Chapter 3

The drive into town was pleasant enough thanks to the gorgeous scenery and didn’t take very long at all. It was only a few miles from the house I was renting, but I hadn’t seen it coming in the day before as it was on the side opposite of the direction I had arrived from.

The town, such as it could be called a town, was roughly as quaint and small as the house I was renting. It was immediately clear to me that most of the town would not exist if not for the thriving tourist economy from people vacationing on the lake. There was a disproportionately large number of restaurants, ranging from the pizza place I had ordered from last night, to small town diners, and even a few that looked fairly fancy. Most of the latter seemed to be closed now; it seemed they only operated on dinner hours. Aside from restaurants, there were two antique shops, a bookstore, a movie theater with, according to the marquee, three screens, two stores that sold outdoors equipment (one of which specialized in aquatic gear), and, of course, the grocery store.

I pulled my car into the small parking lot in front of the grocery store and ventured inside.

The store was much bigger than I had expected based on Madison’s description of the place, but still not quite as big as the grocery store I went to at home. The air conditioning was blasting and made the store almost chilly enough to wish I had a light jacket. A bored looking young woman was stationed at one of the three cash registers in the front of the store and a small handful of people paced the aisles. Idly, I wondered whether the shoppers were locals or visitors like me. Either way, I grabbed a shopping cart and started copying their slow progress through the aisle.

Before long, my cart was full of all the things I would need for the week. Except for one, last thing. I meandered towards the section of the store that held medicines and “feminine hygiene” products, knowing from experience that was where they usually kept what I was looking for. It had been close to the decade since I had worn…protection for my bedwetting, but I still remembered. I could feel myself starting to blush as I turned down the aisle, keenly aware of how I was risking exposing my secret (potentially for no reason, I should add), and looking around to make sure no one was in the aisle with me. And yet, the aisle seemed strangely void of what I needed, aside from the kinds of pads used for light bladder leakage, which wasn’t going to be enough to keep my bed dry if it happened again. I walked back down the aisle to double check, but there was nothing.

As I definitely wasn’t about to ask the cashier to help finding what I needed, I headed towards the only other section I could imagine them being kept, even if I wasn’t happy about it. Buying adult incontinence products was bad enough without having to shop in the same aisle as baby diapers.

If I was blushing being in the other aisle, my cheeks were practically on fire as I walked past the displays of baby diapers, training pants, pacifiers, sippy cups, and all the other various accoutrement of baby- and toddlerhood. Absent, however, were the displays of adult protection that I needed.

I huffed in frustration. What was I supposed to do now?

Just as I was about to start wandering around the store again hoping to discover where they were kept (because surely they had to have them, right?), my eyes landed on a display I had previously missed of so-called “bedwetting pants” being marketed to teens and pre-teens. I was slightly skeptical of how well they would hold the contents of my twenty-nine-year-old bladder, and more than a little resentful of the indignity of having to wear pastel colored pull-ups with butterflies and hearts on them, but, according to the size chart on the package, the large size would fit me well. I hesitated, but, in the end, I didn’t have much choice other than risking another wet morning.

At least, I told myself, there was less chance that people would assume these were for me.

Trying to be nonchalant, I tossed a package in my cart and speed-walked towards the front of the store, wanting to get out as quickly as possible before anyone saw the “bedwetting pants” in my cart. They’ll just think they are for my daughter or something, I told myself, but I wasn’t very convincing.

Luckily, there was no line at the register. The young woman gave me a polite but largely neutral greeting, which I returned just as neutrally, and then began ringing me up. I dug my phone out of my purse and kept my eyes on it, pretending to text, trying to actively ignore the pack of pull-ups slowly advancing along the conveyor belt. But when it came to the front, the young woman grabbed it, scanned it, and dropped it in a bag without comment or any sign that something was unusual. Still, I felt tense and nervous while I paid and was only able to begin relaxing once I was outside.

At least that was taken care of.

With all my purchases safely in my car, I started to get in the driver’s seat to head home when I saw a storefront across the street I hadn’t noticed before. Above the door was a colorful sign labeling the place as “Little Adventures Daycare,” the place Sabrina said she volunteered at a few days a week. I felt a weird impulse to go see if Sabrina was there, but I doubted they appreciate random adults popping up at the daycare. Still, I found myself casting a last, lingering look as I drove by.

