Page 139 of Snap Shot

We pull up to the curb. Gabe's reflection in the window tuts with a cringed face.

“Nah. I don't want anything of his.”

“Fair point. Hesuuuucks.” My arm crosses the console to palm over the tangle of her fingers. I really am the worst at consoling. “I love you.”

She lets me hug her before stepping out of my car, then squeezes my outstretched hand through the open window. “Love you, too. I'll text when Dad picks me up.”

“Let me know if you need anything done here that's not illegal.”

Gabe snorts. “I'll send my minions to do my dirty work. Don't worry.”

“Seriously?” I glare at her. “Yougottastop telling me stuff like that.”

She winks and chuckles, blowing me a kiss before striding through the sliding double doors. Knowing she'll be in good hands with her family leaves me with a sense of relief.

It's short-lived, however, because my period decides to appear a week early.

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This first half of the workweek is a string of Mondays and doesn't help my hormone-driven snippiness. An untimely shitstorm brews as Bea's down with a respiratory infection she caught in Montreal, Thomas's borrowed assistant is clueless, and Pall's lawyer left a voicemail to say they have proof Landon made promises to Annalise but won't answer the countless phone calls we make asking for it.

Landon getting back into town after four days away is the shiny cherry on top. My message notifications fill the screen with his filthy texts. So far, I've managed to evade him during the worst few days of the past two cycles. An extra-long blowie and spooning him after did the trick last month.

Not sure I can do that this time without having a total meltdown. I'm not the cool, calm, collected Indi I was last week when he came over to watchMean Girls. Who am I kidding? I wasn't cool then either, but now I know why. The impending blood battle in the ol' cooch had me out of sorts.

I swing from wanting to flip my desk over to hiding underneath it to cry myself a river. Of course, I can't do either and have to be a professional through the horrendous menstrual cramps. These heels add to the constant ache plaguing my lower back. Brief moments of respite where the incapacitating pain isn't so bad are rudely interrupted by lightning striking my butthole.

When I finally escape the office, a bhinda craving hits and comes along with a need to cook it myself. The Indian grocery also offers fresh, locally-made rotli and I snag a packet of those, too. I do my best to slice the okra into thick rounds, soaking the cut pieces in a bowl of water while taking a shower.

The universe seems entirely against me when there's only one tampon left in the box. There's no way I'm leaving this apartment to face society right now. I'll likely get committed.

Clad in a pair of super baggy sweats and the largest, most worn-out t-shirt I own to allow for bra-less freedom for my sensitive chest, I shuffle towards the kitchen for a late dinner. The excitement and sense of pride vanish when realizing the okra has turned into one giant, slimy mass. I make a domestic emergency FaceTime call.

“Hello?”Mom's voice is sleepy.

“Mom? Did I wake you?”

“No, I dozed off while reading.” She sniffs and rubs her eye under her glasses. “Is everything okay?”

I stifle tears. “No, everything isnotokay.”

“What happened, betu?”

Pushing the phone against the backsplash, I show her the bowl, sinking my fingers into the bhinda goo and stretching its slime. She gasps.

“You put cut bhinda in water?”

“Was I not supposed to? I always saw you put cut shaak in water.”

Her shock turns to laughter. “Not for bhinda! Oh, God. Rahul!” She calls for Dad off-screen with a wave of her arm. “Look what our daughter did!”

“Mom!”

It's not her fault she has no idea how delicate my emotional state is. Dad joins in on the teasing, face-palming at my stupidity. They're still laughing when I've had enough.

“I hope you enjoyed yourselves. Good night.”

I hang up, drain the bowl's contents into the sink and turn on the garburator. A regretful frown wrinkles my face at the bare cupboards and moldy bread in the fridge. Plain rotli is no good on its own unless it's fresh. I chuck the packet aside. I've lost my appetite anyway. A good, messy cry is far overdue, but no tears come. My phone dings on the counter.

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