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Both of them seem so confused, so unable to handle this demeanour from me. And, honestly, if it was any other kind of situation, I might even find it funny, you know, if the depression would let me laugh that day.
Wait, no, there’s no depression. Nora and her positive attitude towards mental health is rubbing me the wrong way.
I should spite her, and not get her what she wants, but I’ve got a point to prove to these cunts.
So, I grab another box of tampons, looking them both firmly in the eyes, and then continue until I’ve got six boxes, all different flavours.
She’s small, tiny even, so I grab the smallest size. But then there are different colours. The red ones have got to be strawberry, or maybe just blood flavour. I don’t know if she has a preference. She didn’t tell me, but this is what she’s got. So she’ll have to deal with it.
“Why do you need six boxes of tampons?” the man with two daughters asks.
Well, he’s got an enlightening future.
“Do I pay you to stand here and grill me on my shopping choices?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, and he balks. “Is this what you’re going to come up with at the next meeting? Oh, hi, I’m so sorry that I have nothing to add. Again. But I do know that Cevon was buying tampons.”
“No,” the man says, shaking his head. “I was…” He frowns, and changes direction quickly. “I was hoping we could have a conversation.”
But he phrases it like a question. How pathetic.
“Me too, CJ,” the older man chimes in, shooting the younger man a dirty look.
He calls me CJ, as a reference to my surname. You know, the fake one I use, since it’s not like I can have my legal surname when Atticus is one of their biggest targets. All it would have taken for me to be outed is someone noticing our similarities in appearance—we both look like the abusive fuck that fathered us—and I’d be killed just in case.
You know what the most annoying part about all of this is? I don’t even know their names. I know that they’re annoying as fuck. I know that they’ve tried to get in my good book, that they’ve tried to climb up the ladder. It just isn’t gonna work for me.
Instead of engaging with them, I just storm forward and walk past them and head towards the tills.
They don’t deserve an answer from me, and they know that because neither of them follow.
I quickly buy my six boxes of tampons and head back to my place with a sympathetic look from the woman on the tills. I’m not the one who needs my sympathy, it’s Nora.
I speed home, grateful that nobody around here would ever get in my way. By the time I get back up into the bedroom, Nora seems to have showered, and she beams at me as I come in with her bag.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!” she says before cringing.
“What’s wrong? I ask. She pinches the bridge of her nose and glares at me, and, honestly, I’ve never felt this level of hostility from her.
What the fuck have I done?
“I see the first course we did in period basics hasn’t worked. I’ve not had a period in over six years,” Nora says, and I shrug.
“Okay?” I ask, not sure of the relevance. “Is that common?”
“No,” Nora says, shaking her head, “Most shifters get a period four times a year.” The unsaid, as you should know, rings through the air, despite her not saying it.
“Four times a year?” I ask, aghast. “Why?”
Did Lainey used to bleed that often? Surely not.
“Fucking hell,” she says, looking at me as if I’m completely stupid. I mean, she’s not wrong, but I don’t understand what that’s got to do with any of this.
I’m a little bit confused. See me, I’ve got a dick, and if it bleeds, I clearly need medical help.
I’m not a woman where it’s normal.
“Female shifters go into heat twice a year, and during that time, they can conceive or they may not,” Nora says, extremely patiently, but it seems like it’s fake. “If they don’t conceive, they have a period. It’s just the body’s way of getting rid of all the shit and sort of balancing them out.”
“Right. But if you only go into heat twice a year, what about the other two periods?”
