Moonglow

Book 0: Darkborn Legacy

by Michael Griffo

Genres: YA Werewolves & Shifters

Synopsis

From the author of the acclaimed Archangel Academy vampire trilogy comes a stunning new series about a girl determined to defy her fate--and reclaim her future. . .

Something strange is going on with Dominy Robineau. All her friends in Weeping Water, Nebraska, have noticed--and it's way beyond teenage blues. As weeks pass, Dom grows consumed by anger, aggression, and violence, and she seems powerless to stop it. Then she turns sixteen, and things get really dangerous.

When her best friend is murdered, Dominy's father is compelled to reveal the truth behind the darkness that threatens to both overtake and empower her. Her boyfriend, Caleb, swears they'll find a way to change her destiny. But others are hiding secrets too, and gifts that are far more terrifying than hers. And even as she struggles to control her new abilities, Dom must contend with an enemy who wants her to use the beast within to destroy all those she loves, before she destroys herself. . .

Release date: March 1, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 416

Sample

Today

I am about to become a very bad person.

The change begins slowly, but not unexpectedly. Not entirely. There have been warning signs; I just didn’t understand them. Until now. Now I know an enemy has been stalking me, watching me, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. When I scream I know that moment has finally arrived.

My screams tear through my body, gush out of my mouth, and infest the night air. They’re the last sounds I hear before my world turns black. The last sounds I hear from when I was still good.

The first thing I notice when I wake up is that I don’t feel any more pain. I no longer feel the burning. I no longer feel as if my limbs are being ripped out of their sockets, as if saws and teeth and knives are splitting my flesh open from the inside out. I no longer feel as if my body wants to kill me. That’s the good news. The bad news is I have no idea what happened. The space between then and now is empty. One second I was happy; the next I was feeling worse than I ever thought humanly possible.

So I’m alive, but where am I? Forcing myself to remain calm, I take a deep breath, and the smell of grass and dirt and cold assaults me. I’m definitely outside, but exactly where, I don’t know. I remember passing out when the pain got too intense, when I literally thought I was going to break into separate, unconnected pieces, but for how long? How long was I unconscious? And what happened to me while I gave in to the protection of sleep?

Now that I’m awake, I know that something is wrong. I can feel my body, and yet I can’t; I’m both numb and tingling at the same time. Even still, I think I’m smiling because I’m thankful that I’m not dead. The thing is, I just can’t believe that I’m alive.

I step on the sharp edge of a rock, and it feels like a knife blade has punctured the underside of my foot. The sting terrifies me because it reminds me of the original pain; if it starts again I don’t think I can survive it a second time. How lucky can one person get?

I try to remember the prayer I used to say with my mother, but it’s been too long since I’ve said those words, and anyway I’m distracted by the breathing. Loud, quick breaths, one after another after another, like panting. I don’t know where the sound is coming from, but I don’t like it. It sounds like a wild dog or worse, a coyote or a mountain lion, frightening. Whatever is making that noise sounds like it’s right in front of me, staring at me, but I can’t feel the breath on my face; I can only hear it. Before this change all I heard was laughter, Jess’s and mine; now all I hear is breathing. But the worst part is that I can hardly see.

Someone’s wrapped a plastic bag around my head—that’s what it feels like, clear plastic, tight around my face—and whoever it is, is trying to suffocate me. I imagine what my face looks like pressed up against a plastic bag, my mouth and my eyes wide open, desperate to see and to breathe, and I shake my head because the image is too ugly; I want it out of my mind. I can’t feel anything around my neck, and I don’t feel anyone near me, so that calms me, but I cannot see right. Nothing is clear. Shadows and blurs, that’s it, swirling around my head, making me dizzy, so I close my eyes again, but the blackness makes me even more unsteady. If I’m going to faint, I’m going to faint, regardless of whether my eyes are open or not, so I might as well keep them open and try to figure out where I am.

We were outside near the low hills, Jess and I, on our way to my house before this started, so maybe that’s where I am now. But when I try to focus to remember more details, the breathing sounds faster, like whoever is doing it is hyperventilating. This anxious feeling, this sense of having no control grabs hold of me too, and I get dizzy again. I don’t want to faint, but I don’t know if you can prevent such a thing from happening. Focus and fight. I need to concentrate on specific things and not the swirls and the shadows that are making me unsteady. What do I know? What do I know? Think! Think of the simplest thing, the stupidest thing. My name. I know that my name is Dominy Robineau. My mother wanted to call me Dominique because she’s French, but my father thought it was too fancy for a Midwestern girl, so they settled on Dominy.

