“Oh, come on,” she groaned, throwing a pillow at the screen. “There is no way Cher can just fail her driving test and get away with it.”

“She’s rich,” I countered with a shrug. “Rich people don’t fail things.”

“She totally flunked that test⁠—”

“So, you hate Cher now?”

“No, I love her. But I’m not letting her drive me anywhere.”

I huffed a laugh. “I’d let her drive me.”

“You’d die.”

“Worth it.”

Beverly swatted my arm, but she was laughing, and I could tell the whole ignoring-her-for-months thing was slipping to the back of her mind. She slumped further under the blanket, pulling it up to her chin as we kept watching.

She kept asking me questions about the characters, like she was trying to make the movie a quiz show, and I had to keep pretending I knew what I was talking about.

“Okay, but do you think Cher actually has a wardrobe like that in real life?” she asked, eyes wide, obviously envious.

I scratched my chin. “You know, I bet she does.”

“But how would she decide what to wear every day? She strikes me as the type to have a meltdown over the wrong shade of pink.”

We laughed through the next few scenes, Beverly’s eyes twinkling when Cher’s outfits got more extravagant and the plot got more absurd.

A few minutes passed before she let out a groan. “Ugh. Blake.”

“What?”

She pressed a hand to her stomach. “It’s getting worse.”

I frowned, pausing the movie.

“My uterus.” She groaned dramatically. “Why does it have to do this? It’s literally punishing me for not being pregnant.”

“I mean, technically, it’s⁠—”

She glared at me. “If you say ‘biology,’ I will throw⁠—”

I held up my hands. “Alright, alright. You know, if I were in charge of the world, I’d make period days mandatory sick days.”

“You are in charge of the world. You’re a man.” She shifted, curling in on herself. “Ugh. You don’t understand. It’s like my insides are at war with me.”

“Sounds awful.” I paused, thinking. “If it helps, I can suffer with you.”

“How?” She squinted at me.

I shrugged. “I’ll stub my toe or something.”

“Sure,” she huffed, shaking her head. “Let me know when you plan to kick the table leg in my honor.”

“I’ll do it right now.”

“No!” She chuckled, shoving my arm. “Idiot,” she added before she groaned again, flopping onto her side.

“You need pain meds?”

“Took some already. Not helping.”

“Hot water bottle?”

She sighed. “Dad’s using it for his back. I want chocolate, Blake. And fries. And pizza. And an entire cake.”

“Sounds like you just want food.”

“Yeah, but, like, specifically period food.”

“Is that a thing?”

“It is now.” She sat up slightly, eyes shining with fake intensity. “It’s like magic. You eat the fries, and suddenly, you’re healed.”