But then I’d thought of him spelling out that word to me—T-E-N-S-E—and I’d known—in some certain, specific place inside of me—that I didn’t want him spending his Saturday alone. I’d gone to bed early with that dull, anticipatory ache in my lower belly, hoping for better luck with the premenstrual mood pendulum in the morning.

And when I wake up, I do feel less like murdering or crying. Of course, that’s because the main event has arrived, which means the dull ache has turned into something heavier and sharper. My lower back aches, everything I put on feels a half size too small, and I would very much like to attach a vacuum hose to my mouth that connects directly to a bag of chocolate, clutch a heating pad to my middle, and watch a series of rom-coms where no one ever seems to get a period, ever.

But I said yes to Reid, and I don’t want to go back on my answer—not only for him, but for me, too. I want to walk and play and get inspired again.

So I shove a few extra tampons in a small purse—I can’t imagine hauling my bag today—knock back a couple Advil, and take a long subway ride to the Village.

He’s waiting for me when I walk up the steps from the station, as he’d promised he would be, his casual-Reid uniform in place: sneakers, jeans, T-shirt, jacket. His face, obviously, looks fan-fucking-tastic, which I’d appreciate more if he didn’t look immediately at my own and wrinkle his brow.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, in lieu of a greeting.

The only solace I take in this question is the private speculation I indulge in about what would happen if I loudly announced to Reid on a public street that I got my period. Imagine the throat clearing! It would be legend.

“Oh, you know,” I say, waving a hand back toward the station. “Long ride over.”

He straightens his already straight posture. “I would’ve come to Brooklyn.”

He’d offered, actually, when we’d first made these plans, but it’d been my suggestion to meet in the Village, where I know there’re tons of examples of old, painted signs. I force a smile, try to smooth over the wrong-footed start—whatever my face was doing when Reid first saw it, that note of embarrassed defensiveness in his voice.

“I know,” I say lightly. “Your turn to come up with a game.”

I start walking, not really caring if he had another direction in mind. I’ve just had a fresh bout of cramping, the kind that snakes all the way down the front of my legs. If this is going to work out today, I need to clench my teeth and keep moving.