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  CHAPTER 9

  THE ALARM NORMALLY woke me up by nine every morning, Monday through Thursday. On this day, my internal alarm clock woke me up at five thirty. Why, you might wonder. Simply to let me know that my uninvited, unwanted visitor had arrived, and had arrived with a vengeance. Blood pooled into my previously favorite panties. Observing the annihilation that was my period only made me regret the fact that I had been born with a uterus.

  It’s hard being a girl. Besides the impossible standards society sets, you have to bleed out of your baby-making parts every month. And the pain, oh the pain. You girls know what I’m talking about—the constant agony that feels like a midget is continuously punching you in the ovary. ‘It’s just cramps,’ men say. ‘They can’t be that bad.’ Sure. Right. But when an athlete gets a cramp they sit on the sideline nursing a muscle and you have to carry on with your daily business as though nothing is wrong and there isn’t a bloody massacre happening in your panties. And heaven forbid you even mention your period. Nope. There’s no rest for the bleeding. Which, quite frankly, I don’t get. The first day of your period should be spent in the comfort of your own bed, binge-watching mind-numbing shows and pushing the daily recommended dose of over-the-counter menstrual pain relievers. Why is this not a thing? It happens twelve times a year. It seems a small price to pay for what our eggs go through every month.

  When your body is pissed at you for not fertilizing the eggs they slaved over for a month, it gets pretty upset. It shreds them to pieces, literal pieces that come out of you, and men take that lightly. Yet if it has anything—anything—to do with their best friends down there, they entirely flip out. Seriously?

  I don’t see the fairness in that. We got the short end of the stick because we didn’t get a stick.

  On top of my unfortunate menstrual cycle, I had an extra homework assignment, a project due, and an exam and two quizzes. When it rains, it pours, and in college, the professors usually break the semester up by quarters, making all the tests fall on the same week. You’d think they’d have done something about that by now, what with the hundreds of years of education they have under their belt and all.

  Needless to say, I was not at my best. I spent the week ignoring everyone. I did not go out on Thursday. I did not make small talk in the quad at lunch. I ate, slept, ate some more, and bled. I bled a lot, and I got mad just thinking about it. Then I got sad. Then I was happy. I was on a rollercoaster of emotions and that, too, made me mad, but I got through it like we girls do every month for over forty years of our life. I did not do it with a smile on my face, but I got through it.

  Is there a place where you can unsubscribe to this monthly program? I felt like I kept asking them to stop sending me emails and yet every month there it was again. I expected it, but it still sucked. There was one thing that helped though, if only a little. Sadly, it also made my hips expand another pant size.

  “Hey, Lex.” The barista greeted me, tossing a worn book onto the counter. “The usual?”

  “I only come in here once a month—how do you remember my order?” I questioned Cade. He was younger than me, maybe a sophomore at Dixie. He’d been working at Café Luna since he started school. Luna was what I referred to as my period bakery. Normally, I got all my caffeine and dessert needs at Lola’s, but I didn’t want that amazing place tainted with my bloody carnage. I called it separation of happiness and menstruation. Every month like clockwork, when Mother Nature decided to visit, I visited Luna.

  “Well, to be honest, the first time you ordered it, I thought you’d die from the overload of chocolate. You never change it, so it’s probably been over twenty times you’ve come in and ordered a hot chocolate with a brownie, a chocolate-chocolate chunk cookie, and a chocolate-covered doughnut.”

  I probably should have been embarrassed by my intake of chocolate, but my period wouldn’t seem to allow it. The loss of blood demanded indulgence in chocolate, and I refused to be judged for that.

  “Yes, the usual, please. Thanks, Cade.” He smiled when I said his name, probably surprised I knew it. His eyes twinkled. His normal uniform of a plain Henley and faded jeans served him well. His dark blond hair was tousled from sleep, or from him running his fingers through it. I could never tell.

  “I’ll bring it over.” He gestured to my normal table, a two-seater shoved in the tiny corner next to an overflowing bookcase.