Good, I feel better. Still a bit dizzy, but still conscious. My father’s motto has always been “be grateful for what you have,” and I finally understand what that saying means.

What else do I know? It’s almost winter. Yes, that’s right! But the air is more dry than cold, which is odd for Nebraska at this time of year, since it should be frigid and the ground should be invisible underneath the snow. However, the past few weeks have felt different, more like early fall, and I remember hearing people say that it was a relief and they wished it could last forever. That’s a wasted wish because nothing lasts forever. Trust me.

One moment I was in control of my body, and now it’s fighting against me. My head is spinning, my mind wants to shut down, and the only thing I can hear is the sound of that breathing! It’s closer now, like someone’s mouth is right up against my ear. My arms shoot up to feel if someone’s next to me, but I only feel the swoosh of air. Vaguely, I see my arms moving in front of me, in slow motion so they look bigger, darker, but even though they’re moving slowly, I can’t get a clear look. Plus, I know I wasn’t wearing a red jacket. I feel like I’m floating, wrapped tightly in a grass-scented plastic bag and floating, and it feels incredibly wrong. So wrong that my body rebels.

I fall, and the sound of my body crashing to the ground echoes in my ears, replacing the sound of the breathing for a few seconds. I taste dirt. Not that it matters, but I don’t know if I’m lying facedown on the ground or if I’m kneeling, and I made dirt rise up in a little cloud and fill my mouth because I fell so hard. I give in to a strange impulse and start to claw at the earth, really dig in, and I can feel the coolness of the dirt underneath my nails. The sensation is calming, inviting, and I want to stretch out and roll in it, cover my entire body with cool dirt, but I hear a voice and freeze.

The voice isn’t Jess’s; it’s coming from inside my head. Even more calming than the dirt, the voice belongs to my mother. Her slight French accent makes her words sound pretty, makes her sound as if she’s singing.

Remember, Dominy, you are blessed.

The first time she said that to me was on my fifth birthday. Later, she wrote those words down in my card so I would never forget them. Yes! Now I remember! Today is November 29. Today is my birthday.

Slowly, instinctively, I lift my head to look up toward the sky and watch as the clouds separate to reveal a full moon. Magnificent. As welcoming as the unexpected return of a long-lost friend, as reassuring as a parent checking in on you as you pretend to sleep. Why have I never noticed how beautiful the moon can look until tonight? Round and radiant and perfect. But the moon is so much more than physical perfection. It has powers. Its glow is like a lifeline that connects my past to my present to my future. Every secret ever buried will be revealed when trapped within the light of the moon. All I need to do is accept the moon as my teacher, my guide, my master, and I can become powerful too.

A bright flash of light flickers on the ground like a lonely, restless flame, and I’m drawn to it. Scurrying closer to the light-dance, I almost laugh when I see what’s creating such a commotion on the flat, dry land: my watch reflecting the glow of the moon. It’s already begun. The moon is calling to me, offering a clue.

The powder-blue band is scuffed and smeared with dirt, the face is smudged and cracked, but I can see the numbers, and I can see that it’s still working. The second hand ticks along, one second, two seconds, three, until it dawns on me that I can see clearly, no more shadows. Once again I know, somehow, that this change is the moon’s doing.

I keep looking at my watch, waiting for it to do something special, and realize that it already has. The last thing I remember is standing next to Jess, her shoulder pressing into mine, her hair fragrant with the scent of cherry blossoms, and we were watching the second hand on my watch tick away until it reached 6:22 p.m. That’s when I officially turned sixteen. Almost fifteen minutes ago. Why can’t I remember what happened during that lost time?

I look up at the moon again because deep inside me, I know it’s responsible. All the answers to my questions, even those I haven’t yet asked, can be found in its glow, in its perfection. A large gray cloud with coarse edges slides across the face of the moon, changing its appearance. Radiance turns into something ominous. Could this be another clue? Or perhaps a warning that something even worse is about to happen? The revelation frightens me and, along with a renewed sense of fear come the shadows.

