Page 52 of Rush of Jealousy

I don’t even answer. I simply just brace myself for all that I’m about to endure.

* * *

“I know it’s hard to narrow down my great ideas because I have so many of them, but I feel like this party for two tops the list.”

POP.

I jump back on Claire’s bed as the cork flies up to the ceiling, coming down to land somewhere near a pile of unused clothes from her closet that were pulled out during our earlier fashion show. At least I convinced her to wait until noon to open up a bottle. And alcohol can be delivered if you have friends like Blake in your life.

I smooth out the layers on my fluffy pink chiffon dress. Claire insisted we lookfreaking fabulous. “What are we celebrating again?” I genuinely can’t remember.

She fake scoffs. “Us. We are celebrating us.”

“I can cheers to that. Except, where are the glasses?”

Claire sets the bottle down on the nightstand and slips out of the room yelling, “Be right back,” as she darts down the hallway.

Grabbing my phone, I check my messages for the first time since I fell asleep yesterday. Damn. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

Graham: Where the fuck are you?

Graham: Answer your damn phone.

Graham: Are you trying to make me go ballistic?

Graham: Are you okay?

Graham: I am worried…please call or text me.

Graham: ANGELA!

Graham: You best be glad I’m away from Portland right now.

Graham: Woman, you are driving me insane…

The first message is timestamped yesterday at nine at night. I was asleep. Each message thereafter is minutes to an hour apart. Closing the app, I look at my missed calls and all nineteen of them are from Graham.

Oops.

Well, good thing we aren’t together. Otherwise, he’d be calling in the special forces. Heck, nothing is really stopping him from doing it now.

I hear talking in the hallway. Sitting up on my bed, I listen as Claire yells at whom I can only assume is Ethan calling. She ends the call as she enters her room, carrying two flutes.

“Everything okay?”

She looks at me as if I didn’t just witness her tone and partial conversation on the phone.

“Yes. Of course.”

I give her a nod. I could write a book on how to avoid situations, so I get it. But I could also write a sequel on how avoiding problems can prolong pain.

“You know how you always tell me I’m a horrible liar?”

She hands me a flute. “You are.”

“So are you.”

Ignoring me, she pours us both champagne until it’s bubbling over the rims of the glasses.

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