Page 138 of What We Burn

“You scared me last night.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t go dark on me again, wildcat. I don’t care if it’s cramps or a crisis or you just fell asleep. One text. That’s all I need.”

“One text. I promise.”

“And lock your door.”

I press my lips to the top of her head. She smells like sleep and Eli’s cologne and underneath it, still, always, herself.

The front door opens again. This time with considerably more fanfare.

“Nobody panic!” Milo’s voice booms through the apartment. “The uterus whisperer has arrived.”

Sage groans. “Oh God.”

“I bring gifts and expertise and a certified understanding of the female reproductive system.”

He appears in the bedroom doorway holding the largest gift basket I have ever seen in my life. It’s wrapped in cellophane with a bow on top and it contains, from what I can make out, three types of chocolate, a stuffed animal that appears to be a uterus with a smiley face, a box of tea labeled Moon Cycle Harmony Blend, a bottle of something called Cramp Bark Tincture, two bags of gummy bears, a heat wrap, a sleep mask with the words BLEEDING BUT BEAUTIFUL printed on it, what looks like a jar of pickles, and a pamphlet titled Your Period and You: A Guide for Partners.

“Milo,” Sage says. “What the fuck?”

“I did research on what was best to bring someone in your delicate condition.” He sets the basket on the bed. “The internet had a lot of opinions, so I bought everything with four stars or higher. The pickle jar is because one website said salt cravings are common during menstruation and I thought, pickles. The uterus plushie is because another website said comfort objects help. And the pamphlet is for me, not you. I’ve enrolled myself in a course on women’s health, but it doesn’t start for another week, so I need information in order to be an informed and supportive partner during your time of monthly renewal.”

Sage snorts. “Monthly renewal?”

“That’s what the pamphlet calls it. I thought it was a nice turn of phrase.”

“It’s horrifying.”

“These are normal gummy bears, but the other bag is cannabis gummies.” He hops onto the foot of the bed, cross-legged, already tearing open the bag of regular gummies. “How bad is it on a scale of one to ten?”

“Eleven.”

“Cool. I brought ibuprofen too. Industrial strength. I think technically it’s for horses, but the vet said I can use it on humans.”

“You did not.”

“I did. I think that shows initiative.” He holds out a gummy bear. “Red or green?”

Sage takes the red one. She’s trying not to laugh, but she’s losing the battle, her face screwed up in that particular agony of something being simultaneously painful and hilarious.

“How did you get all of this so fast?” I ask, holding my hand out for some candy.

“I track kitten’s cycle. She missed last month, so I started prepping at the first sign of PMS,” Milo says, as if this is the most logical thing in the world. He turns to Sage. “Last week your hair was extra shiny and you got mad at me for taking the last of the orange juice, which means ovulation was peaking. Based on empirical evidence, that gives us a five- to seven-day window before the world ends.” He beams. “Plus, you were extra horny this past week, and a little ragey. I figured it was likely the start of the downward spiral.”

Sage buries her face in my shirt, groaning. “You’re all insane.”

“Insanely in love, yes,” Milo says, nodding.

She lifts her head. “Speaking of insane, Eli told me about the choker.”

My gut drops.

Milo freezes with a gummy bear halfway to his mouth. “Fucking Eli.”

“Don’t ‘fucking Eli’ him. At least one of you finally told me,” she says.