Page 271 of Tell Me I'm Enough

My mouth opens, and I almost cry instead of answering because there’s so much pain.

“It hurts,” I whisper.

Lani’s face gets so serious that it scares me. “We need to take you to the hospital.”

“No,” I say immediately. “No. I’m not—I’m not going to the hospital for a period, Lani.”

“This isn’t a period,” she says, looking at me with pleading eyes, needing me to listen to her.

“It is,” I insist. “It’s just—it’s just bad because it’s late.”

Lani doesn’t argue. She just stands and starts gathering my things.

“Can you stand up?” she asks.

“Yeah, I think so,” I lie.

“Okay,” she says, and then she puts an arm around me and helps me up, and the second my weight shifts, my knees almost give out.

A fresh wave of pain hits, and I gasp, doubling over.

Lani catches me. “Yeah,” she says softly. “You definitely can’t.”

She walks me over to one of the stalls and helps change my clothes, pad, and then helps me slide into my sweats with such gentleness that makes me feel emotional because this is a very exposed and vulnerable moment for me.

I’m not used to having anyone take care of me like this. I’m used to being on the other end here.

When she finishes, she looks at me. “Do you want me to get Lydia?”

“No, no. I don’t want her worrying.”

Lani studies me for a beat. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”

A part of me knows this isn’t just my period, and for some reason, that makes me more scared for anyone else to know.

She nods, but her eyes soften. “Okay. Then it’s just you and me, girl.”

Lani places a couple of towels in her passenger seat before helping me in. I draw my knees to my chest, trying to ease the ache, and just stare at the dash, trying to think about anything except the pain right now.

The drive is mostly silent, and I’m thankful, because I don’t think I can really talk right now.

Eventually, when the pain is on the downside of a sharp wave, and I can get a breath in, I speak.

“What is happening to me?” It comes out in a whisper, and I’m surprised she even hears me.

“We’re gonna find out, okay? It’s gonna be okay.”

“It doesn’t feel okay.”

“I know,” she says softly.

* * *

The emergency room is hectic, and all I can do is stand at the front desk, with a towel between my legs, and my head resting on the counter, trying not to move an inch, and bracing for more pain.

After getting checked in, the lady tells us to have a seat in any of the chairs, and someone will call my name soon.