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But I’ve never been one for an easy life.
“I was thinking about orgasms,” I say.
She laughs, her face lighting up. “Is it true that men think about sex every seven seconds?”
“Oh, I would think that’s a severe underestimation.”
She giggles, and I smile.
“So what were you thinking about?” she teases.
“Ah, just about the things you said on the ferry. It makes me angry.”
“I make you angry?”
“No, I said ‘it’, not ‘you’. The thought that you haven’t been able to talk to anyone about this, and that you were made to feel it was shameful. I just hate that.”
She doesn’t reply. She just watches the headlights illuminating the road that’s snaking into the dark night.
“Promise me something,” I say. She glances at me but doesn’t speak. “Promise me you’ll think about exploring what makes you feel good. You know, on your own.”
Her lips curve up a little, but she just turns her gaze back to the road.
For a while, we don’t speak, and just listen to the music.
She’s been driving about an hour, and we’re not far from where the road hits the coast when she indicates and pulls over in a layby.
“You okay?” I ask, surprised.
“Yeah.” She puts the handbrake on and unbuckles herself. “Are you okay to take over?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
She reaches over to the back seat, collects her purse, retrieves a pack of Panadol from it, and pops two of the white pills out. She meets my gaze and hesitates before opening the bottle of water and swallowing them. Then she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Just my time of the month. I’m cramping a bit.”
“Aw, Belle. You should have said.”
“I’ll be okay. I’ve loved driving her, though, thank you so much. I just need to change position.”
“Of course. Come on, let’s swap.”
We get out of the car, and both walk toward the back. When we meet, I take her hand, pull her against me, and wrap my arms around her.
“Poor thing,” I murmur, rubbing her back. “Is there anything I can do?”
She buries her face in my chest, inhales, then blows the breath out slowly. “You smell nice.”
I smile and kiss the top of her head.
“I’ve got a microwavable heat pack for when I get home,” she says. “That normally helps. It’s day three of my period, and it normally only lasts four or five days, but for some reason I’m really achy this month.”
Frowning, I release her, and we get back in the car.
Less than five minutes later, though, I pull into a petrol station and, as the tank is still nearly full, park to one side.
“Come and get your heat pack out of your case,” I tell her, picking up our empty coffee cups.
Her eyebrows rise, but she doesn’t question me. We get out of the car and go around to the boot. She unzips her case and ferrets around until she finds the heat pack. I take it from her and say, “You want anything else?”
