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“Since when do you sneak around on this side of the house?” Tatum's voice hasn't as much energy or bitterness as I would expect, but she still sounds annoyed.
“Is it sneaking when the door was open?”
I shrug when she shoots me a dirty look. “I had my hands full, remember? I didn't even think about it.”
“What do you want?” she asks him with a sigh, sitting up.
“I was passing the kitchen, and Sheryl asked me to check on you. She wanted to know if you needed more tea.”
“Actually, since you’re here, yes, the pot is empty.” She holds it out to him, and he crosses the room, almost tentatively, to take it from her. I wait for the obligatory comment about him being her servant or for him to call her a spoiled brat, but it never comes. Their usual banter is missing.
“Do you, um, need anything else?” He stands tall but doesn’t necessarily look at either of us, more like through us.
“Can you convince my uterus to stop hating me so much?” Tatum asks.
All he does is shake his head and walk out of the room.
I can’t help bursting into laughter, even if I feel bad for him. “I swear. Men.”
“They grow up hearing how shameful and disgusting periods are,” she sighs, shaking her head. “What can you expect?”
The man supervised the clean-up after Callum blew my ex-boyfriend's brains out. I'm sure that's not even the worst thing he's ever witnessed. Though somehow he can't stand the thought of a natural biological process taking place? Surely it’s not the period part that bothers him, and more of the who the blood is coming out of instead.
“I'm glad you're here, even if things are complicated,” Tatum murmurs, resting her head on my shoulder as the documentary begins.
“I love you, Tatum, and regardless of where your father and I are in our relationship, you are and will always be my best friend. So, I couldn't find a show about a murderous menstruating woman, but I did find one about a serial killer who married wealthy men before poisoning them.”
“Ooh, yes!” she exclaims.
A few minutes later, Romero returns. He taps on the door before walking in, carrying a pot of tea in one hand and a pill bottle in the other. He tosses the bottle of pills at her, and she catches them in the air, before handing me the pot of tea. “I went out and got these from my place. You probably shouldn't tell your father I gave them to you, but I thought they might stop your uterus from killing you.”
She reads the label, and I know I'm not imagining the faint smile that touches the corners of her lips. “What, you don't think my father would like knowing you’re giving me narcotics?”
“Don’t start, Tatum. I can take them back as fast as I gave them to you.” Only he doesn't. He's too busy hiding a smile as he leaves the room.
What the hell did I just witness?
If I didn't know better, I would think they were, dare I say it… friends. Exactly how much have I missed when I wasn't here? I will probably keep my questions to myself, since I’d more than likely get an eye roll from Tatum if I asked. Romero is a locked safe when it comes to sharing personal information, so there’s no point in asking him.
After a bit of contemplation, she takes one of the pills, and within twenty minutes, her eyelids droop. “I’m so tired. I should have cut it in half,” she mumbles, sliding down until her head is nestled against the pillows.
I grab the cup of tea from her hand before she spills it on herself. “Maybe this is just a sign that you need some rest.”
“And there I was,” she whispers, sighing as she rolls onto her side. “Thinking things were supposed to get better once I went on the pill. The doctors lied. My uterus still hates me.”
“It worked for me. Everyone’s body is different.”
She snickers, her eyes closed now. “Yeah, what a surprise. I'm different.”
I would tell her maybe she just needs a different pill, but she's already drifted off to sleep. As I’m lying beside her, it suddenly occurs to me that I can’t remember the last time I had my period.
Of course, being on the pill means it comes regularly. As soon as I hit the fourth week of pills. But even though I've been taking them religiously—I even carry a pack in my purse just in case, which is good in situations like this weekend when I haven't been home—I haven't had a period in… I search my brain trying to line up dates. Five, maybe six weeks. I don't usually track it since I know when to expect it according to where I am in my pack.
