Page 77 of Breakout
I tried once. My boss said it looked like all the blood was drained from my face. Not far from the truth, I suppose.
My phone rings, making me groan. I see Beckett’s name on the screen.
“Hey,” I mumble into the phone.
“Hey, what’s wrong? You sound off,” he asks.
“It’s my period.”
It’s the same thing I tell him every month. Tears fill my eyes as I realize this means I won’t see him for the next four to five days. It’s irrational for me to get emotional. It’s the rules I’ve put in place that keep him away. I did it to myself, but in this moment, all I want is him to come hold me. To not have to suffer through the pain alone for once.
I don’t voice that, though.
“Oh, it’s that time of the month. That’s okay. You need anything?”
I should say yes. He would come. That’s the kind of guy he is, but the part of me that refuses to be a burden on anyone else won’t let me.
I sniffle. “No, I’m okay.”
He’s silent a moment.
Please call me on my bullshit. Please.
Mentally I’m begging, but it’s futile. As much as I want him to, Beckett cannot read my mind.
“Okay. Call me if you change your mind,” he says.
“I will. Bye.”
I hang up the phone, letting the tears fall.
Why am I like this?
I hate feeling emotional and out of control, yet once a month nature reminds me that it can take over my body and make me feel things I’d rather push down.
Like the disappointment that Beckett isn’t here. Or the fact that even though we are married for real, I want this fake relationship to go far beyond our arrangement. I want forever.
I won’t get it, though. I never do.
Wiping my eyes, I curl back up in a ball and let my eyes fall closed. I must fall asleep because I startle awake when there is a knock at the door.
I don’t move right away, hoping they will go away, but a more persistent knock comes.
“I’m coming,” I mumble, stumbling out of bed.
Looking down, I realize I look like a mess. I’m wearing an oversized sweatshirt, no bra or shirt underneath, and a pair of sweatpants.
Whoever it is, is about to get a very cranky Peyton.
Flinging the door open, I’m ready to cuss out whoever decided to knock on my door, but I’m stopped when I see Beckett standing there with several bags in his hands.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, the emotion from before creeping back in.
“I wanted to check on you. Hey, are you okay? You’re crying.” He pushes into the room, setting all his bags down as he pulls me into his arms.
I start sobbing, unable to stop myself.
“Shh. It’s okay. I’m here now. I’ve got you,” he whispers against the side of my head between kisses he places there.
