Page 22 of Rush of Jealousy

“How am I going to make sure you are safe and healthy and have your needs met? Huh? How am I going to be able to go to bed each night without worrying the entire time over your welfare?”

“You’re just going to have to trust me. Trust that I can live my life the best way I know how.” I fix a stray piece of hair behind my ear with my good hand. “And do what I’ve been doing all these years before you crashed into it and jacked everything up.”

Graham runs his hands through his hair, nods as if he is comprehending what I am trying to say, and then kisses me once on the forehead.

I want to say sorry to him. I am not even sure why I would be compelled to apologize anyway. Perhaps for shaking up his life too?

“Have dinner with me.”

“I can’t.”

“You won’t,” he corrects.

“I can’t.”

It’s the truth. I can’t have dinner with him. Because dinner would lead to more. More feelings. More blurred lines. More emotional attachment.

I throw my aftercare instructions and ointment samples into my bag, along with my stained denim dress.

“Bye, Graham.”

“Bye, sweetheart. Do not hesitate to contact me if you need anything.”

I give him a sad smile in response and head out the door. I walk past the new assistant and make little eye contact. The last thing I need is for her to lose her job too because I tried to be friendly. I walk into the waiting elevator, cross through the lobby without any incident, and head out the exit. All of the broken glass is cleaned up, and there is no sign of blood. The cement blocks look fresh and polished—as if nothing happened just an hour prior.

The air travels up my new dress, but it feels good. I window shop on the opposite side of the street during the six-block walk back to my car. I turn behind me and check to see if someone is following me. Although my hairs are not standing on end, I feel the presence of eyes on me. As if there is a shadow amongst the shadows. I pick up my pace and arrive at my car in half the time. The sun is about to set, and I realize just how hungry I am from skipping meals today.

I feel empty.

And there’s no amount of food that will fix it.

5

“Seriously, Claire? Really?” I ask, staring down at the scraps of material that she apparently believes constitute an actual outfit—despite covering only twenty percent of my body.

“You look adorable!” she coos, clapping her hands together like she is talking to a toddler. “Super cute!”

I scrunch up my face and stick out my tongue. “Puppies and kittens and chubby babies are adorable. This”—I gesture with my hand up and down slowly in front of me—“is an outfit that usually makes a cameo appearance in the first five minutes of porn videos.”

“Huh,” she says examining my attire closer, “you do look like Maggy Miles a bit from the damsel in distress sex clips I have seen.”

My face loses all expression, and I just stare at her with my chin dropped. “When I agreed you could pick out my Halloween costume, I did not expect you to get so—”

“Creative?”

“Diabolical.”

“Inspiring?”

“Delusional.”

“Innovative?”

“Unhinged.”

“Wow, exaggerate much?”

“Look at me, Claire!” I shout at her. “I don’t even look like a flight attendant.”

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