My brilliant idea to arrive at my condo together was pointless; Ana and Carlos aren’t even here, and Ana texted to let us know they won’t be arriving anytime soon.

“Is there anything else bothering you?” I ask.

Having fed Solange my signature bachelor meal of spaghetti and salad, I’m standing next to her at the kitchen counter as we dry the last of the dishes. She looks drained, the usual life in her eyes conspicuously missing. I can’t help wondering if I’ve done something to upset her.

She sighs, then sits on a stool. “I didn’t expect I’d ever have to explain this to you, but my period is coming, which means I’ll be grumpy for a bit. It’s not a fun time. I get terrible premenstrual cramps for several days, and they sap me of my usual strength. Happens like clockwork, unfortunately. I can borrow the electric stimulator from Natalia if you’d like to experience it for yourself.”

“Uh, no thanks.” There’s no way I’ll willingly strap on those nodes ever again. “So, given how you’re feeling, is it safe to be around you?”

She narrows her eyes.

Shit. I’m fucking toast. I back up a few steps just in case.

“Here’s a life tip, ol’ pal of mine,” she says. “There are certain things you don’t get to talk about. Not without negative consequences. And only people who get periods can talk about the attitude that goes along with them. I don’t make the rules; that’s just the way it is.”

“I can live with those rules,” I say quickly. “Permission to change the subject, then?”

“Smart man. Granted.”

I pull her off the stool, take her place, and draw her across my lap so we’re facing each other. “Okay, I want to know something about you that wasn’t in your dossier. A fact others would find surprising. And you need to make it good.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Extra points if it’s incriminating stuff.”

She rests her shoulder against mine and thinks about my question for a bit, then puffs out her chest as though she’s putting on a brave face and pushing through her discomfort. “Okay, here’s something: I throw one-person fashion shows in my apartment. And I don’t mean trying on clothes in front of a mirror. No, it’s an event. Makeup. Lights. Hairstyle changes. Brandon plays the emcee.”

It’s easy to picture them doing this together. I mean, Brandon would be the perfect hype man. “I bet he’s excellent at it too.”

She nods. “He is.”

I study her face and watch the life return to her eyes. This is an activity Solange obviously enjoys. But then she grimaces, and I wish there were something I could do to make her feel better.

“Want to throw a show here?” I ask.