Page 7 of My Secret to Protect

My Periods Hate Me

Bree

Theincessantbeepofmy alarm makes me irrationally angry, and I grab my phone from the nightstand with way more force than is necessary.

I’m generally pretty good in the morning, but once a month, not so much.

My periods hate me. They have hated me since I first got them. Zoe is the same, but she is still nursing, so she hasn’t had one in a year, and before that, she had Leo to hand her chocolate and tell her to go and lie down. I, on the other hand, am waking up alone, and I have to go to work.

‘Ughh.’ I grunt as I heft myself out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. I am not in a good mood today. Maybe it’s a blessing I don’t have a man—time-of-the-month-Bree would probably scare him off anyway.

I’m thirty-six, and I have no idea what it is like to be with the same person for any real period of time. I started having sex at sixteen and was happily all about casual hookups. I thought I found something more serious once, but it was a blip, and I got right back to casual from nineteen until I turned thirty-three. I have no idea why thirty-three was the magic number, but about a week after our birthday, I realized I wanted more. I wantedsomeone.

I love my job. I do. I worked my tush off to set up the department here in town, arrange funding, and hire my deputy, Jenna, miraculously another woman from Forest Falls who shared my dream of being a cop. I guess sometimes I feel a bit resentful that I worked so hard for this dream, only for it to feel like Groundhog Day.

If I’m honest with myself, I’m bored.

I went away to college, then the academy, and I had these big dreams of making it in the city, becoming a detective, and making a real difference. Then I came home, and everyone in town kept coming over to me, excited that Forest Falls was finally getting its own department. They assumed I’d become a cop to betheircop, and I just couldn’t let them down. So, I stayed. I figured it out, and now I’m here, Police Chief, without a damn thing to do. There’s no crime here, not really. This town is straight out of a Disney movie. It’s pretty perfect… unless you’re in the business of catching criminals.

In some ways, I love that I get to live and work in the town I grew up in, but in others, it’s frustrating. I mean… I’m living and working in the tiny, quaint, polite, law-abiding town I grew up in.

Jenna and I spend most of our days walking around, talking to the townsfolk, and watching TikTok videos of cats afraid of cucumbers.

I pee and then put in the moon cup that Cara has us all using these days. I swear to God, if I’d known how much of a hippy that woman would become once she got her own vegetable patch, I might have rethought our friendship. I chuckle to myself. I would not. I love that crazy Scot and the moon cup is surprisingly efficient.

After washing my hands, I brush my teeth before grabbing a makeup wipe and swiping it over my skin. Missy would have a fit, but the four hundred and twenty-seven skincare products she keeps insisting I need are way too much effort this morning.

I brush my hair, scraping it back into a low ponytail before twisting it up into a neat bun and securing it with a scrunchie—less breakage,apparently—then I remind myself that I really cannot go another day without washing it. You know when you think you can do one more? I can’t. Dry shampoo has no hope in hell of making this presentable tomorrow.

Staring at myself for a moment in the bathroom mirror, I consider my appearance. Since the coffee date with the bitches of Eastwick last week, I’ve been doing this a lot.

I am not a self-conscious woman. I’m pretty. I know that I am. Conventionally pretty, not sexy, not stunning, not breathtaking. Not anything like Zoe, who turns heads everywhere with her petite frame, ever-changing hair color, and tattoo-covered pale skin. Not anything like Cara, with her big Bambi eyes and fantastic yoga-earned ass. Not a damn thing like Missy, with lips you could curl up and sleep on and curves you could climb. I’mjustpretty. I have long brown hair and the same caramel eyes as my twin. I have bigger boobs than her, and ironically, I got the hips that older ladies call perfect for ‘childbearing’. My skin holds a tan that hers doesn’t. We look alike, but we’re not identical. She got the sex appeal and the softness. I got the hard edges and my dad’s attitude.

A little masculine, that’s how one date described me. He told me if I wanted to look good in a wedding dress, I should lay off the gym. I’m strong. I lift weights. I run. I stay in shape, and sure, my body is defined rather than soft butmasculine?

I sweep some mascara up my lashes and dot some cream blush onto my cheeks, and that’s me, grumpier than usual but the same face, the same hair, the same practical look as always.

Dressing in my uniform before taking a moment to check my full appearance, I finally make my way downstairs. I grab the white chocolate and raspberry cookie I bought yesterday to eat for a pre-breakfast snack, then pick up my keys and head out. I’m meeting Missy at the diner before work, and honestly, I’m not really in the mood for company, but I promised.

It’s a short walk to the diner, and the station is just around the corner from there, but instead of using the legs God gave me, I climb into my car and drive. Lazy, I know, but my tummy hurts.

‘Hey, good morning.’ Missy smiles brightly as I drop into the booth opposite her in the diner.

‘Hey.’

‘Oh, notgoodmorning?’

‘Sorry,’ I smile softly, ‘I have my period, and I am just over it. Like, if God created me, he’s also responsible for me not wanting kids, so he really didn’t need to make me suffer through periods like this month after month. Oh, hey, Merv.’

I smile weakly up at the diner owner, my mom’s fiancé, and he shakes his head and grips my shoulder affectionately. He’s used to Zoe and me being very open about our bodies and our sex lives, so I’m not embarrassed that he showed up at the table as I was talking about my menstruation.

‘Pancakes or waffles?’ he asks with a soft, knowing smile. Usually, I would have eggs, just eggs, to keep my sugar intake low, but Merv was adopted by three Campbell women when he started dating my mom, five if you count my grandma and Bowie, and he gets us.

‘Waffles, please.’ I smile, grateful for him, before Missy orders the usual, her favorite breakfast burrito, and Merv heads back to the kitchen.

‘I can’t say I’ll miss them,’ Missy says when we find ourselves alone once more, and I furrow my brow in confusion. ‘Periods, I’m not going to miss them.’

‘What, are you…’ I gasp, then notice her smile spread, and tears cause her eyes to glisten. ‘Oh my god, Miss.’ I reach for her hands across the table, and she gives them, leaning in toward me, so I do the same.

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