The world changes in front of my eyes, and sketchy black-and-white images return, but this time they’re not alone. Accompanying them are noises, grunts and groans, sounds I can’t recognize, but sounds that I can’t ignore. Until I hear the screams.

These screams sound different than the ones I let loose into the air. These drip not only with the fear of the unknown, but also with the desperation and horror of knowing what lies ahead. They’re unlike any sound I’ve ever heard before, and it’s as if they’re tainting the air with their fear. The screams are all around me, but I can’t tell where they’re coming from. Could be miles away, could be right next to me. It’s like I’m in a sealed room, no doors or windows, but the sound is so loud that it can penetrate the walls. What makes it totally unbearable is that I can hear enough to know whoever is screaming is in serious trouble.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I hear the breathing again, wild panting, uncontrollable. Then I feel my stomach push out, contract, push out, contract, and I know that I’m the one making those sounds. I’m the one whose breathing is out of control. Fear grips every inch of my body and my mind; it has taken complete control of me, and I’m helpless. I can’t even control my own breathing!

Another sound cuts right through the screams and the breathing, and it silences them both. The fear inside of me intensifies, because I’ve heard this sound before. It’s a growl. And when you’re outside near the hills, away from people and closer to the animals, hearing a growl is never a good thing.

Finally, my body starts to move. I feel the ground shift underneath me as I run toward the screams. My vision starts to come back, maybe because I’m reclaiming control of my body, so I push ahead. Even though the moon resembles the midday sun, spreading light from its rocky, barren surface, I still can’t see very well, and when I hear another growl, I turn my head too quickly, causing my eyes to glaze over, and I trip on some rocks. The ground shakes, or maybe it’s just my body; I can’t tell. But this time I know that my face is pressed against the ground. I taste the dirt, I can smell it, it’s all over me, and I can feel filth burrow deep inside of me.

The growl is deafening, and I’ve got to move on. But when I push into the ground to stand up, the earth feels even more invigorating, and I can’t, I need to stay right here, holding on to dirt and rocks, feeling connected to the soil. Suddenly, the fear is gone. I’m not scared anymore; I’m confident, vengeful. I look up at the moon and hear my voice turn into a howl. The sound is odd, but I know that it’s mine. I howl again, this time holding the sound longer and letting it grow, so it becomes louder, more powerful, more like my mother’s.

Remember, Dominy, you are blessed.

All I want is for our voices to join together and become one, but we’re interrupted. A louder scream erupts near me, and I recognize the voice. It belongs to Jess.

I’ve never heard her scream like this, and I’ve known her my entire life. She screams again. This time the sound pierces my ear; it’s like she’s right next to me, and her scream turned into a knife. Before I can touch my ear to feel if I’m bleeding, the growls start again, louder and more ferocious. Another surge of terror rips through me, grabbing my insides, and I feel my body shake violently; something’s on me or in me, attacking me or Jess or both of us, I don’t know, but I have to break free! This time when I fall I land on something softer, maybe some grass instead of the flat ground. I’m about to look down to find out what it is when an unfamiliar taste fills my mouth.

It’s new, and it’s bitter, and I like it. It tastes good, and when I swallow I don’t even hear the growls anymore; it’s like every sound has stopped, every part of my world has ceased to exist, and nothing has any importance except this new taste. It’s heaven, and I have got to have more of it.

There’s another scream, higher pitched, like Jess’s voice is being strangled and made to disappear. I only want to concentrate on the taste in my mouth, but I have to find her; I have to figure out a way to help her. Despite the fact that I can taste and hear and even smell extremely well, better than ever before, my sight isn’t good. I still feel like I’m inside a box or a sack. Like the plastic bag that I thought was around my head is now wrapped around my entire body. I can see outside, but it’s all hazy and vague and warped. The world around me is filled with shadows, fast-moving shadows, and I wonder if it’s the same for Jess. Or does she see everything clearly? Is the moon acting like a spotlight illuminating her whole world?

Oh my God. Maybe that’s why she’s screaming. Because she can see what’s out there.

I’m holding something in my hand. I don’t know what it is, but it’s soft and hard at the same time. I think it might be a branch, thick and caked with dirt and mud that you find near the riverbanks. But I don’t smell fresh water, and I don’t hear the gentle flow of the current, so I know I’m not near the river. I must still be near the low hills, where I was when I passed out. Jess and I were running in the dried-up fields at the base of the hills, because I was going to be late and my father had told me to be home before the moon changes everything.

