Chapter 2
I walked into Critical Games the following evening with my gaze locked on my phone.
The same warnings echoed in the back of my head like they always did. Don’t get attached too early. You haven’t even met the guy. Remember how Anthony turned out.
Yet I couldn’t help but feel giddy. It all started the night before, when I fired off a quick response to his question before checking his profile.
He was one that I’d hoped would match with me. His profile picture was stunning – a clean-shaven, handsome face framed with golden blonde hair and a dorky yet glorious smile. His main photo was a headshot that showed off his broad shoulders and white-toothed grin. The second photo was him at one of the Disney parks, licking an ice cream cone and making bunny ears over someone that I assumed was his brother. And from that photo, I could tell that he was tall – his profile stated he was six foot three.
But his third photo was the one that really got my heart racing. It was him lying on the shoreline at the beach. He was shirtless, which showed off his tanned, chiseled physique. But his muscles weren’t the only thing that caught my eye – I also noticed an intricate Gyarados tattoo snaking its way across his chest.
Fit, handsome, and geeky.
I was sold.
We’d stayed up until midnight texting each other. It was all superficial – we listed our favorite video games, movies, and TV shows, feeling each other out for compatibility.
His name was Tristan. He was a big Nintendo fan, since those were the only consoles his parents would allow him to own until he was a teen. His all-time favorites were Pokémon and Zelda, and he claimed to have played every game in both series. In addition to video games, he spent most of his college years as an MMA fighter until too many backaches forced him to quit. But he’s clearly still stayed in shape, I noticed, scrolling back to the picture of him on the beach.
When I asked about Creatures hunched around a table and flipping through their card binders. Devin was the only one on the retail side of the store, punching away at the computer keyboard. From the restroom entrance, I could see the back of his head, sandwiched by a pair of ears pierced with silver studs.
“Hey Avie,” he grinned as I approached the counter. “How can I help you?”
“I’m dropping,” I croaked as another wave of pain slammed into my abdomen.
“Ah ok. You sure? It’s only been one round.”
I nodded, pressing my fingers deeper into my stomach.
Devin’s smirk faded away, replaced by genuine concern. “You okay? ”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I grumbled as I stepped away from the counter. I’m certainly not telling him about my period problems.
“Well, alright then. Have a good night.”
I pressed my shoulder into the front door and shoved it open. A bell chimed above my head as a muggy, warm summer breeze whooshed past me. It was a short walk to my car, but I was already stumbling by the time I made it to the driver’s seat.
I started up the ignition and caught a glimpse of myself in my rearview mirror. My abdomen throbbed again, and I saw my reflection squeeze her eyes shut in pain.
This is going to be a long night.
God, my head hurts.
My eyes fluttered open the following morning, and the first thing I noticed was that I was sore, lightheaded, and still exhausted even after ten hours of sleep.
I placed a hand on my aching forehead as I lay sprawled out in a star shape on my bed. My back and limbs were covered in dried sweat, and my bedsheets were unusually humid and sticky. The morning after bad period cramps felt much like I imagined a hangover would.
But at least the pain was gone. I was no longer crippled by it, alternating between sitting on the toilet with my head buried in my knees and curling up in a fetal position on the bed. I was no stranger to pain—I’d broken my collarbone at age six, torn my knee open at age fourteen, and caught severe COVID at age twenty-four. But in my almost twenty-seven years of life, nothing else had ever compared to the pain of my period cramps.
My uterus still felt achy and tender as I sat upright in bed, trying to shake the dizziness from my cloudy head. But the worst part about my periods wasn’t the pain. That I could deal with, even if it meant sobbing in bed for hours until exhaustion pulled me into a fitful sleep. With my various ailments over the years, someone had always been there to help me. My parents rubbed my head and reassured me as I had my collarbone x-rayed and my knee stitched up as a child. Even Cassidy took care of me when I had COVID, slipping food, water, and medicine through my door so she didn’t catch my illness.
Other ailments got sympathy. But as a woman, I had learned that no one gives a damn about your period cramps. You’re expected to suck it up, not complain, and act like nothing is wrong.
No matter how much it hurts.
At least it’s over.
I slunk out of my bed like a snail and stumbled into my attached bathroom. Once I caught a glimpse of my puffy, sallow face in the mirror, I wrinkled my freckled nose in disgust and splashed cold water on my face. It was Saturday, which meant I didn’t have to worry about the fact that I’d slept until 11 a.m. I had no plans, so it was my day to do whatever I wanted.
No plans…
Wait…
Shit.
I dove out of the bathroom, scrambling for my nightstand. My phone was still there, although I hadn’t plugged it in to charge in my period-pain-filled stupor. But it was hanging on at 5% battery life, and I unlocked my phone to discover that I had three notifications.
One of them was spam, but the second one was from Aaron, asking why I’d left the night before. I groaned, making a mental note that I’d need to come up with an excuse for that later. Maybe I’ll tell him I had food poisoning .
But the final notification, the one that had my immediate interest, was from Tristan.
I popped open my dating app, eager to read his message.
Hey! How’d TCG night go?
The timestamp read 11:26 pm, long after I’d gotten home from Critical Games. Whether I was in the throes of my disorienting pain episode at that time or already asleep, I had no idea. But I’d still ignored his message the entire night.
I scrambled to write a response, but after a few seconds, I pulled my fingers away from my phone screen and took a deep breath. Why are you panicking? You don’t know this guy. It’s no big deal.
Besides, being late to respond makes you look less clingy.
Good morning! Yeah, I got home really late last night. It was fun! No wins, but that happens a lot. I played a lifestealer deck most of the night.
I hit send with a satisfied smile. It was a sweet, cheery, friendly response. One that a confident, mature, interesting twenty-six-year-old would send. Not one that was still in her pajamas at 11:15 am and in desperate need of a shower.
Just as I undressed, ready to settle under the soothing stream that poured out from the shower nozzle, my phone buzzed with another notification.
That’s cool! By the way, since it’s Saturday… are you free tonight ?
I stared blankly at those words for several minutes, the shower still fizzling behind me. It was the question I’d been waiting for, but somehow it sent panic bubbling up my stomach and into my esophagus.
Yes. I am.
Would you like to get a drink at Mulligan’s tonight?
My heart thumped in my chest, but Tristan’s words also tightened the knot in my throat. Mulligan’s was an Irish pub in Oviedo, near the university. I knew it was a popular first date spot, but I wasn’t a fan of alcohol. Plus, I was a lightweight, and one beer was usually enough to make my head spin.
I sighed. But their food is pretty good. And I do really want to meet him.
We exchanged a few more back-and-forth messages, settling on meeting at 6 p.m. that night. He offered to pick me up, but as eager as I was to meet him, he was still a stranger, and I wasn’t ready for him to know where I lived. So we agreed to meet each other there.
Thanks, Avery. Can’t wait!
He can’t wait. The butterflies started rustling again.
I smiled and put my phone down, high on excitement. But as I came back to reality, I realized that it was now 11:45 a.m., and my shower had been running behind me for half an hour. The whole bathroom, and most of my bedroom, were cloaked in a humid fog.
I chuckled at my stupidity and jumped in the shower, scrubbing myself off in record time. As I emerged, the previous night’s painful grime now washed off me, I ran a towel through my long curly hair and patted my face dry.
Of course, I’d have to tell him my secret eventually. It would be a make-or-break moment in our budding relationship, and I had no idea if he’d be willing to work things through with me or bail as soon as I told him. But I had to take this chance. Deep down, I prayed that for the right guy, my sexual dysfunction wouldn’t matter. That it would be a problem we could solve together.
Maybe Tristan would be that guy.