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Bryce clenched her steering wheel, refusing to join her nieces and cry. Tears solved nothing. Action did, and so did good resolutions. She adjusted the rearview mirror until it captured the half-light and half-dark figure of the man with the leg of metal and the heart of gold.
She may not be a genius, but Bryce knew ingredients. In this case, the elusive recipe for an easy life was proving hard enough to master as it was. Adding a man to the mix was insane.
She turned onto Main Street, her gaze flicking to the mirror as the man grew smaller and smaller. Until he was gone. And she resolved to keep him there. That was the smart decision—and the safe one.
Bryce clenched her jaw until her chin stopped wobbling.
Once she pulled into her tiny, off-street parking spot, she ushered the girls up the side stairs in the doorway to the right of PattyCakes with promises of a fondue dinner. It was their favorite meal, and an easy one to get them to eat, considering the candy bar “snack” their grandparents had given them earlier.
Thirty minutes later, she’d popped the last of the apple wedges, dredged in melted Kerry Irish cheese, into her mouth when her phone dinged a text notification. Pulling it from the waistband of her pajamas, she saw it was from Imani and wanted to forehead-slap herself for not texting her friend once she got home, reassuring her that all was well and thanking her again.
But it wasn’t the “I hope everything is okay” text she expected. It was bizarre.
Imani: I hope June and the girls are okay, but I’ve been asked to give you a message. From Ryker Matthews, my soon-to-be BIL whom I haven’t seen out in public since my Christmas dance recital.
Imani’s incredulity came through even without a bugged-out-eyes emoji, as she double-texted without waiting for a response.
Imani: He said you have a delivery sitting outside your apartment, and since he didn’t have your cell number, he made me text you. He wants to know if you picked it up?? What the hell is this all about?
Bryce swallowed her apple wedge and scraped her chair against the wood floor as she rushed out of the tiny kitchen, fingers flying as she replied.
Bryce: June is ok. In bed with a Tylenol, heating pad and a horror novel. I’m heading downstairs.
“What’s wrong?” Cecily dropped her fondue fork to stand, her little legs spread as if readying herself for battle in her dark-blue Moana pajamas.
“Nothing. Someone made a delivery out front. I’ll be right back. No choking, you two—small bites, you hear me?” Bryce grabbed her keys and called out to June’s closed door that she’d return in two seconds. Then she jogged down the stairs in her bare feet, one hand holding her boobs against her chest, cursing the fact she had on only her skimpy sleep bra, having ditched the stretched-out jog bra. “Who the hell is delivering something now?”
Outside, the night was cool and clear, and Main Street’s pretty lampposts lit up the nearly empty sidewalk on both sides like a vintage black-and-white print. Thinking there had been some weird delivery for PattyCakes, she’d brought her massive keychain so she could heft the boxes straight into the café’s kitchen. But the bags stacked neatly by the restaurant’s entrance were flimsy white plastic ones with the bright red CVS logo emblazoned on the front.
“What the hell?” she mumbled, stepping onto the cold sidewalk, the pavement rough beneath her bare feet as she crossed to the bags. She stooped to look inside, and then barked a laugh so close to a sob she clapped her hand over her mouth.
The bags were overflowing with period products. She spotted packages of pads in every size from normal flow, to overnight, to maximum “better take some iron pills when you’re done with this cycle” variety. There were a couple boxes of tampons and five tiny pink packages of panty liners thrown in for good measure. It was as if someone without a clue about monthly flow went to the store and, when confronted with the dozens of options in the feminine product aisle, swept the whole mass of it in the cart.
There were enough blood-absorbency products here to handle the aftermath of a Quentin Tarantino film.
She dashed the sudden moisture from her eyes, scanning the sidewalks and parked cars more closely. Halfway down Main Street, she spotted a red truck idling at the curb, its lights off. The figure inside was indistinguishable except for a baseball-capped head and broad shoulders.
Ryker.
As soon as she spotted him, he put his truck in gear, did a U-turn, and left in the opposite direction. It was as if he were worried she’d be mad about the gesture. Or maybe he didn’t want to be hovering as she processed these feelings—being so absurdly thankful her chest hurt with it.
The gesture was next-level kind.
Right now, that sort of gesture might break her.
Her phone rang, the tones muted against her hip, and she took out her cell. Imani.
“So? Spill it!” Imani said in a singsong, her voice breathless. “What was the delivery, and don’t tell me it was for PattyCakes. If Ryker is involved, there’s no way it’s about anything culinary. I’ve seen the crap he eats, and I’m convinced he has no taste buds.”
Bryce cradled her cell with her shoulder as she gathered the bags—five of them—dividing them up and threading them on her wrists. Then she wrestled all that absorbency into the stairway of the upstairs apartment, having to nudge them out of the way with her hips as she threw the lock and bolt on the door.
“He, um, bought practically every kind of menstrual product at CVS. As in, I think the shelves are bare. He must’ve been worried when I said I wasn’t sure if I had supplies at home for June.” Bryce stuck the ring of keys in her pajama pocket and hoofed it up the stairs, feeling like Santa—if Santa was stocking up for a vee-jay apocalypse.
The silence on the phone was so long Bryce thought she might’ve accidentally hung up the phone with her cheek, but then Imani’s high-pitched incredulity shattered her eardrum.
“Ryker bought you PADS? And TAMPONS? You’re sure it was him? He raided the feminine product section just for you?”
“No, for June.” Bryce finally reached the apartment landing. She hesitated outside the inner door, not wanting to finish this conversation in front of the girls. “It was a nice gesture. Truly. Can you let him know I—”