No, that isn’t what he said. He didn’t say anything about the moon. I shake my head from side to side to trick my body into remembering. Now I remember; he told me to get home before it got too dark.

Once again, Jess screams my name, and I forget about my father. I want to scream back; I want to tell her that I’m here, that I can hear her and that I’m trying to help her, but I can’t find my voice. It’s gone. Furious, I squeeze the branch or whatever I’m holding in my hand tighter, squishing it, and the thing starts to move like it’s trying to break free from my hold.

Jess screams my name, frantically, over and over again. My body trembles because I recognize something in her voice, something that horrifies me even more than not being able to see clearly. It’s the way she said my name, shouted it, like she was afraid of me, like she was begging. She screams my name again, a sound that rises high and gets swallowed up by the night, the darkness, the moon, and then there’s nothing. No sound, no Jess. It’s silent and it’s dark, but I’m warm and I feel good. Better than I have in months.

When I wake up I can see perfectly again. I don’t need a watch to know that it’s morning, very early because the sun is just starting to rise above the horizon. The air is chilly, but my body is still warm from sleep, so I don’t shiver. I look down at myself, and the good feeling is gone, ripped from me, because I see that I’m covered in dirt and blood and I’m naked. Naked?!

My clothes are next to me in a heap, ripped and torn, even my sneakers. Quickly, I get dressed, pissed off that there’s a huge tear in my good pair of school khakis from the middle of my thigh to just under my knee. Even my retro Pumas are ruined; the soles are practically torn off. Fear slowly coils around my heart and my mind as I contemplate what could have created such damage.

I collect the strips of material of my shirt to bring them together in an attempt to cover my exposed skin. When I look over to the left, all thoughts of my clothes and myself are gone. The horror and the shock and the agony in my screams remind me of the sounds I made last night. But these screams aren’t made because I’m in pain; I scream because I see Jess staring at me. Her eyes are still wide open, but instinctively I know that she’s dead.

I can’t turn away, even though pieces of flesh on her arms and legs are ripped off and I can see her bones, smooth and pure white. I never knew my friend had marble underneath her skin. A breeze stirs her hair and makes her eyelashes flutter. Hope makes me gasp when I realize I could be wrong; maybe she isn’t dead!

Reaching out to touch her, I gently shake her body. I desperately want to witness a miracle and see that she’s still alive. Even if I knew the words, I don’t think my prayers would be answered, because no one is listening and Jess doesn’t wake up. I shake her harder, then let go as I watch her body move back and forth, back and forth until the momentum subsides and she’s still again. I was right the first time; she’s dead.

Her body’s cold and hard, nothing like mine. I stare at my hand, not because I’m repulsed by having just touched a dead body, but because I see something. Pieces of someone else’s flesh are wedged underneath my fingernails, and I know those pieces used to be part of Jess’s body. I don’t remember how this happened; it’s just another instinct.

I clutch my stomach, and my knees fall onto the ground; the palm of my right hand slams into the dirt and digs into the earth to keep me upright as I vomit. I watch the rancid liquid spill out of my mouth to drench a cluster of rocks, and I feel the warmth finally start to flee my body, wanting no part of me. The stench burns my nostrils, and I turn away from the poison to look at Jess or what’s left of her. I can’t support myself any longer, and I collapse flat onto the ground.

Lying on my side I look over at Jess and I’m consumed by two thoughts that I believe to be facts: My best friend is dead, and I’m the one who killed her.

Three Months Ago

“I am ugly!”

“You are not!” Jess yells.

“I am too!” I yell back. “Look at me!”

“I am looking at you,” she replies. “And you look awesome as always.”

“But . . .” I know Jess has more that she wants to say.

“There is no but,” she fake-protests.

“Yes, there is!” I argue. “I can hear it in your voice. But what?”

Jess lets out a long sigh and puts her hands on her hips; it’s her straight-shooter stance. She’s about to give me her honest opinion instead of trying to make me feel good about myself by telling me a lie.

“But you have got to rethink that outfit,” she says finally.

“Really?” I ask, looking at my reflection in the mirror.

“You’re meeting Caleb’s whole family for the first time; you cannot go looking like you just landed the starring role in a new Disney channel sitcom,” she admits. “Okay, for sure that would mean you’re going to be on TV and make a lot of money and stuff, but you look like you’re wearing a costume. Matching belt, shoes, and scarf? It’s way too much.”

