Page 84 of Before You Can Blink
I didn’t need to tell that boy twice. He dug into the dish of baked ziti, shoveling giant forkfuls into his mouth so fast it was a wonder he didn’t burn his tongue. Kid was growing like a weed and was always hungry.
Letting out a deep exhale, I trudged up the steps, slipping into Aspen’s bedroom and knocking on the door to the bathroom she shared with her brother. “Aspen, honey, you feeling okay?”
A sniffle sounded through the wood. “Go away.”
Right. Like that was going to happen.
“Sweetheart, can you please unlock the door? I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.”
“I don’t want you to come in here!” My sweet girl’s voice rose in panic.
My forehead came to rest on the door. “Why not?”
More sniffles came before a stifled sob. “B-because there’s blood.”
I straightened immediately. “Aspen, if you’re hurt—”
“I’m not hurt.”
A rush of air left my lungs. “Okay . . . then what’s the problem, and why is there blood?”
There was a muffled scream. “God, this is so embarrassing.”
“Aspen, I changed your diapers. Whatever it is, I’m sure I can handle it.”
“Doubtful,” she muttered. There was a long pause before she finally admitted, “I got my period.”
“Oh.”
Well, fuck me. I wasnotequipped to handle this.
“You, uh, don’t have anything in there to take care of it?” I cringed as soon as the words left my mouth. Yeah, I was already botching the hell out of this.
“No!” she cried. “This has never happened before!”
Right. Shoulda figured that, considering she’d locked herself in the bathroom.
“I’ll see what I can rustle up from your mama’s supplies. You stay right here.”
“Where else am I gonna go?” Sarcasm colored her words.
Hustling my ass to the master suite, I dropped to my knees before the sink, digging through the cabinet until I found what I was looking for. Grabbing a handful of the individually wrapped sticks, I rushed back to where my daughter was waiting.
I knocked gently. “Okay. You’re gonna need to crack the door open now, so I can pass these over.”
“Fine,” she huffed a split second before I heard the lock disengage.
Averting my eyes, I completed the handoff. Unsure of what to do, I waited there, praying I hadn’t added an extra layer of emotional trauma.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” she asked.
Completely out of my depth, I dragged a hand down my face. “I don’t know. You just shove ’em in there.”
Horrified, she shouted, “Shove them in where?!”
“Please don’t make me say it,” I groaned, sagging against the wall.
Thankfully, my daughter granted me mercy. “Can you call Mrs. Crawford? She’ll know what to do.”
