Chapter 4
Nine Years Ago
Holland
“My beautiful blossoming butterfly,” I say, my face pressed up against the closed bathroom door, the white wood probably leaving imprints in my skin. “You’re turning into a woman! ”
“Holl,” my baby sister whines. The sound echoes through the little bathroom and then out into the tiny third-floor walk-up I share with two other girls. “Can you please just go get me some pads or tampons or something instead of being all dramatic?”
I roll my eyes, placing my hands on my hips. “Fine. Yes,” I say to the bathroom door. “So sassy. But are you sure there aren’t any under the sink? There used to be a box there, I’m pretty sure?—”
“I already checked!” Maggie says, her voice muffled. I hear the sound of a cupboard door opening and then closing. “The box is empty. How is that possible? Three girls live here.”
“All right, all right.” I bustle over to the front door, slipping my sandals on, and then move back to the bathroom door. “I’m hurrying,” I say. “And when I get back I’ll instruct you in the noble female art of blood removal from clothing?—”
“Holland!” Maggie wails.
I grin, giving the bathroom door a little pat. “I’ll be back ASAP. If anyone tries to break in, kick them in the teeth.”
Maggie’s flat voice returns through the bathroom door. “You have to know that’s not part of my skill set.”
I just laugh.
The campus corner market is one block away, a distance I cover more quickly than I normally would. September in Florida is still warm, but the wind is stronger today, blowing my hair around my face. I don’t stop to wrangle it into submission; I just keep going, tucking it behind my ears as I move.
I don’t remember when I got my first period, but I do know that my mother wasn’t particularly helpful; I’m glad this is happening while Maggie is here visiting me and Trev rather than at home. I’ve been showing her around town, and Trev has been showing her around the university. I wanted her to come to some of my cosmetology classes at the beauty school, but she was decidedly more interested in Trev’s engineering courses. It’s probably for the best; our parents would flip if she, too, decided to eschew a traditional college education in favor of hair and makeup nonsense that you’ll never earn a living with, Holland, so don’t think for a second we’re going to pay for something like that .
I sigh, shake my head, and pull the heavy glass door open, stepping into the corner mart. Mariah Carey sings a Christmas song three months too early over the tinny speakers as I grab a shopping basket and hurry to the pharmacy and health section. I choose the cheapest packet of pads, the cheapest box of tampons, and then I swerve past the candy aisle for some chocolate—a necessity .
There’s a long enough line when I reach the checkout that my heart sinks, but I queue up anyway and wait the ten minutes it takes for my turn to come. I load everything from my basket onto the conveyor belt as quickly as possible, glancing over my shoulder at the person behind me to make sure they’re not looking too impatient—and holy crap , he’s hot. Tall with black hair and black eyes, dressed in a suit that looks totally out of place in this little corner market—he looks young enough to be a university student, but he should be in a board room somewhere.
I clear my throat, jerking my attention back to my order before the guy notices me staring at him. I swipe my card, my toes tapping anxiously in my thrifted sneakers. I’ve been here too long already. I’m just tucking my card back in my wallet when the card reader lets out a sound—not a cute little blip or a bird-like chirrup, but a loud, angry beep that’s accompanied by a flashing red light. That beep reverberates through my skull, the soundtrack to my sinking heart.
Denied.
“Uh,” the cashier says, looking suddenly awkward. She can’t be more than a few years older than Maggie—sixteen, maybe—and her forehead is shiny, her eyes rimmed with eyeliner that’s much too dark for her natural coloring. “Do you want to try again, or…?”
“I have cash,” I say quickly, fumbling to open the cash flap of my wallet.
It’s fine. This is fine. Everything is fine. Tuition must have gone through at the same time as insurance. It could happen to anybody. I’ll get paid on Friday; I can manage until then.
I pull out the wad of neatly tucked bills, my hands trembling as I flip through them, my horror growing with every millisecond that passes.
No—no— no .
Ones. These are all ones.
“Excuse me,” a clipped voice says from somewhere behind me. His voice is smooth and deep and slightly impatient, which is how I know it must be the hot guy in the suit. Hot guys in suits have beautiful voices, and they’re always in a hurry.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my composure as I do some rapid math in my head. If I get rid of the chocolate bars and keep the tampons?—
But my train of thought comes to a screeching halt when I’m nudged sideways, the suit guy stepping into my field of vision.
