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When her eyes finally find mine, her shoulders are dropped in surrender. “Does being ripped out of my normal life, not allowed to go home, and then having to pretend to be dating my best friend constitute as a good reason to get drunk before 8 a.m.?”
“Affirmative.”
“Then addwineto that grocery list, Cowboy.”
Happy to hear the nickname despite what’s in store for us is what allows me to unexpectedly grin with ease. “Roger that, Angel Cake.”
Chapter 9
Slater
I’ve made emergency slings in the rainforest.
I’ve removed shrapnel in minus four-degree temperatures.
I’ve even performed a cricothyrotomy on a rescue boat in the middle of the goddamn Caribbean Sea.
I can do this.
I can pick out a box of tampons.
Or pads.
Or…a cup?
Wait.
What the fuck is a menstrual cup?!
My head cranes slightly forward to read the description that immediately has me sealing my lips together in a tight line.
Nope.
No huh.
Not buying whatever the fuck that is.
Shifting my attention over to the colorful boxes, I resume my search for what I thought was going to be an easy thing to acquire.
But…it’s not.
First question…Why are there numbers? And how do they work? Is it like the DEFCON stages?
And is the difference between thin and maxi like thin and thick? Why not just say thick?
Fucking. Hell.
Why do some of these things have wings?!
What’s the point of that?
Is it decorative?
They don’t make decorative lady products, do they?
Frustration reroutes my attention to the other side where the tampons are taunting me.
What’s this “radiant” shit about?
