Page 31 of Beautiful Desire
“I’m gonna go lie down,” she announces before disappearing into her room for the rest of the night. Deciding to get some homework done, I grab my laptop out of my backpack and take it outside, but I can’t seem to focus. My mind keeps going back to Georgia, and to what she saidearlier.
So, instead of doing the homework I need to do, I google the term she mentioned: PCOS. I’ve heard it before, but I don’t have a damn clue what it means, and apparently, I’m not getting shit done until I do.
14
Georgia
Good god, why is it so freaking hot in here?
Throwing the covers off my body, I crank the fan as high as it’ll go before I toss the remote on the nightstand and lie back down, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what the hell I ever did to the universe to deserve such cruel and unusual punishment. You’d think I’d be used to this torture by now, given the fact my first period was nearly three decades ago, but every month, without fail, I’m brutally humbled when this bitch makes her grand appearance.
My period came a few hours after Fletcher and I got home from lunch yesterday, like I knew it would, so most of last night and this morning was spent curled up on the bathroom floor, fighting the urge to throw up. I was planning to go into work today, because I have a million things to get done, but of course, that didn’t happen because day two isalwaysthe worst. After attempting to placate my raging uterus with a heating pad earlier, I was finally able to pass out, which is all fine and dandy,but now I’m drenched in sweat and my bedroom feels like it’s pushing a hundred degrees.
Reaching for my stainless-steel water bottle on the nightstand, I audibly groan, finding it empty.Of course, it is.Cup in hand, I climb out of bed and meander barefoot toward my door. The clock on the wall tells me it’s a little after two, meaning I slept for nearly three hours.Damn.Guess I should probably make some food when I refill my water, considering I haven’t eaten since we went out for lunch yesterday.
Stepping into the hallway, the first thing I notice is the scent in the air. It’s strong, and smells like a mix of bleach, lemon, and…coconut? That, in and of itself, is already a bit odd, but then my ears perk up at the faint sound of music coming from somewhere in the house.
“Is that…Tupac?” I whisper to myself as I pad across the hardwood floor.
Reaching the end of the hallway, I peer into the living room, finding it empty, before turning left toward the kitchen, but the sight has me stopping in my tracks.What the fuck?My hand comes up, covering my mouth, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, because standing in my kitchen, holding what looks to be the handle of the mop, is my stepbrother. And not only is he mopping the floor, but he’s also singing along to what I can now make out to beKeep Ya Head Upby Tupac while doing it.
Quite enthusiastically, too.
Wearing a black backwards hat, huge yellow rubber gloves, and no shirt, Fletcher is completely oblivious to the fact that I’m watching him. The giant bottle of Pine-Sol next to the burning mahogany coconut candle on the counter explains the smell in here, but the giant basket beside it has me wildly confused. I bring my attention back to Fletcher as the song switches over toGoodbye Earl, and I have to admit…my amusement definitelyoutweighs the confusion, so instead of making my presence known by asking the many questions floating around in my head, I watch the—rather riveting—performance taking place in my kitchen.
Surprisingly, I’m able to go unnoticed for most of the song, but when he gets to the second,“Earl had to die,”I lose it. Laughter bubbles out of me before I can stop it.
A garbled sound flies from Fletcher, and he jumps, head whipping in my direction. “Good god, woman.” He clutches his chest, yellow rubber glove and all. “How long have you been standing there?” he blurts out, a scowl twisting his features.
“Long enough to catch a rare performance from the late Tupac Shakur,” I drawl, barely getting the words out before laughing again. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m mopping.”
“Obviously.” I snort, walking closer. “Butwhyare you mopping? The most I’ve ever seen you to do around here is clean up the dinner dishes and do your own laundry—both of which you bitch about the entire time you do it.”
Propping the mop against the wall beside the pantry, Fletcher grabs his phone and turns off the music. “You don’t feel good,” he says with a shrug. “Figured I’d clean up the house so you could rest and not worry about it. I knocked on your door earlier to see if you wanted some food, but you didn’t answer. Figured you were passed out.”
Glancing around, that’s when I notice how…tidy everything is. The vacuum is plugged into the wall in the dining room behind me, and there’s a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels sitting on the table underneath the window in the living room, and if I had to guess, I’d say the bleach I smell is coming from the bathroom.
My heart squeezes as I look back at Fletcher, swallowing around the large knot suddenly overtaking my throat. “Did you clean…the entire house?”
“Oh, don’t look so surprised.” Chuckling, Fletcher crosses his arms over his chest and nods. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. That a problem, Peach?” His arched brow and the lopsided grin make my heart race.
I don’t understand the fluttering feeling in my stomach, or the intense way my pulse is racing, or the way I’m gaping at him for several long seconds because I can’t think of a single thing to say in response. First, he picked up that something was wrong with me yesterday, and then took charge and made sure the bill was paid and that I got home quickly, and now this. It’s so thoughtful, and I have to admit, it’s nice having these things taken care of without me. But it’s different, and it makes me kind of uncomfortable. I’m not used to it.
“Not a problem,” I finally say, breathing out averyforced laugh to hopefully hide my uneasiness. “It’s just really nice of you, when you didn’t have to do any of this. Thank you.”
Fletcher barks out a laugh and rolls his eyes. “I’m plenty nice when people aren’t nagging me,” he teases.
“Mmhmm, sure you are.” My lip twitches with a smile. Then, nodding to my left, curiosity getting better of me, I ask, “What’s with the basket, Little Red Riding Hood? Having yourself a little picnic?”
“Oh, right!” Fletcher’s eyes dart over to where it’s sitting, like he’s just now remembering it’s there. Grabbing the basket off the counter, he saunters out of the kitchen, over to me. “So, uh…” He breathes out an awkward laugh, and that’s when I notice the color to his cheeks that wasn’t there a minute ago. Gesturing toward the table behind me, he says, “Here, let’s go over here.”
“Are you okay?” Turning around, I set my cup on the table while he does the same with the basket. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Fletcher look even remotely uncomfortable.
Meeting my gaze for a brief moment, he nods. “Yeah, I’m good.” He lifts the corner of the lid and glances inside before closing it again, his eyes coming back up to mine. “Look, this all seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that you’re standing here, I kind of think it’s pretty lame. And I didn’t pick up a basket when I was at the store because I figured you would have one. You’re a girl—girls have baskets—but all you had was this.”
What?A giggle bubbles past my lips.“Thatisa basket.”
