I lift my seltzer instead and smile at him over the rim. He nods in satisfaction, then goes to pour himself a third bourbon from the decanter at his elbow.
Which is perfect timing, really. A third bourbon is exactly what I needed him to pour.
“I’ll get you some water with that,” I say sweetly, rising. “You’ll want to be hydrated for the flight.”
He grunts in response, already having moved on in his head, it seems.
I clear our plates. In the kitchen, I run the tap, fill a tall glass, set it on the counter, and then I take the little pill out from where it’s been living all afternoon—not in my tampon drawer anymore, but in the pocket of my apron, taped to the inside, where my fingers have brushed it over and over again this evening to make sure it’s still there.
I crush it up on the cut