  When he delivered my chocolate medicine to the table, he sat down in the seat across from me. Not exactly what I was expecting. Our conversation usually didn’t extend past ‘Thank you, come again.’

  “So,” he said after a minute, “you want to grab some dinner sometime? Friday night? Maybe I can show you there are other things to eat that won’t put you in a sugar coma.” He winked. His charm was wasted on my shock, not only at being hit on while I was wearing my period pants that attempted to hold in my bloating, but also because he looked like he was fresh out of the womb. By the womb, I meant high school.

  “How old are you?” I blurted out. Real nice. Outstanding manners there, Lex. Your mother would be proud.

  His eyes twinkled again. “Twenty.”

  That was one, almost two years younger than me. Not terrible, but not ideal, especially considering the male maturity level at twenty is pretty nonexistent in most cases. Great, first bad manners and now I’m being prejudiced.

  “What’s your favorite book, song, and movie?” I demanded to know. He looked at me quizzically, though that charming smile never faltered.

  “Are you testing me before you agree to a date?” He was amused.

  “Yes,” I answered, swirling my hot chocolate, which was still too hot to drink without scorching my tongue. “I need emotional stimulation. You’re handsome. You’re in school. You have a job. All important things, in no particular order. There is undoubtedly potential. Do we have chemistry, though? That’s the big one. So, I want to know your answers.”

  His eyes locked with mine. “To Kill A Mockingbird, ‘Simple Man’, Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

  I was less than thrilled with the face-swap movie, more thrilled with the Skynyrd classic, but he really got me on the book. The nobility of Atticus, the innocence of Scout—I loved that novel. He must have seen my determination falter, because he smiled wide, and those pearly whites sealed the fate of my Friday night.

  Don’t let me down, Harper Lee.

  Without speaking, I wrote my phone number on the corner of a napkin along with my favorite Italian restaurant and slid it across the table to him. “Eight o’clock. Don’t be late,” I warned in my most stern voice. The corner of his mouth pulled up in a grin, but he quickly reined it in, matching my firm expression. He nodded once, winked, and returned to his post behind the counter just as the door dinged, signaling new customers had entered.

  When I left, he waved with another wink that made him seem much older than his short twenty years. Guy’s got game—I’ll give him that. After stopping and getting a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone on the way home, (because hello, menstruation), it actually sank in that I had a date.

  Holy guacamole. I’d just made a date for myself. I, Lex Baxter, now had a date without the help of any friend, coworker, or parent. For the first time in a year, I had a date no one else had orchestrated.

  Only three guys had asked me out since I’d started college: my lab partner in my freshman year chemistry class who smelled of Old Spice, the same cologne my dad used—just no; a guy in my Intro to Journalism class who used more hair product than I did; and finally, the true icing on the cake, a guy named Gabe who told me point-blank if I ordered lobster, he expected me to put out. When I sarcastically asked him what ordering a steak meant, he replied by raising his eyebrows suggestively. And Jules wondered why I didn’t date.

  “You’re too picky,” she’d told me after trying to set me up with, I kid you not, a seventeen-year-old. Standards were considered picky, apparently. “Plus, you give off that unattainable vibe. Guys think you’re unavailable.” Maybe that w
as true, but if they paid even the slightest bit of attention, they’d know I was available, at least in the sense that I didn’t have a boyfriend.

  That’s the problem with dating in my generation—no one wants anything that takes a little effort. But now I had a date with a cute boy, my first real date since high school. It couldn’t be that bad, right?

  CHAPTER 10

  WRONG. THOROUGHLY WRONG. The date was a horrid affair of awkward silence and complete lack of chemistry. Thankfully, he agreed, and we parted as amicably as two people who weren’t friends beforehand could part. At least I wouldn’t feel too uncomfortable returning for my normal period pastime of gorging myself on chocolate.

