Page 94 of Triple Play
“I don’t have a heating pad.”
“That’s a crime. Hold on.” He’s up and out the door before I can respond.
Another knock. This one more hesitant.
“It’s open.”
Grant appears in my doorway and the sight of him makes my stomach do something complicated that has nothing to do with cramps. We haven’t really talked since his confession. He’s been giving me space, careful not to push, but I catch him watching me sometimes with an expression that makes my chest tight.
“Jordie said—” He stops. Clears his throat. “Do you need anything?”
“Apparently Jordie’s on a heating pad quest.”
“Right. Yeah.” He shifts his weight, clearly uncomfortable. This is new territory for him—care and softness instead of distance and walls. “I could… I don’t know. Make you food?”
“I’m not really hungry.”
“Tea then. My mom used to make ginger tea for cramps.”
The mention of his mom, the vulnerability in offering something from his childhood, makes me soften. “That would be nice. Thanks.”
He nods and disappears. Thirty seconds later Wyatt appears with a glass of water and two Advil.
“Take these.” He sits on the edge of my bed, waiting until I swallow the pills. “How bad?”
“Seven out of ten.”
His hand finds my lower back, starts rubbing in slow circles that actually help. “This okay?”
“Yeah. That’s good.”
We sit in silence for a minute, just his hand moving on my back, grounding me through the worst of the cramp wave. Then Jordie returns with what looks like a professional-grade heating pad still in the package.
“Where did you even get that?” I ask.
“I ran down to the drugstore at the end of the street.” He’s already plugging it in, adjusting the settings. “Also got you these.”
He pulls out a bag. Chocolate. Three different kinds. Midol. Organic tampons.
“You remembered my tampon brand?”
“I pay attention.” He arranges the heating pad on my stomach, gets the temperature right. “Better?”
“Better.”
Grant reappears with tea in my favorite mug—the one with the sarcastic quote I bought at a thrift store. He sets it on my nightstand, then hovers awkwardly like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “All of you. This is—you didn’t have to do all this.”
“Of course we did,” Jordie says, like it’s obvious. “You take care of us. We take care of you.”
Wyatt’s hand is still on my back, steady and warm. Grant’s perched on my desk chair, watching with an expression I can’t quite read.
“I should leave you alone,” Grant says. “Let you rest.”
“You can stay.” The words come out before I can second-guess them. “If you want.”
His eyes meet mine, searching for something. Then he nods. “Okay.”