And that’s why Jess is my best friend.

“I should lose one of them?” I ask.

“You should lose all three,” she replies. “Whatever made you think you could pull off lemon yellow?”

“You look great in lemon yellow!”

“Because I am like a walking ray of sunshine!” she screams. “While you, Dominy, are more like sunset. You know, when the sky is all mixed up and doesn’t know if it wants to be red, purple, or blue. Or purply-blue. Or if you just want to let nighttime take over and wear all black.”

Though sometimes she can be a little hard to understand.

“That really doesn’t narrow down my choices,” I say.

“Sure it does!” she disagrees. “Stay away from really bright colors and go more sultry and sophisticated.”

And sometimes she doesn’t know me at all.

“I can’t be sultry and sophisticated! I’m only fifteen.”

“You’ll be sixteen in a few months! It’s high time you started acting like an adult,” Jess reminds me. “Like me.”

It’s my turn to adopt my straight-shooter stance, so I tilt my head to the side and cross my arms. But before I can point out how incredibly off-the-mark her comment is, she points a finger at herself.

“ ’Cause, you know, I’m such an adult!” Jess says, starting to laugh.

But Jess doesn’t laugh; she cackles. Her mother is constantly reminding her that her cackling isn’t ladylike, but Jess can’t help herself. It’s not intentional; it’s just that she hasn’t yet learned the fine art of subtlety.

She’s cackling so loudly now it’s like being inside a balloon when it’s filled with helium; there’s nothing else you can do except go along for the ride. And so I do.

The combination of Jess’s cackling and my giggling—yes, I giggle, and I’m proud of it—fills up my room and my heart and makes me forget about my wardrobe trauma. Until I slip on the pile of clothes on the side of my bed, a pile that was created when I wildly rummaged through my closet to find the perfect outfit to wear to my boyfriend’s cousin’s wedding. It’s her third marriage, but the first one since Caleb and I have been dating, so, for me at least, it’s a really special event.

“I still don’t have anything to wear next weekend!” I pout.

Jess surveys the pile of clothes on the floor. “Try on the pink wraparound dress one more time,” she orders. “No matter what anybody says, redheads look great in pink, and a wraparound never goes out of style.”

Grabbing the dress from the center of the pile, I know Jess’s style advice is solid, but I already tried this dress on, and I looked like I was going out to meet the mailman, not my boyfriend’s family. Holding it up in front of me, I’m about to protest, but Jess is firm.

“Don’t argue with me, Robineau,” Jess says. “The best friend knows best.”

I’ve learned not to argue with Jess when she gets that “know-it-all” tone in her voice; all I can do is trust her, and more often than not I’m rewarded. Even when it looks like she has no idea what she’s talking about. Just as I’m about to slip into the dress for a second time, Jess puts her hands up her T-shirt, shimmies out of her bra, and hands it to me.

“First put this on,” she says. “Everything looks better in a Miracle Bra.”

Looking at my fully dressed self in the mirror, I couldn’t agree with her more. It is a miracle. I’m not ugly. I’m beautiful. And it’s all thanks to Jess.

“Once again you’ve saved my life,” I say, reaching out to squeeze her hand.

“That’s why I was put on this earth,” she replies, squeezing me back. “To protect my best friend from really bad fashion choices.”

Now that we’ve solved my fashion crisis, we move on to home décor.

For as long as I can remember, my room had been painted pink, a few shades lighter than the dress. I grew up living inside a piece of cotton candy, soft and happy and comforting. Even the name of the paint, This Little Piggy, after the nursery rhyme, was comforting. Last month my father went on a painting frenzy because Home Depot was having a sale, and he repainted the inside of the whole house. My walls were stripped of their color and covered in off-white paint—I think the real name is Milkyway, which doesn’t make any sense because the real Milky Way is black, not the color of milk, but whatever—so now they’re blank, totally empty, and I feel like I have to start over. I don’t want to. I want my pink back! I want to go back to living in cotton candy, back to being innocent. Luckily, Jess understands.

“By the way, Dom,” Jess says while foraging through my jewelry box in search of the perfect accessories. “I really do heart your room!”

Or does she?

“What do you mean you heart my room?” I ask. “There’s nothing to heart.”

