still a big improvement over his oats, so I’ll take it as a win.
In the middle of Rudolph, my phone dings with a text message.
Drew
Operation Santa’s Sleigh is complete.
Brin
OMG you are the best!! Thank you thank you thank you!
I roll onto my side and bat my eyelashes at Marco. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.” He sits up. “Do you need your heating pad again?”
“No.” I bite my lip, trying to stop smiling like an idiot. “There’s a package down at the front. Can you get it for me?”
Marco’s brows draw together. “Of course. Did you order something? You know I would have run out.”
I make a shooing motion and Marco heads downstairs. When he comes back up, he’s carrying what is clearly a wrapped basket, complete with bows and mistletoe. Drew really outdid himself.
“What is this?” Marco kicks the door closed.
“My Christmas gift to you,” I say sweetly.
“Brin,” he admonishes, but he sits down on the floor next to me and sets the basket in front of him. “I didn’t get you anything.”
I gesture at the decorations from Billy Bob’s. “I beg to differ. Also, don’t act like you haven’t been switching out my candle to make it last longer or fixing my Christmas lights.” I sit up.
“How exactly did this happen, though?” Marco gestures at the over-the-top wrapping.
“I had help from Drew.”
“Oh, that explains a lot.” Marco shakes his head fondly. “He can be extra with the arts and crafts.”
I smother my smile while Marco opens his present. Drew really is extra, because he’s absolutely stuffed the basket with supplies. There are unpainted picture frames, paint, a storage caddy full of rhinestones, and even some funky tool to bedazzle things.
And there’s an envelope stuffed with pictures of Joe. Marco thumbs through them, blinking back tears. Sometimes it’s Joe by himself—I particularly like the one in front of the New York Public Library where Joe impersonates one of the lions—but more of them are with Marco or Drew.
“We have time,” I say, “if you want to make some ornaments now. I have a couple hours before I leave for Eva’s party.
Although . . . are you sure you don’t want to come with me?
” I’d asked Marco weeks ago, and he’d declined the invitation.
It’s at Eva’s parents’ house, and it’s a white elephant gift exchange with a bunch of her friends and family.
Marco hesitates, glancing at the picture in his hand. Joe’s sitting on Santa’s lap, blowing the camera a kiss.
“I’m sure Eva would be happy to have you,” I wheedle.
“Eva or you?”
“Both, of course.”
“All right, I’m in.”
I clap my hands together. “Good. Let’s make ornaments and then we’ve got to run and get you a present though. Nothing too expensive, and the weirder the better. Come on!”