  Truth be told, Cade wasn’t really that bad. He was his age, definitely, but charming, too. It would probably end up being one of those relationships where it was fine if it was just us, but he wouldn’t fit in with my friends and I wouldn’t fit in with his. If he were older, it might have been different. Timing—always the demise of potential and young love.

  The week dragged on, not counting the bloodbath that was my period or the date going nowhere. On Thursday, when Jules wanted to go to yet another frat party, I relented due to her pouty face and merciless begging.

  Really, I only agreed in hopes of seeing Ben. It made my stomach hurt. I tried to tell myself it was the four doughnuts I had that morning, but I’d spent too much time thinking about him. I blamed Jules and Tay for putting that idea in my head. I was obsessing over a guy who was probably terrified of the idea of a second date. I was emotionally invested in a relationship that had yet to begin. I spent most of the time deciding if that made me crazy or just really, really desperate. Neither one was I ready to admit to myself.

  The party was already in full swing when we arrived. It was a regular frat party kind of night: hundreds of intoxicated students crowded into the furniture-less living room, sloshing beer out of their red Solo cups onto the already stained carpet.

  People were already stumbling, some close to blacking out, some desperately needing to reward their liver with water for the rest of the night—or the rest of the year. It looked like these drinks were a lot stronger than you would expect from something mixed on a frat house back porch, at least judging by the amount of scream-singing and dancing bodies, if humping air and wiggling next to each other could be considered dancing.

  I was already regretting coming when I felt his eyes on me, following me as I shuffled my way through the crowd, trailing behind Jules. He was talking to a couple girls in very little clothing. I pretended it didn’t give me some serious indigestion, again blaming the doughnuts.

  And here I was looking forward to seeing him. That was what I got for planning imaginary relationships in my head. When I turned back to the boys Jules was flirting with, I tried to ignore his eyes on me. I succeeded. When his hand landed on the small of my back, I tried to ignore that, too. I failed.

  His eyes zeroed in on my legs, left bare by the blue jean skirt. The cowboy boots covered most of my calves, but that glorious couple of inches above my knees drew his attention. I was more comfortable in yoga pants, definitely, but watching his reaction, I certainly didn’t regret letting Jules dress me for the night.

  What were best friends for if not emotional support and closet sharing?

  Now he was focused on me, and I couldn’t even appreciate it because all I could think about was him with other girls. It was imprinted on my brain. If you’d given me a sketch pad, I could have drawn out every sliver of exposed skin his fingertips touched, or at least some stick version of it.

  My heart was beating faster than the music when he laced his fingers with mind and whispered, “Wanna dance?” I really didn’t answer, but between him pulling me and Jules pushing me, I didn’t have a choice. His body was hard pressed against the softness of mine. It was a slow song, a request from an overly emotional girl who’d had too much to drink, but the dancers didn’t fall away. They gathered in close and slowed their pace.

  When I nuzzled into his chest, his arms slid around me, and just like that, we were cuddling standing up. Is this the part where I admit I love cuddling? Cuddling is like newborn puppies, or fuzzy socks, or that first sip of a really good cup of coffee. If you don’t love it, I have to question the existence of your soul.

  I wasn’t much of a dancer. I would have denied him had it been a song intended to hip-thrust to. Even now, I didn’t know what to do with my hands. There should have been a class on this in school. It’s a necessary life skill, after all, unlike knowing about galactic space history. I settled for folding them in between our chests, latching onto the fabric of his shirt. I was completely wrapped up in Ben, swamped by him, and loving it.

  I inhaled at his neck, and his chin came to rest on my shoulder. We couldn’t get any closer, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to be. For the three minutes or however long the song went on, I burrowed myself into Ben and refused to come up for air.

  Yeah, I was definitely already emotionally invested in this nonexistent relationship.

  He dragged me out of the masses when the beat picked up and bodies began to jump around us, sensing my unease. “Want to get some breakfast?” he asked, smiling at me. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. That’s completely sexist. The way to my heart is through my stomach, too, and chocolate chip pancakes go straight to my heart.

