Page 118 of Rush of Jealousy

“Like do you use a douche?” she asks seriously.

“Aren’t those things outlawed by every single gynecologist for causing UTIs? Along with colored toilet paper from the eighties?”

“Well then, why do they still freaking sell them?”

“I have no idea. But why are we talking about this?”

“I used one. Not because he was complaining about my fine china. But because I didn’t want him eating from a dirty plate.”

I make a face. “Ugh Claire, you and your visuals.”

“Well, I didn’t want to have any clitty litter.”

I burst out laughing over her terminology. “You are too much.”

“If you’re going to visit my snack shack, then it better not be expired. If you know what I mean.”

“I never know what you mean, Claire.”

One second we can be crying our eyes out in sadness and the next we can be crying in silliness.

“Not like he ever complained before,” she continues, “but now that I know what it feels like to lose him, I am trying my best to impress him.”

“So you sprayed some fragrant liquid stuff up inside, and now you think you have an infection?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“I keep itching down there.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh no is right. And it burns a little when I pee.”

We both laugh over her mishaps from the weekend. It is always easy with Claire, and if she leaves for Los Angeles after this semester ends, I will miss her beyond words.

22

I wake to the sound of a truck idling outside. I roll out of bed and make my way over to the window. I kneel on the seat bench and pull back the drapes. Four men all wearing navy polos and dark wash jeans lower the back ramp. Stamped along the side of the truck are the words Horton’s Movers.

I grab my phone from my nightstand and dial Graham’s number. It’s nine in the morning, and I am already feeling like my blood is going to boil. If this is what I think it is, then this is not him giving me the freedom I need.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Maybe.”

I hear the squeak of his chair and the sound of his mug hitting a coaster. “What’s wrong?”

“Please tell me this is a mistake.”

“You are going to need to elaborate more.”

“Please tell me that the four men who appear to be walking up my townhouse steps wearing Horton’s Movers logo polos are not here to move any of my shit.”

“We are together, Angela.”

“So.”

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