Free Bombshell by Lynda Curnyn Page B

but a farm girl from Russia with a pretty face? She had started her life afresh the moment she had landed in this country. I could start anew, too.
    It was all marketing, after all.
    So I quickly put aside any lingering emotions and refashioned myself as Grace Noonan, daughter of Thomas and Serena Noonan. Brooklyn born. Long Island bred. Columbia University educated, compliments of my father’s tenure in the history department. Talented, successful, smart.
    It was a good thing I did, too. Because despite the fact that Claudia had tried to claim the Roxy D campaign for herself, she needed me.
    And, I discovered, I needed this campaign, too. If only to forget…
    Forget I did. I even canceled my therapy sessions in favor of the soothing rhythms of work. In fact, I worked so hard, it got to the point where I didn’t even know what day it was.
    â€œLori, did that agency ever get back to us with a bid?” I said, stepping out of the whirl of paper that had become my office over the past two weeks. I glanced down at the proposal I still held in my hand. “Says here they have to get back to us by October second. Maybe you ought to give them a reminder call—”
    Lori giggled, causing me to finally look up at her.
    â€œGrace, it’s the ninth already,” she said, her exasperation apparent. Lori thought it was hysterical how I could sweep through blocks of time without ever realizing what month we were in, or what day we were on. I don’t know why it happened—I didn’t question it. Maybe I figured it might keep me younger longer if I completely ignored the passing of time.
    I glanced down at my watch, as if to verify the truth of her words. I frowned. “Ummm, would you give them a follow-up call?” I said. Then, turning on my heel, I headed back to my office, filled with a vague sense that some other event,momentous or otherwise, should have taken place in this time frame.
    I was about to consult my day planner when realization hit.
    My period. My fucking period.
    It was…late.
    A flurry of other realizations followed. Like that persistent ache in my breasts of late, with no follow-up act. And my cramps—was it my imagination, or did they feel different?
    My gaze dropped to the half-eaten corn muffin slathered in butter that sat on my desk. I never ate corn muffins. This morning I’d had a raging lust for one. With butter, no less. I never ate butter except when I was in restaurants and couldn’t resist the bread basket. This morning it was all I could think about. It was all I craved…
    Suddenly the half-muffin I had already ingested felt in danger of making a reappearance.
    I sat down, rolling the rest of that muffin right back up into its wrapping and depositing it promptly in the wastebasket next to my desk.
    It didn’t mean anything, I told myself, consulting my day planner and trying frantically to remember when I’d had my last period. I never really kept track, but I could usually figure out approximate dates by events in my life, as what I wore was sometimes impacted by the period factor. Ah…here, we go, I thought, spying the words “Met Fund-Raiser” written into the last week of August. I remembered I didn’t want to wear my silver-blue dress because of the old bloat factor—that Botticelli belly of mine sometimes bordered on blubber right before my period. Then came the weekend with Ethan, when he opted out of sex because I was menstruating (he was a bit squeamish—another reason to be glad he was out of the picture). My finger skittered forward to the next eventI’d marked. That dreadful Wagner opera that even Ethan hadn’t wanted to endure any longer, so we snuck out, went back to my place and—
    â€œFuck!”
    â€œGrace, are you all right?” Lori called.
    I leaped from my seat, startled. Then, as if by instinct, I strode toward the door. “I’m fine…fine,” I said, nodding