“Allow me, please,” he says, giving me only the briefest of glances before extending his arm, a shiny black card in his hand.
“No,” I say, grabbing his arm and pushing it away. “That’s kind, but I’m really?—”
“Please don’t mistake this for kindness,” he says, pulling out of my grip. “I’m in a hurry, and I frankly don’t have time to stand around waiting while you figure this out.” Then he turns his gaze to the cashier, who’s watching with wide eyes. He points to the bags on the counter. “Is this all?”
I gape at him as a twinge of irritation plucks at my insides. It seems his personality is not nearly as pretty as his exterior.
“Um,” the cashier says, looking back and forth between me and the man. “Yes?”
“What’s that?” the man says, pointing to one of the bags—out of which is poking the large box of tampons. He frowns, moving forward and pushing the bag down, revealing more of the box. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. ”
That twinge of irritation grows stronger. What the heck is even going on right now?
“Excuse me,” I say faintly. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” There’s blood boiling under my skin, a furious blush arising because this man has just revealed to the entire line waiting behind us—and it is quite the line—that I can’t even afford tampons right now.
“I’m not paying for that junk,” he says, pointing at the tampons.
“They’re not junk, ” I say, my voice heated. “A woman’s menstrual cycle is a normal biological function?—”
“I mean, ” the man says, cutting me off with a roll of his dark eyes, “I’m not paying for that brand. Calm down, please.” Then he turns to the bag boy, whose pimply face has gone pale. “You.” He points at the box of tampons. “Take these back and grab a box of Butterfield instead.” Then he glances at me, frowns, and says, “Better make it two boxes. The kind for normal flow, please.”
The audacity.
“Heavy flow,” I manage to say. I think my brain has short-circuited. I can’t think of any other explanation for what’s happening right now. Sadly, I also can’t think of a way out. Maggie is waiting for me at my place, probably scared and nervous, and I’m wasting time here. I’ll figure out how to pay the stranger back later; right now I just need to swallow my pride and get home to my little sister. “Heavy flow.”
The hot suit guy cocks his dark brow at me. “Do you really insist upon that?”
Unbelievable.
“What—who—who do you think you are?” I say instead of answering him. “Are you going to be picky about what kind of tampon I use? The heavy flow ones are more cost-efficient. You can keep them in for like twenty-four hours?— ”
“I strongly recommend against that,” he says, another frown creasing his forehead. “The maximum I would recommend is eight hours?—”
“What kind of psycho are you?” I say, stomping my foot. My already fraying patience is wearing thinner by the second. “Do you get off on this kind of thing? If you’re going to buy my groceries for me, just buy them! If not, stop talking. I thought you said you were in a hurry?”
The man’s lips twist at this, but he just grunts, and I feel a petty stab of satisfaction.
Got you there, you weirdo.
“I’m sure there was a ‘thank you’ in there somewhere,” he says after a second of glaring at me. “But fine. Just so you’re aware, those”—he points to the box of tampons—“are full of synthetic junk that’s horrible for disposal. They will sit in a landfill for a hundred years and remain in pristine condition. Butterfield are biodegradable with organic cotton?—”
“I. Do. Not. Care ,” I hiss at him, turning on my heel and poking him hard in the chest.
Ooh, muscular.
“I am broke,” I say, seething, “and my little sister just got her first period, and I need supplies for her, and I need her to believe that I’ve got my crap together so that she doesn’t worry. All right? So I am buying the cheapest tampons and the cheapest pads, and I would very much like for you to take your commentary and shove it up your?—”
But I break off and stumble out of the way as the man bumps me to the side—not at all gently—and swipes his card. The little light that flashed red at me turns green for him, accompanied by the kind of blip I was denied in favor of my angry beep.
I swallow, relief and humiliation warring for control of my mind and my body. “Thank you,” I say stiffly, grabbing the plastic bags and hurrying out of the way. “I would be happy to pay you back on Friday.”
“Please don’t bother,” he says, like I expected he would.
I just jerk my head in a nod. “In that case, thank you. I sincerely hope we never meet again.”
“Likewise,” the man says, his voice flat. “Have a lovely day.”
I leave so quickly I almost trip, but I don’t turn back or look at him again. I book it back to my little sister, and I forget all about the man in the suit.