Chapter 8: Rowen, Part 1

Pepto. Soup. Crackers. Sprite. Deodorant.... What else?

I can't remember. Tiffany told me to make list this morning when I told her I was going to the store after practice. Did I listen? No. So now I'm wandering around Walmart, which I already hate, trying to remember what she told me to get.

I look in my cart and run down my mental list again.

Pepto. Soup. Crackers. Sprite.... Got all that.

Turning down the aisle, I dodge a child who runs in front of my cart. That right there is why I'm okay with not having any kids right now, despite the inevitable questions from everyone asking why Tiffany and I eloped. I can't remember everything on my shopping list. How would I be able to keep up with a kid? I love Tiffany, and when the time is right, it'll happen. But I'm good with waiting for a while.

Pepto. Soup. Crackers. Sprite… ooh! A three pack of my favorite deodorant is on sale! I snag that sucker and toss it in the cart. Athletes go through a shit ton of hygiene products. We have to unless we want to smell like funky BO all the time, which I don't.

Finally giving up, I grab my phone and dial. Tiffany picks up on the second ring and before I can even say anything, she proves why she's my better half.

"Maxi pads and tampons. I need maxi pads and tampons."

"How did you know that's why I was calling?" I start looking up and down the aisle to see if I'm anywhere close to the lady Band-Aid section.

"Because you didn't write it down this morning when I told you to."

"I was practicing my short-term memory."

"And how's that working out for you?" she jokes.

"Not bad, actually. I found a three-pack of deodorant on sale while I was wandering around, trying to figure it out."

"That absolutely makes up for not writing out a list." Her throaty laugh throws my libido in high gear again. It doesn't matter that she's been sick for damn near a week. I still want her with an intensity I can't even describe. It could be because I'm still new at this whole sex thing, but it's more likely because we have such a strong connection, not just physically. She's my best friend. I like being with her more than anyone else in the world.

"All right, all right. I'll write it down next time. You can stop making fun. Now where am I going to find these things?"

"Are you still in the deodorant aisle?"

"Yep."

"Two aisles down when you head toward the exit."

I make my way around more children and an employee stocking the shaving cream. Because the middle of the day is a great time to stock shelves. "How are you feeling anyway?"

"Well I haven't thrown up in the last, oh, three hours. This stomach bug is brutal. No wonder so many people called out of work."

"And now you have your monthly friend, so that's even better."

"No, I don't," she says with a grunt. I assume she's shifting around on the couch, which is where I left her this morning. "I just happened to look under the cabinet today when I was praying to the porcelain god and realized I was almost out."

"What? You're making me suffer this humiliation for something you don't even need yet?"

"First, you'd much rather me have them readily available for when I need them, than have to clean up that mess. Just trust me."

I grimace at the thought.

"Second, this shows everyone around you that you're man enough to have a good woman by your side."

I chuckle. "I'll take your word on all that."

"Are you there yet?" she asks impatiently.

"No. Still dodging random obstacles in my way," I say as a third kid runs in front of me. Seriously, I play less defense on the soccer field than I do here.

"So Steve called."

"Your boss, Steve?"

"Yep."

"I hope he's not giving you shit for calling out…"

"No, no. Not at all. Adam, Jason Hart's manager called."

My eyebrows shoot up in interest. "And?"

"And they want permission to use my story from a couple weeks ago as part of their marketing for his foundation."

"That's great, babe!" I congratulate. "That's huge for your résumé."

"I know. I'll have ESPN calling me before you know it."

I can hear the smile in her voice. Her biggest dream is to produce sports shows for that channel. Watching her make small steps the right direction is fun to see.

"I'm really proud of you."

"Thanks. Are you there yet?"

"Yep. I'm here, and no small children have been run over. What am I looking for?"

"Look on your left. You see all the condoms and lube and stuff?"

"Should I be worried that you can visualize the birth control aisle at Walmart?" I rib.

"Shut up, Rookie. I have to hit that aisle once a month, remember? Look just to the right of those items, and you'll see the tampons."

My eyes widen. "There are a lot of boxes."

"I know. You're looking for a pink box. It has a giant P on it…"

"Got it!" I grab the box feeling victorious and read it off to her. "Playtex Sport, Regular size, plastic applicator… Babe… are you sure this is what you want?"

"Nicely done," she praises. "That's exactly it. Toss that puppy in the cart."

"Tiff, are these the inside ones or outside ones?"

"What?"

I lower my voice hoping no one around hears me. "Do these go inside you or stay outside on your underwear?"

"Seriously? You're twenty-four years old. How do you not know which ones these are?"

"Really?" I contend. "You were there. Up until a few weeks ago, there wasn't a whole lot of vagina talk in my world."

She laughs again. "Touché. Those are the inside ones."

This makes me concerned. "Babe. That doesn't seem safe. To have plastic inside you all day?"

She howls with laugher this time. I can practically hear the tears running down her face.

"I don't understand what's funny about me being concerned for your safety."

"I love you, Rowen," she says as she tries really hard to pull herself together. "But that's just the applicator."

"Yeah, but it goes inside you."

"It doesn't stay there."

"It doesn't?" I rub my face. "I'm confused."

"When you get home, I'll give you tampon 101 and explain it."

"Okay, I give up." I throw the box in the cart, giving up the fight. "What am I looking for now?"

"Turn around and look on the opposite side of the aisle."

Holy. Shit.