Thin Ice (Power Play Series Book #2)

Chapter Sixteen × Heavy Flows and Panty Liners

The truth is I barely slept last night, even after Rosie (finally) came out of the bathroom. We didn't talk much, or really say anything. She laid in bed and I spooned her while alternating between rubbing her back and listening to her cry. There is nothing that kills me more in this world than listening to her cry. I would rather take ten pucks to the face than ever have to hear that again.

My phone begins buzzing, belting out the signature Apple ringtone at high volume. A few more people than usual look over and I shoot them an apologetic glance before pulling out my phone. It was on Do Not Disturb mode, which is why I'm a little surprised at it's beckoning. Then, I realize who's calling me and it all makes sense.

"Rosie?" I answer, a little confused as to why she's calling me from the bathroom. Unless she's butt-dialing me, in which case I will be promptly hanging up. Nothing against people that are into the whole conversing with each other while using the toilet, but it's just not our thing.

There's silence for a few seconds before she responds, her voice a little frantic and stressed out - or maybe that's how I feel. "Can you get a pad for me?" She asks, using the same tone one would when requesting something from an incompetent subordinate at work.

It takes me a moment to process her request and then promptly freak the fuck out. Now - before you feminists throw me on a spear turner and cook me over a fire, it's not because I'm some 12-year old living in a man's body that shudders at the thought of a woman's monthly cycle.

Hell, I have no problem with buying pads for Rosie on a regular basis. And don't even get me started on period sex, that shit is the best. Especially on the days when she's really fucking horny and just wants to be on my dick all the time. Too much? Sorry for the TMI.

No, the reason for my cause for concern has less to do with my discomfort towards risking my manhood and more to do with the feminine hygiene aisle - which is where I find myself, twenty minutes later, at a nearby CVS.

"What. The. Fuck." I mutter to myself, feeling like I'm drowning in a sea of heavy flows and panty liners. Shelves upon shelves of different colored boxes, all promising the hypothetical teenage girl inside me, different things.

After a few minutes, I look around, hoping that this will be like some skit on a sitcom where a helpful clerk appears and helps me find whatever the fuck it is I didn't know I would need. But when I look left and right, I am met with only silence and one random woman with headphones over her ears; and she looks like she would rather give one of her kidneys to a homeless guy than help me.

Deciding that I would rather use a lifeline than get the question wrong, I pull out my phone and call the only person I can think of. Rosie.

Of course it goes to voicemail because why would she answer her phone? I also consider calling my sister-in-law, but they're about five hours ahead of us and the last thing I need to be doing is be hitting up my brother's wife in the middle of the night.

So, with my options dwindling down faster than the overflowing sandglass, I turn to Google, trying to channel my inner-Rosie. Though, to be clear, if this was actually some Freaky Friday shit - with me waking up in my girlfriend's body, I wouldn't need Google. Because I, would not be leaving the bedroom.

"Hey, sorry to bother you." I begin, a few minutes later when I've finally given in and walked over to the anonymous girl. Woman? Whatever you wanna call my last chance for success on planet earth. Since the only thing Google gave me was a plethora of search results and a big fuck you.

Like, why isn't there a guide for buying pads for your girlfriend, as a grown man? I feel like Men's Health should've been teaching us that and buying flowers rather than constantly stroking our metaphorical dick's ego.

She ignores me - whether on purpose or because whatever's playing in her ears is too loud. I contemplate leaving and going to harass a store clerk, but I feel like that would potentially be more awkward - considering the only person in a red shirt I've seen today was a fifty year old Indian man.

"Hey, sorry." I begin again, trying to think of the best way to phrase that I need help buying pads for my girlfriend. Thankfully the second attempt at conversation has her finally looking over and making me put on my I'm not trying to hit on you but I'm a strange man that wants to talk to you, face.

She pulls one of the earbuds from her ears, going to pause the mixed media item that's playing on her phone. "Can I help you?" She asks, using words that would make you think she's a store clerk but making it clear that she'd really like to be saying what the fuck do you want? In some ways I guess I'm lucky that I found a woman in the period aisle and not a man because he'd probably just tell me to go fuck myself.

"Hey, yeah. Sorry to bother you, but my girlfriend asked me to buy her pads and I have no idea what kind I'm supposed to get and I know it's weird for me to ask you for help but I also don't wanna go back to her with the wrong thing and-" She cuts off my rambling by holding her hand up; as if to say stop, I've heard enough. I'm going to call the police and hopefully you'll get the help you need in the mental ward.

I don't know what it is, but I've just been stressed the fuck out since last night. Actually, I know exactly what it is: Rosie losing the baby. Rosie giving the baby up? The baby no longer being alive. I don't know. I didn't think it would affect me, but it has. Not in a way that makes me feel any different towards her, but in a way that makes me really appreciate what sex has the potential to do.

I mean, I used to hook up with random girls from Tinder or sports bars; not caring about whether they were on birth control or if the condom broke. It used to be fucking. I used to fuck girls. Now, I make love. Call that a turn-around.

The girl begins to walk away and down the aisle; and I mentally prepare myself to be thrown out by the store clerk. Note to self: as soon as I get home, take a picture of Rosie's pad box so I know what it looks like. Worst case scenario if I can't find it next time, I'll just show it to a store clerk and at least know what I'm looking for - or look like I do.

The biggest plot twist of all, is when the girl picks a couple of boxes of pads from the shelves and returns only to drop them into my hands. "These are the ones I usually use. But I gave you the overnight ones just in case she's having a heavy flow." She says before briefly making eye contact with me.

Like someone that's been anointed a store clerk without the micro-managing boss or bad pay, she looks at me as if to ask if there's anything else.

And before I can muster anything close to enough of a thank you, she's turned around and walking towards the cash. Leaving me with three boxes of multi-colored maxi pads, and a smile of relief on my face.