Page 48 of Fair Trade
I’m an asshole to the highest degree for not clarifying to Luisa that Delilah is my beloved pup who always travels with me.
But there was no reason to.
Because in the end, I need her to hate me.
At least half as much as I hate myself.
twenty-one
They say time healsall wounds.
I say not seeing your boss’s arrogant mug for a month does the trick.
Yep. This office has been Nick-free ever since he decided to hightail it outta here with his flavor of the week.
And during that time, I’ve relished our team’s incredible season.
I’ve visited some of the most iconic baseball fields while on the road. It’s not lost on me how lucky I am to not only do what I love but also get to travel across the country on the team’s jet and stay at nice hotels.
Money was tight growing up. My family was lucky if we scrounged up enough cash to fly down to the Dominican Republic every couple of years to see family. Even then, we would crash with a relative to save on accommodations.
Now, I FaceTime my parents and show them where I’ve landed and what I’ve been up to. And if they finally agree toit, I’ll fly them out for an away game so they can experience a Monarchs game in enemy territory.
It probably would have happened sooner, but they refuse to take any more help than I’m already giving them. Because the second I signed my contract, I took over paying their rent and bills.
I think every first-generation kid’s dream is to retire their parents. It’s a way of saying thank you for all the sacrifices they’ve made.
Unfortunately, New York is one pricey place to retire, and my parents aren’t ready to leave the city and head south to the Caribbean to sip on rum and Cokes on the beach quite yet, so this is the best I could come up with.
Life honestly has never been better.
Until this morning when I finally got my period after more than two months.
I should have known last night when I was overly emotional during an episode ofSummer Housethat something was awry. Yet when I woke up, curled into the fetal position, I knew even before my eyes fluttered open that I was in for a hell of a day.
I hate that I sometimes feel at war with my body. Treating it like an unpredictable adversary instead of a supposed temple.
But this isn’t my first rodeo.
So I walked to my closet and pulled out the knee-length dress that would be my saving grace. It flows away from my body, hiding the bloat that had already formed and is short enough to keep me comfortable in this July heat. And it’s black, meaning it’s the best choice in case of a worst-case scenario.
I paired it with a structured maroon blazer and my comfiest black running sneakers.
I knew exactly how this day would go, and I was starting to dread it.
I had an important meeting lined up that couldn’t be rescheduled, so I was going to have to load myself up on caffeine and snack often if I wanted to survive.
I start to carefully orchestrate my day in my head as I weave through the executive offices.
I wish I was still in bed.
The cramping has begun, and I haven’t even made it to my desk yet.
I could take a sick day. Maybe even work from home. But I’m too stubborn to let my PCOS win.
And paranoia—that someone would find out why I called out—would forever haunt me.
The moment I was hired, the internet trolls were commenting on all the things I could do wrong. And that was before I set foot in the stadium. I ignored most of the chatter, but the idea that I wouldn’t be a good GM because I’d be a moody bitch who’d miss a week of work every month simply because I had a uterus struck a little too close to home.
