Page 59 of Yours, Now and Always
I shoot him a look. “Don’t smile at me. You don’t get to smile.”
He does anyway.
I roll my eyes. “Of course you’re amused. Your body’s not trying to sabotage you on your wedding day.”
He says nothing. Still smug, sexy,male.
“You wake up,” I carry on. “You stretch. You get to think about sex and fun things. Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to decide if I want a heating pad and painkillers or if I just want to be cremated.”
Still nothing. I swear he’s holding back laughter, the bastard.
I sit up and scowl. “I’m cramping. I’m bloated. My boobs hurt. And I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet.” I stand and give him one last glare before muttering, “Don’t even look at me until your prostate starts cramping.”
He’s still smirking. “That’s a thing?”
I give him a flat stare that says I’m two seconds away from creating a Reddit thread titledThings Men Wouldn’t Survive. “Do you want me to Google it for you and ruin your week?”
His chuckle as I walk into the bathroom only annoys me more.
Men.
I yank the door closed while imagining ways I can harm him.
I’ll tell Ethan that he said, “country music isn’t real music” and let that bonfire light itself.
I’ll swap his shampoo for Sarah’s glitter detangler.
I’ll replace his white dress shirts with identical light pink ones and act concerned about his eyesight.
I’m really letting my brain run wild as I pull my underwear down and sit on the toilet. That’s when I see it. Blood.
No.
No no no no no.
I blink, trying to unsee it. I actually tilt my head and squint my eyes as if that’ll make it disappear. As if denial is how manifestation really works.
I sit there, underwear around my ankles, staring at betrayal.
“You absolute backstabbing bitch,” I whisper. “I hope you know this is a hate crime.”
My uterus offers no rebuttal. Just a dull ache and an imaginary middle finger.
I’m going to get married bloated and cramping and bleeding. I’m going to be irrational and emotional and every freaking stereotypical feminine archetype rolled into one unhinged creature today.
I brace my elbows on my knees, forehead in my palms, and spiral in silence.
There’s no way my dress is going to fit now. Not withthisbloat.
I locate a tampon and deal with my period. Then, I flush and wash my hands while staring at my reflection in the mirror. And yes, my neck has absorbed my jawline.
I stand there, plummeting into an existential crisis, before my brain latches onto what might be the most outlandish thought I’ve ever had: maybe Marin’s moon jam could fix this. Or her rose-quartz mist she said was “coded with divine womb energy.”
Honestly, I’d probably snort sage and chant affirmations over my uterus if it meant I could zip my dress up.
“Oh my god,” I mutter with a shake of my head. “Seriously. You’ve officially entered your unhinged era.”
I stomp into the bedroom where Gage is now sitting up in bed, looking far too sexy for the mood I’m in. It’s truly unfair that men don’t have to deal with periods.
