Prologue #3
Turning to the full-length mirror on the back of my closet door, I study the loose-fitting sweater dress I chose for the night. I eye the short hem and low V-neck, hoping they balance out the fact that in all other ways, this dress is basically a brown paper bag.
The opposite of sexy. Extremely not date-like.
With a groan, I turn to the side, smoothing a hand over the front of the dress, wincing when I feel the firm roundness of my belly and yanking my hand away as quickly as it settles there.
It’s an unnerving feeling, to be so disconnected from a part of your own body you don’t even want to touch it.
To have so little control over it that it feels like it doesn’t even belong to you.
Welcome to my fucking life, once a month in the months I’m lucky, or as often as every two weeks in the months I’m not.
This is one of the not lucky months, but I didn’t know that two weeks ago when I agreed to this ill-advised date.
Two weeks ago, I was feeling great. The kind of great that happens every other month or so and tricks me into thinking I’ll never feel bad again.
You would think after dealing with this for the last thirteen years of my life, I would learn great never lasts.
I shouldn’t make decisions based on great.
But I never do.
Which is how I ended up saying yes to dinner with Drew.
The football player with the beaming smile who stood in such stark contrast to his haunted eyes that I couldn’t help but wonder what was under his surface.
The man who figured out how I like my margaritas and somehow knew I needed a break from the crowds and the noise and made me laugh, even though I tried my hardest not to be amused by him.
The man who seemed lonely, even when there were people everywhere, and that’s a feeling I understand because it’s one that lives in my bones.
He told me he wanted to know me, and I was putty in his metaphorical hands.
Fucking pathetic, honestly. I’m a grown-ass woman with amazing hair. A successful lawyer. A good daughter and an excellent friend. The troubleshooter and the problem solver and the maker of plans. The ride or die, bury the body, will help with anything, anytime and anywhere kind of girl.
One hot-ass man looks at me like he doesn’t just see me but sees me, and suddenly I’m agreeing to dates I don’t want and putting on tights and a dress and praying to the goddesses of women with problematic periods that I don’t bleed all over the restaurant chair.
I have regrets.
With a wince at the cramp that tears through my lower abdomen, I sit down on my bed and gingerly shove my feet into boots, bending over carefully to zip them up.
I stand slowly, and with one final look in the mirror, I snatch my coat off the bed and head downstairs exactly five minutes before Drew said he would pick me up.
As a proud member of the five minutes early is on time club, I’m well aware I can’t expect the rest of the world to adhere to my extremely inflexible relationship with time.
But when seven comes and goes and the clock cruises towards seven thirty, eight, and then eight thirty—when I’ve folded and refolded every blanket in my living room ten times and wiped spotless countertops and dusted dustless shelves and taken a Magic Eraser to the non-existent scuff marks on my walls and changed my tampon twice and checked my phone eight hundred times until I consider tossing it out the window just to get it out of my sight—I have to face the uncomfortable truth.
He’s not coming.
He realized I’m too much or not enough or he hated the way I can’t help but let my bitch flag fly.
My hair wasn’t blonde enough or my boobs weren’t big enough or he thought it was weird I couldn’t just order the drink I actually wanted or he replayed the half hour we spent together in that club, and without the distraction of crowds and darkness and alcohol he found me, somehow, lacking.
Well, get in line, Drew, because me fucking too.
When a tear leaks out the corner of my eye, I wipe it away with a growl and an impatient swipe of my hand.
Bending down, I unzip my boots and tug them off, setting them neatly in front of my coat closet before yanking my tights down my legs, breathing a sigh of relief at being unbound.
Stalking to the kitchen, I fill a tall glass with pebble ice and pour a Sprite, then pull open the freezer and grab one of my emergency pints of Chocolate Fudge Brownie and a spoon.
Spinning around, I head straight for the living room couch, setting everything down on the coffee table.
I tear my dress over my head and toss it to the floor, letting the bulge that is my painful, bleeding, broken uterus hang free.
Flopping down on the couch, I eye my phone, knowing I have a twin brother I could call for company.
Five women who would drop everything to be here in an instant.
Who would hold my hand if I wanted them to or rage with me if that’s what I needed.
Who would tell me Drew Ellicott is as dead to them as he is to me and that men are trash and we’re all better off without them.
Fuck Drew Ellicott and the perfect hair, enticingly haunted eyes, and lickable forearms he rode in on.
My fingers twitch to pick up the phone. To light up the group chat with the SOS that would bring my girls running.
But then I think about putting on clothes to cover the havoc my period is wreaking on my body and dragging myself up the stairs to hide all evidence of how bad things have become.
About explaining to them how I agreed to this date in the first place and why I didn’t tell them about it sooner.
I should be able to open up to my best friends. To ask for help and tell them what I need. But somehow, I missed the life lesson on how not to be the person who does everything all on her own. Who can offer help but doesn’t know how to take it.
The idea of figuring it out now makes me want to lie down and take a nap.
I’d rather be alone.
I can’t believe I used my brand new, very expensive nail polish for this.
Snatching up my phone, I navigate to Drew’s contact, pointedly ignoring our text thread—the bantery messages from the past two weeks that had butterflies swarming my stomach and anticipation swimming in my blood.
As quickly as I can, I block his contact because him not being able to contact me at all is better than knowing he can but chooses not to. Ignorance is bliss or whatever.
Then I shove my phone deep between the couch cushions and grab the remote like a lifeline.
Flipping on the TV, I open one of my streaming services and pick a CIA spy thriller at random—brilliant people who solve complex terrorist plots being my very specific kink.
I dig ice cream out of the pint and shove it into my mouth, the words I’d rather be alone spinning over and over in my head until I almost—but not quite—believe them.