“Look around!” she commands, her arms opening wide to embrace the emptiness. “This room is the personification of you!”

Jess is sitting cross-legged on my bed; her arms are now outstretched and reaching forward, holding on to nothing. Her arms are as empty as my walls.

“Thanks a lot, Jess,” I whine. “Guess that means I’m nothing.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying!” Jess shoots back. “Your room is a blank slate.” Jess jumps off my bed, toppling over the jewelry box so its contents spill out onto my bed, and runs to the wall next to my desk as if it’s a magnet and she can’t resist its pull. “These walls haven’t decided what color they want to be yet,” she declares, touching the wall delicately with her fingertips before turning around, eyes wide open, one index finger pointing at my face. “Just like you haven’t decided what you want to be when you grow up.”

Jess discovered philosophy this year.

“Is that so?” I ask.

“Buddha says listen to the silence of the walls, Dominy-san.”

She’s also obsessed with all things Japanese.

“Listen!” she instructs. “Listen to what the walls are saying.”

For a moment I pretend to listen, but good old-fashioned American sarcasm cannot hold its tongue. “If the walls are silent, how can they say anything?”

“Because your walls don’t need words to speak!” she pretend-scolds. “Now listen!”

“Sorry,” I say, and try to pretend-listen better.

Jess kneels on the floor in front of me. She tosses the clothes I’m trying to fold to the side and grabs my hands. “Listen to the uncontaminated walls, Dominy, and you’ll find your way,” she instructs. “Then and only then will you be able to walk the path toward acceptance.”

She drops her voice when she speaks, so it sounds deep and smooth and exactly like those people on talk shows who are experts in some weird branch of medicine or psychology, who think that if they speak quietly it’ll make everyone who’s watching at home forget that they’re saying really horrific things. But Jess doesn’t say anything horrific. She actually says something very sweet.

“Allow the energy to circulate,” Jess purrs. “Attach your mind to its vibration and agree to become a passenger on its journey toward happiness.”

Maybe it’s the combination of fake voice and crazy babbling, but part of me thinks she’s talking sense. That she chose those words specifically because I needed to hear them as I set out on a new journey. Maybe she’s legit. A true Yoga guru who can transcend earthly shackles and see into the great beyond. Maybe she knows what I’ve been hiding from everyone, that I’m really very unhappy.

Could she know me better than I thought she did? She is my best friend, after all, and we’ve been close since before kindergarten. But does she truly know that I’ve been faking it lately? I’ve been acting like my normal self, when for some reason I’ve felt isolated and alone and uncomfortable even in places where I used to feel safe. Does she sense that I could use some guidance because I’m scared of losing my way permanently? Or wait . . . is she just having fun at my expense? When I hear her cackles bounce off my blank walls, I know my last thought is the correct one. It was all a joke.

That’s when I hate her. I don’t know if my expression is a perfect illustration of my emotions or if Jess can read my mind, but she knows how I feel.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks.

“Nothing.”

“Oh stop lying!” she whines. “You got that look on your face again, Dom, like you want to rip somebody’s throat out.”

Again? So she has noticed.

“I mean seriously, I just gave you the bra off my back,” she says. “Tell me what’s going on.”

How do I tell her what’s going on when I don’t understand it myself? I’m not a violent person; I’m not someone who gets off on insulting others, bullying them just so I can feel good about myself. But lately that’s how I’ve been feeling, like I want to lash out physically and emotionally at everybody around me. The feeling comes over me unexpectedly and for no reason at all. Like right now. All I want to do is tell Jess that she needs to go on a diet because she’s getting fat and that her blond roots are showing and her dyed black hair looks phony and ridiculous. Then I want to shake her hard and convince her that she has got to buy that Proactiv stuff online and have it delivered overnight because her face is breaking out again.

How can I share this with her? How can I even be thinking these thoughts about my best friend, the girl who I consider a sister? It’s terrible and, worse than that, it’s unlike me. I’m no angel, but I’m not a terrible person, but lately . . . lately I feel like I’m changing, and I have absolutely no idea why or how to stop it. But I can’t share this with Jess. I can’t share this with anyone, so I keep it to myself and make up an excuse.

“Sorry. You know how grouchy I get when I have my period.”

“Dom, you must be having the longest period on record,” Jess says, not really believing me.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“You’ve b