  I nodded my approval. I could definitely do breakfast at midnight, even if the tightness of Jules’ clothes was begging me to tell him no.

  Three minutes later, after saying goodbye to Jules—who was way too happy I was leaving—I climbed into Ben’s truck for the first time. Removing my boots, I pulled my legs up. He smiled when my sock-covered feet hit the dashboard, which made me happy for some reason.

  “Thanks for getting me out of there. Parties aren’t really my thing.”

  “I can see that,” he told me, fiddling with the heater to warm us from the late-night chill.

  “I just don’t really see how people find comfort in losing their mind and drowning in strangers.” I shook my head. “Why do we always think the things that make us feel worse will make us feel better?”

  “Haven’t we discussed this?” He looked over to grin at me. “We’re the generation of instant gratification. We put off the worst until later.”

  “Yeah, well, the world doesn’t work like that. It gives you what it gives you when it decides to give it to you. We’re on its timetable.”

  His knowing smile made me glad I was being honest. I was too tired to filter the truth coming out of my mouth. Sugarcoating was not meant for the sleep deprivation of the late hours—or early, depending on how you look at it.

  The diner was crowded with its usual overweight patrons. The old vinyl booths were filled with truck drivers and college students looking for cheap food and strong coffee. The intoxicating smell of bacon hit me as I walked in the door. I could practically feel my arteries hardening. I could also hear a choir of angels singing, ‘Halleluiah.’

  I loved this diner. Loved it. Jules never wanted to go with me, because as she said, ‘A nutrition major has to set certain standards. What if someone saw me there?’ Who knew nutritionists were so snobby? Normally, I’d go with Tay, but since she’d graduated, I hadn’t been. My soul was missing the deliciousness.

  After ordering an unhealthy amount of grease that would have made Jules cringe, Ben sipped his coffee and focused on me. “You aren’t distracted by instant gratification?” he asked.

  “Impatience may be a flaw of mine, I’ll admit, but I like to feel sure of myself, and a lot of times that surety comes with time. I don’t get how people can ignore or silence their emotions. What makes people so unfeeling?” I asked as I grabbed the syrup and doused my pancakes, which had just arrived.

  “Probably the lack of responsibility,” he suggested.

  “If you don’t have responsibility, I feel sorry for you, because if you have no responsibility, it means you’ve never gotten close en
ough for someone to depend on you. You’ve never been vulnerable with them.”

  He looked at me then. I don’t just mean eye contact. He stared at me, unblinking, unmoving. I started to think I had a chocolate chip wedged in my teeth before he looked away, a blush rising on his cheeks.

  He didn’t say anything else, but his smile stayed. Breakfast was less deep after that. I’d finished my stack of pancakes and he’d polished off close to a pot of coffee before the sun told us it was time to leave.

  He only caught me looking at his butt once on the way out. I wasn’t the least bit ashamed.

  “You must know the effect you have on the female population.” I gestured to his body, raising my eyebrows.

  “I don’t stare at myself in the mirror for hours at a time flexing my muscles, Lex.”

  “Are you looking for volunteers? Because I could totally do that.” There I was trying to find my calling, and it was right in front of my eyes. Literally.

  He smiled wider, showing the laugh lines on his cheeks. So, is this the part where I’m supposed to admit that I want him? That I’ve wanted him all along?

  I’m wasn’t going to do that, at least I wasn’t going to say it out loud.

  Ben laughed a lot—he was a happy person—thought it was typically a casual laugh. A chuckle at a joke, the manly version of a giggle, whatever that is. Every so often, though, like now, he let out this big belly laugh, and his hand went to his stomach to hold in the pain it was causing him to be without oxygen. Every time it was me causing that, my heart expanded and my chest got a little lighter.

  To hear my stifled giggles mingling with his deep laugh created the greatest music, and I didn’t even mind the wrinkles I was surely getting around my eyes from the strain of my own laughter.

  “I like this you,” he told me as his laughter died down.