Page 17 of Rush of Jealousy

Ethan and Adam square away the check. When the waiter returns with the credit cards, he hands me a small black envelope. My heart drops at the sight of it, and I know instantly that he found me. But how?

“I have to take care of something. Claire, I will catch a ride back on my own. I have a feeling this is going to take a while. Ethan, good seeing you again. Adam, thanks for dinner,” I say, excusing myself from the table.

“Can I call—”

“Sure, Claire can give you my number.” I turn to Claire and give her a look that translates togive the wrong one. I am pretty sure she knows she is in the doghouse over this stunt she pulled tonight. This was definitely crossing the line.

On my way out of Double Dipper, I scan the surrounding parking lot. Is he here now? I peel back the seal on the envelope and find a little card with a handwritten note.

I would buy you an entire universe if I could…just to be sure I was a part of it.

Behind the note, there is a black credit card with my name on it. I rotate the card with my fingers and revel in how good it feels. It’s like I can sense the weight of money in my hand. This small piece of plastic is not riddled with debt and hopelessness—like the one that is weighing down my own purse. As much as I would love to accept this handout, I would not be able to cut all of the strings that are attached to such a gift. Acceptance would imply defeat. It would give the message that I am willingly allowing Graham to control my life. That is something I’m not willing to do—especially with someone who uses lies and deceit to clear their path of success.

* * *

I climb the stairs to the townhouse and wave goodbye to the taxi driver who just dropped me off. I run up to my room and take a quick shower to decompress and ease some of the stress from my body.

When I cannot bear the weight any longer, I slip to the floor and wrap my arms around my knees. I let my tears flow freely and get absorbed by the pelting flow of the water.

Get your head on straight, Angie. You have been through worse. Quit feeling sorry for yourself.

I let my self-help thoughts enter and exit like an encouraging force.

When my skin is prune-like, I shut off the water and pull a towel down from the rack above the toilet.

I can do this.

I can find a way to move on with my life, sans Graham.

I am in control of my own destiny.

When I’m all dried off, I throw on my comfiest pajama set. I twist my hair up into a soft towel and let it take some of the dampness out naturally. I then move to my closet and pull out my old magazine bin, some scissors, and a glue stick. I find my work-in-progress dream board that Claire helped me start months ago and flop down on my bed to rework some of my goals. I flip through the magazines and try to stay open-minded to anything I see that is inspiring. Then I construct a list of my current goals.

Goal 1:Work at my journalism research project.

Goal 2:Secure an internship.

Goal 3:Own my future.

Goal 4:Stop resisting change so damn much.

Goal 5:Get over Graham fucking Hoffman.

4

A week passes without much fuss. Slowly, my heart is learning to accept its broken state. When class ends, I get Claire to drop me off at the repair shop to finally pick up my car. Luckily, this was only a twelve-hundred-dollar expense versus having to find a new ride entirely. Once I hear the purr of the engine starting, I instantly relax knowing that part of my independence has been replenished. Hopefully the string of vandalizations happening on our street is all in the past.

I drive around along the waterfront and find myself heading toward Hoffman Headquarters—almost as if an undeniable force is pulling me there. This is probably an indirect violation to my Goal #5. However, this feeling of power is helping me own my future, which is Goal #3. So I guess they negate each other. I will still call it “progress” for the sake of simplicity.

I park on the street six blocks away from Graham’s office, more as an excuse to work out my animosity prior to confronting him again over his lavish gift he sent to me while I was on the blind date. He is not expecting me, but I find that keeping him off guard works to my advantage. Who knows, he could be plotting my kidnapping at this very moment.

I walk past the corner coffee shop and grab a to-go cup of Americano. I didn’t plan my wardrobe at the beginning of the day to accommodate another confrontation. Prior to twenty minutes ago, I wasn’t even planning on going to see Graham. He very well might not even be there. Who knows what that man does on a typical day. Maybe he has left the country again.

My custom jean dress I sewed out of scraps of denim from old pairs of pants does not scream designer or power. I pretty much look like a low-budget Levi’s advertisement. However, with my brown knee-high boots and my hair pulled into a high ponytail bun, at least I look sort of put together. No time to dwell on it anyway. It’s not like I am trying to impress him with my looks. If anything, I just want to remind him of what he is missing out on. I am petty like that.

I window shop the rest of the way to HH and find that the little boutiques hold a lot of beauty for the business area that consists mainly of office complexes and deli-style eateries. Even the tattoo parlor has a “pretty” feel to it. I stick to the sidewalk and resist going inside to spend money I do not have. I unzip my shoulder purse and find the little black envelope inside—the one that I am only babysitting until I can give it back to its owner. While it would be nice to not have to worry about bills and growing debt, I cannot afford the hidden costs of having such a luxury.

When I arrive in front of Graham’s building, I notice that even the public sidewalk is nicer to walk on. Smoother. Shinier. I guess money can buy pretty much anything. As I am about to walk through the main entrance doors, a woman swings one open and stumbles into me. A picture frame falls from the top of the box she is carrying, shattering onto the cement in hundreds of tiny pieces.

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