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I wait with Abby in the living room for Briar to come down, but when there’s no sign of her after a few minutes, I get concerned.
“Stay down here,” I say to Abby, who jumps back onto the couch to watch TV.
Then I rush up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Briar?” I call with concern. Scenarios flash through my mind—like, what if she fell and hurt herself? Or she’s sick?
When I hear sniffles coming from her room, I pick up my pace, bolting around the corner.
As I reach the doorway to the en suite bathroom, I freeze.
“Go away,” she cries.
I can’t move as I stare at Briar, trying to make sense of it all. She’s sitting on the toilet, her face wet with tears.
“What’s wrong?” I stammer, coming toward her.
“Dean, go!” she shouts, clearly erratic and emotional.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t want to see this,” she replies. I’ve never seen her so angry, and it has me scared. Is it something I did?
“See what?” When I take a step toward her, I spot a streak of blood along her inner thigh. Then I notice the underwear around her ankles bears a giant, wet, red spot.
I release a sigh, my shoulders melting away from my ears as she covers her face with her hands and cries. Then everything clicks into place.
“Fuck,” I mumble, dropping to my knees in front of her.
“Please go,” she cries.
“No,” I reply. Resting my hands on her thighs, I rub her softly, hoping I can give her at least a little bit of fucking comfort. “Briar, I’m so sorry.”
I know how long she and Caleb have been trying, and I know how hopeful they were thatthistime would do the trick. Her disappointment guts me.
She cries some more. “I knew it. I fucking knew it.”
I pull some tissue paper from the roll and blot at her face. When she opens her eyes, she tries to shove me away again. “Dean, stop. This is disgusting.”
“No, it’s not,” I argue, leaning closer. “You think I’m afraid of a little blood?”
I take the wadded-up tissue from her and throw it in the trash. Then I get another piece and clean her face some more. Her eyes are bloodshot with swollen bags under them, and it breaks my heart to think about how long she’s been in here crying alone.
She’s staring at me as her eyes and nose continue to leak. Once the crying has stopped, I pull the underwear from around her ankles, shoving them into the trash, too. I’ll buy her new ones, but she shouldn’t have to see them anymore.
Then, I pull more toilet paper from the roll, folding it up delicately and easing her thighs apart. She lets out a small hiccup of surprise as I begin to wipe her clean. There is more blood than I expected, but I don’t react. I just keep wiping as gently as I can.
“Dean…” she whispers. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know I don’t,” I reply, throwing the paper in the toilet and getting some more. “But it seems cruel to make you do it.” Then I glance up and stare into her eyes. “You’ve been through enough.”
Her lip trembles as tears fill her eyes again.
With delicate care, I wipe her until she’s clean. Then I place a soft kiss against each of her knees, rubbing her thighs softly.
“Where do you keep your tampons?” I ask.
She sniffles. “Bottom drawer.”
