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“That helps,” he says.
After breakfast, I force Timothy to rest on the couch while I go upstairs to rinse the deep conditioner from my hair. I come back down dressed for the day in shorts and a T-shirt.
Timothy’s not on the couch. The dishes are done and I told him to leave them for me, so he’s officially in trouble, but when I notice the gift basket sitting on the table, my irritation dissolves.
I know exactly what’s inside it, because every twenty-eight days, Timothy sends me one. It’s full of tampons and pads, fancy chocolates and nice lotions, face masks, and nail polish. Sometimes a candle or a book.
Not long after we met, he came to visit me at work, finding me curled under a rack of clothes. My period had come early, and I was unprepared for the pain. Instead of freaking out and calling an ambulance, or slowly backing away, he sweet-talked my boss into giving me a couple of days off, then took me home. He ran a bath for me, and when I came out, he had chicken noodle soup ready to go. My fridge was fully stocked, my prescriptions were filled, and he had two bags full of tampons and pads, not knowing which ones I preferred. There were fancy chocolates and nice herbal teas. A new, expensive heating pad sat outside my bedroom door, and he’d told me whatever I wanted was mine. I just had to ask.
It was…a lot, considering we hadn’t known each other for long. I’d appreciated everything he’d done, but I was tired and in pain, so I’d thanked him, offered to pay him back, and hinted I’d like to be alone to try to sleep through it.
He took the hint with a smile and acall me if you need anything. And exactly twenty-eight days later, a gift basket turned up at my apartment, full of everything anyone bleeding through a maximum absorbency pad every hour would need.
I tried to get him to stop, but he’s saved me a fortune on personal hygiene, and the chocolates are the expensive ones I love but can’t justify buying. Besides, Timothy’s not very good at listening to anything he doesn’t want to hear.
I dig through the basket and pull out the chocolates. Six months ago, I had a hysterectomy. I’ve been meaning to tell him, but I kept putting it off. I can’t live in his house and lie to him about this. Not that my periods or lack of them are his business. They aren’t. But I want to tell him.
Chocolates in hand, I climb the stairs and knock on his bedroom door. He opens it after a short wait, drying his freshly shaven face with a towel. He’s dressed now—mostly. In dark blue shorts. Nothing else.
I can’t help it. My eyes skim over him. Barbell through the right nipple. Kraken tattoo wrapped over his shoulder and upper arm. A light dusting of sandy hair over his chest. Normally he waxes it, but he hasn’t yet, and I want to touch it before it’s gone.
Timothy closes the door in my face.
“Just a moment,” he calls from the other side. When he opens it again, he’s wearing a white T-shirt.
Right. He’s discovered modesty in my presence.
I hate how much it irritates me, but that’s not what I’m here for. I hold up the chocolates. “Can I come in? We need to talk.”
He frowns. “Do I need to adjust the delivery date again?”
“No, it’s—” I take a step as he steps out of the room and we shuffle around each other before he manages to close the door behind him. Seriously? He’s still keeping his room off-limits?
He motions for me to sit on the steps, then takes a seat.
I sit next to him, but maybe I should’ve sat on a different step or remained standing. He’s re-writing the rules of our friendship and I don’t know what I’m allowed to do anymore. I don’t like any of this.
“I had a hysterectomy,” I blurt out.
Timothy stares at me.
I clasp my hands together and shove them between my knees. “That means they took my uterus out. I don’t get periods anymore.” Birth control didn’t do anything except guarantee my periods came with some measure of regularity. I couldn’t have an IUD, thanks to the shape of my uterus. I couldn’t go on missing work every month, spending days in bed crying and vomiting when the pain got too bad. Sooner or later, like most of the other jobs I’ve had, they’d fire me.
It took me a decade to find a doctor willing to perform the procedure, and I spent every last penny of my savings to pay for it.
It was worth it. But I never told Timothy about that struggle. It was too personal.
“When?” he asks, sounding confused and hurt.
“Six months ago.”
I can see him doing the math, thinking back to where he was and what he was doing. Wondering how he didn’t notice. He didn’t notice because he was off skiing with Nic and I had a fast recovery.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. The distress in his voice catches me off guard. “I know it’s none of my business, but please tell me you weren’t alone.”
I can’t, so I don’t.
He doesn’t say anything, just pulls me into a hug. I wind my arms around his hard waist and bury my face in his T-shirt and bite back the whimper dredged up from god knows where.