Soon enough, I was back at the house with all my groceries stored and my pull-ups stuffed into one of the dresser drawers with a few t-shirts laid over top. It might have been overkill, I had to admit. With that all taken care of, the rest of the day was mine to relax as I had been planning to do, which meant taking in some sun on the back dock with my nose buried in a book.

I thought about making some more of that tea, but the afternoon sun was quickly gaining strength and drinking hot tea sounded less than pleasant. Iced tea, however, sounded like exactly what the day called for. I set the water to boil in the kettle and began digging around in the cupboards for a pitcher. It took some searching, but soon enough I found two plastic pitchers. One I filled with cold water and a filter bag full of tea before setting it in the fridge to cold brew. The other one I filled with ice and, once it was done boiling and brewing in the kettle, poured the hot tea over it. Filling a glass with more ice, I took my glass, the pitcher, and my book out the back door.

Before long, I was settled into one of the lounge chairs with the afternoon quickly slipping away into evening.

Eventually, I was out of sunlight and almost out of tea. It was time to head back inside. But when I stood up to go back inside, I was suddenly struck by the aching fullness in my lower stomach that I somehow hadn’t noticed until that moment. I had to pee, badly.

I began having flashbacks to the previous day as I made my way inside, feeling as though my desperation was growing exponentially with every step. How had I not noticed I needed to pee so badly? I did my best to keep my thighs clenched together as I moved through the house with slow, shuffling steps, certain that if I tried to run the exertion would force my bladder to empty. How had this happened two days in row? On top of a bedwetting accident? I was too busy concentrating on clenching every muscle to really consider an answer to these questions.

I had the bathroom door in my sights when I suddenly froze in mid-step, gasping slightly as a wave of desperation almost doubled me over and I felt a dribble of pee run into my panties. Oh god, I thought, squeezing my eyes shut and letting out a low whimper. I was afraid to move lest it take effort away from holding it in. I just stood there, knees and thighs pressed together, hands clenched in fights, trying desperately to fight against my body’s effort to relieve itself. A very long moment later, I felt another spurt of pee escape, this one longer and more forceful than the first dribble, spreading warmth through the crotch of my jeans.

When the second spurt fought its way out, this time running a small rivulet down the inseam of my jeans, I knew I had no choice to but to run for it. I made a mad dash for the bathroom, more pee sloshing out of me with every step, soaking my jeans. I ripped open the bathroom door, practically tore my jeans off, and plopped down on the toilet. I was already peeing full force before my jeans were down.

Just like the day before, when I was down my bladder still felt distended and painful. Still sitting on the toilet, I took my jeans and panties off, knowing there was no way I could put them back on. I may not have fully wet myself, but there was a large wet spot in the crotch of my jeans and across the butt with multiple streaks running down the insides of the legs. I may not have fully wet myself, but it was pretty close.

I sighed, feeling a mixture of shame and disgust, and wiped my legs off with toilet paper before balling up my jeans and heading for the laundry room. I threw the jeans in and grabbed my sheets out of the dryer before heading to the bedroom, where I made my bed and put on pajamas. I briefly contemplated putting on one of my pull-ups in preparation for bed, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it as it felt too much like an acknowledgement of what had just happened, too much like jinxing myself. Of course I was worried about the fact that I had just wet my pants…or, almost at least…no, I may not have fully emptied my bladder, but using that as an excuse to say I had merely almost wet myself was just splitting hairs to justify lying to myself…and of course I was worried about that, but I didn’t want to think about it and wasn’t sure what to do about it regardless.

Surely it was just some strange reaction to being so relaxed after being so tensed up and stressed for so long. Surely it was just that.

I went back downstairs, retrieved my book and tea from the patio, and set myself up in the living room to keep reading for long enough to dull some of the shame and worry I was still feeling over my accident. It didn’t take long to get lost in my book, and not too long after that to start feeling my eyelids drooping. I marked my place in my book and headed to my bedroom, making a quick trip in the bathroom to pee even though I didn’t feel a strong need to do so.

Back in my room, I fished out the package of pull-ups and ripped it open. It turned out they had different patterns on them and the one I pulled out was a soft pink with flowers all over it. I took my pajama pants off and pulled the garment on. It wasn’t as thick as the protection I had worn to bed in my early twenties before my bedwetting tapered off to a point where I no longer needed such protection, but it was definitely much thicker than my panties and they rustled when I moved. They were also much softer than I remembered my prior bedwetting protection being and felt strangely comforting.