Page 38 of Bleacher Report
Got it.
Peyton:These. I swear I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t dying.
I remember Slade’s advice. Get her food. And now that I know she’s on her period and probably not feeling well, I have an idea on how to smooth things over with her.
Hunter:Have you eaten?
Peyton:No. Thinking about ordering Thai.
Hunter:I got it.
I toss my phone on the seat, throw the truck in gear, and drive.
The grocery store is weirdly calm for a Friday afternoon. No frantic soccer moms, no screaming toddlers, no underage kids trying to use fake ID’s at the cash register—just low hums of music and the occasional beep from checkout lanes. I push my cart down the candy aisle, scanning shelves for anything with cocoa, sugar, and a promise to buy me five minutes of forgiveness.
I toss in a double-fudge cake slice from the bakery section. Two pints of chocolate swirl ice cream—one for her, one for me. Chocolate-dipped pretzels. Milk chocolate M&M’s—two kinds, peanut and plain, just in case. And chocolate milk…to cover my bases.
Next stop: the dreaded feminine hygiene aisle.
I pull up the picture Peyton sent and stand like a statue in front of the wall of pastel-colored boxes, blinking like I’ve never seen English before. I hold the phone in one hand and scan shelf by shelf, but it’s like a damn eye exam—every box is a variation of the same color scheme.
A woman in her fifties pushes her cart past, glances over, and does a full double-take. “Need help?”
I offer a sheepish grin, holding up my phone. “Looking for this exact one. She said it was urgent.”
She steps beside me, studies the screen, and then scans the shelf. In under ten seconds, she plucks the right box and drops it in my cart.
“There you go, darlin’.”
“You’ve saved me from a total disaster.”
She smiles. “Good boyfriend.”
I open my mouth to tell her I don’t have a girlfriend…then stop short. Technically, I do.
A fake one.
However, considering we’ve had our first fight, I’m buying her tampons, we’re not having sex, and we’re living together…it’s starting to feel suspiciously similar to most real relationships I’ve heard guys complain about.
“Thanks,” I say instead.
“It took my husband twenty years to buy the right ones. You’re ahead of the curve.” She gives me a wink and continues down the aisle. “She’s a lucky girl.”
“I’m tempted to record you saying that to replay for her when I get home,” I tease.
She smiles warmly. “I think she already knows.”
Fat chance. But maybe a little bribing with sugar will help my cause.
I glance down at the box in the cart, then shake my head, smirking. If someone had told me last year that I’d be in a grocery store picking up tampons and snacks for a girl I wasn’t really dating, I would’ve laughed them out of the building.
And yet here I am.
I toss a few more comfort items into the cart—stuff I remember my mom asking for when she wasn’t feeling great during her cycle. Heating pads. Chamomile honey tea. Midol. Whatever might make Peyton’s day even a little easier.
As I move toward the checkout, something catches my eye—a French Bulldog Chia Pet planter, in its box, sitting near the divider bar. I think of her French bulldog sticky notepad that she keeps between the mics. Without overthinking it, I grab one and toss it on the conveyor belt.
If I’m going all in on this apology, I might as well stack the deck in my favor.
