"You took my heart, turned me insane, by love, with love in love, for love."
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The rain outside had no rhythm. It fell in a kind of frenzied, unmusical patter, a thousand tiny drops pelting against the dormitory windows as if the skies were frantic to empty themselves, to sob themselves dry. The kind of rain that makes you want to disappear under blankets and not emerge until spring.
And that’s exactly what I did. Disappear.
Curled up into Isla’s bed, buried under the massive oatmeal knit blanket she’d draped over me, I felt like a tired little field mouse nesting in someone else’s world. My body felt wrong in all the ways it always did during this time of the month — tight, sore, achy, and stretched too thin.
The pain was relentless today.
I pressed the blistering hot heat pad harder into my belly, the warmth nowhere near enough, but comforting in that useless way a hand can be when you know it can’t stop the pain but still want it there. My legs were pulled up under the blanket, knees brushing my chest, and even though I was covered in warm wool and cotton, I still felt exposed, like the insides of me were screaming.
Why did Eve have to eat that stupid apple? Honestly. Was one bite of fruit worth all this?
Across the room, Isla was in nothing but her baby pink bra and a thong that I’m fairly certain would qualify as floss. She’d been giving me a full runway show of every single dress she’d bought for her anniversary next week with Cameron, and dear heavens, none of them had sleeves. Or... backs. Or enough fabric to be called safe.
“I swear to God, if I don’t give that man a heart attack when I walk in next week, I’m suing the boutique,” Isla muttered, tugging up a tight black satin dress that clung to her like sin itself.
I giggled softly. “You will, Isla. That slit alone is criminal. You’re going to make Cameron combust.”
She spun, inspecting herself in the full-length mirror beside her desk, one hand tugging at the spaghetti strap, the other fixing her curls. “That’s the plan. He’s been too smug lately. Needs a little punishment.”
I peeked over the blanket at her, my voice soft. “How did you two meet again? You said it was through Aadam, but you never told me the story properly.”
Isla turned, blushing slightly — Isla blushing, which itself was a wonder — and walked over, plopping down beside me dramatically.
“I did say that, didn't I?” she grinned, eyes gleaming. “Not telling, though. That’s for another day.”
“Not fair!” I protested weakly, clutching the blanket tighter to my tummy. “You always leave me hanging!”
“You’re adorable when you pout,” she laughed, dragging a wine-red satin dress over her head, tugging it down her body like it was fighting her curves. “Right. Rate this one. This one’s anniversary-worthy, right? Or too much boob?”
