Page 50 of Rush of Jealousy

“Nothing. I’ve been canceling Ethan’s requests for dates for next week and allowing other men to fill up the time slots.”

“Why are you avoiding him? Seems like he is back to trying. Maybe the whole scarf thing was a way to try to interact with you.” And maybe I yelled at him prematurely. I clearly have an incomplete picture of what is happening in their relationship, because Claire is so tight-lipped.

“He just doesn’t want me with anyone else—even if it’s platonic. Like I could fall for someone as fast as I fell for him. Pretty sure I’m going to swear off men entirely for a while. What were we thinking getting involved with agency men?”

“We weren’t thinking,” I answer. Both of us got wrapped up in lightning-fast relationships with men who have their own issues and baggage. And once the storm is over, the wreckage could take a long time to clean up.

Once she is done folding the last item, she falls back onto my bed and stares up at the ceiling. “I’m so looking forward to doing nothing this weekend. I just want to veg out and go into coma mode.”

“I feel the same way. My body craves to relax and detox from Graham.”

“Has he been showing his face?”

“Apparently he’s on a business trip. Won’t be back in the area until Saturday or Sunday, depending on how the meetings go. But I’m focusing on me this weekend. If the man needs me, he can wait like any other normal human being. And he can shove his dictator ways up his ass.”

Claire pumps her fist toward me. “Yeah, I love that my Feminist As Fuck girl is back!”

I smile down at her and nod my head. “Me too.”

* * *

Wednesday rolls around, and it’s another wash and repeat day. My mood is just as drab, and I chalk it up to hormones. With the start of my period, I know that for the next three days, I will be fighting the pain with the non-recommended dosage of ibuprofen and Midol. The mixing of meds is the only thing that can get me to survive the monthly torment. If it wasn’t for the freaking pill that was prescribed to me several years ago, I think I would be hospitalized during this time. Luckily, most of the pain will be over in twenty-four hours. I reach into my purse and grab the Altoids container that I used to save my last special pills. I pop one into my mouth and chew. This should fix my PMS even faster than the OTC stuff.

The line at the coffee shop irks me. Parker’s scowl doesn’t lighten my mood either. He has taken it upon himself to follow me on foot—rather than just safely wait in his parked vehicle outside. I wish I could say I was growing desensitized to him, but it is the opposite. He doesn’t get that it is my turn to buy. By the time I make it through with two pumpkin spiced chai teas—a seasonal limited-edition flavor—I am already two minutes late to class. It’s the stinking rain. You would think that living in the Pacific Northwest, people would be born with these prerequisite driving skills. Nope. It’s like the rain makes everyone’s headlights and windshield wipers stop working at once.

The sudden stop-and-go flow nearly makes me want to hurl, despite being behind the wheel.

The smell of the teas and pastries tickles my nose and reminds my stomach that food is good once again. The cinnamon flakey-thing is a worthwhile splurge especially during a class that seems to drag on and on.

I sneak in from the back—exactly seven minutes tardy—and find my awaiting empty seat next to Bryce who is sporting a shit-eating grin. The professor is already in full swing with her lesson on the human behavior behind addiction up on the projector screen.

“Shut your face or no pastry for you,” I warn, dangling the soggy takeout bag at eye level.

“Aw, Teach. You are sweet.” He is wearing his fraternity hoodie and baseball cap, managing somehow not to look like a drenched rat.

“Ya, thanks. This rain sucks.” You know what else sucks? Feeling like a finely sharpened ice pick is being rammed up into your lady parts, poking holes into your uterine walls and continuing to twist and tug until you bleed out and die. Yeah, that fucking sucks. Oh, and having the guy who I can’t-bring-myself-to-refer-to-as-boyfriend out of the state and not here so I can use him as a punching bag. It would feel so good to take out my aggression on why I was born with a homogametic double X chromosome—resulting in the production of a vagina—and have to endure this nastier-than-nasty pain. Transferring that aggression onto said guy would cause temporary relief I so desperately need.

The entire back of my coat drips with the saturation I endured from refusing the huge umbrella that Parker wanted me to use. The thing was big enough for avoiding the sun at the beach. My hair feels like a mop of sodden spaghetti. My hood did nothing to help it stay dry. At least my feet aren’t wet. That is a relief.

“What did I miss?”

“Well, there was a great moment when Pencil Skirt glanced at me. I just know it meant something.”

“Oh, yes. The infamous random glance. Shetotallydigs you.”

“Not everyone can have people falling at their feet, Teach. Let me live vicariously through you.”

I grimace at the comment. Is that what is really happening?

I spend the rest of the class taking notes, self-reflecting, and trying not to let Bryce make me laugh.

The rain picks up—of course—when it is time to go back to the car. I run and make it inside in less than two minutes. It’s the back pain that really kills me though—the dull nagging ache that debilitates me and makes me act irrational.

When I get home, I strip my clothes off and lay my naked back onto an electric heating pad on my bed. I pop some more meds—fantasizing about having a morphine drip—and fall asleep for an hour.

When I wake, I pad downstairs. I open a can of sodium-infused soup from my hidden stash in the back of the pantry and watch trash TV—the kind with the only plot point being to hook up or get off the show.

I check my phone for messages, seeing a bunch fill up the notification screen.

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