Page 65 of Rush of Jealousy

“At least he makes it easy for me to want to stay away from him,” I whisper—as if my words will somehow make it to his ears. “I hate how he affects me.”

“Guys are such asses. But maybe this is just business.”

“Even so, they are so embedded in each other’s lives that one of us will always play theother womanrole. And I have too much self-worth to constantly compete with her.”

“Let’s go home. I am one drink away from busting in there and throwing up on his shoes.”

* * *

I fall into a rhythm over the next few days and channel my energy to creating a dress for the meeting on Saturday. Mark told me to dress as if I am going on an interview for a swanky job that I am desperate to get. After perusing my wardrobe—as well as Claire’s—I realize that I have nothing that would say “hire me,” and that is very sobering. If I want to get headhunters to notice me, I need to stand out in the crowd. The best way to do that is to perfect my outfit to help give the illusion that I have my life together.

I hit up theThread Countstore and spend hours looking through modern dress catalogs that are scattered across a cutting table until I find the best pattern for my body shape. I settle on an A-line ruffle skirt dress that is sleeveless and fitted on top. The style is a conservative knee-length. I choose a deep red fabric that will be bold—but still be in the fall family of acceptable colors. I purchase black lace to use as an overlay for the top half, just to add a bit of flare.

With time factored in to learn the new pattern, I set myself up to work at the sewing machine on my desk in my bedroom. I carefully lay out the pattern and fabric on the floor to pin, chalk, and cut. I jam out to some U2 music from their earlier albums and spend the next five hours completing a beautifully sophisticated dress. I try it on and look in my floor-length mirror at my image, adjusting pins as I go. I do a slow spin and see if any other parts need altered. I complete the finishing touches and then retry it on.

While my creation is very pretty, I feel like something is missing. Digging through my random part box, I find some sparkly embellishments that would look amazing along the waistline. So, I strip down and get back to work.

Once I am satisfied, I place the dress on a hanger over my closet door and steam out any wrinkles. I pad down the hallway to find Claire who will be able to handle the shoe dilemma.

I give a knock at her door and hear her yell to come on in. I push open her door and meet some resistance. I manage to sneak my head in and notice that there are clothes on every surface of the floor, dresser, and bed. It is the biggest mess I have seen from her and definitely worse than the last encounter I had here. It’s as if she just gave up trying. If it wasn’t overstepping, I would come in here and straighten up when she was at the gym or in class. It surely could use an intervention.

Claire gives me a sad frown. “Sorry about the mess.”

I shrug it off. “It’s okay. Really. Your turf, your rules."

“I just lost my OCD mojo.”

I give a weak smile. “Well, I hope you get it back soon.”

“What brings you to my abode?”

“I have a sort of interview tomorrow, and I just finished sewing my dress. I just need to figure out shoes.”

“Oh, let me see,” she says, pushing off the bed.

She follows me back down the hall, and when she sees the first glimpse of my dress, she gasps.

“Too much?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

“Hell no!” she exclaims, touching the ruffle skirt. “It is stunning, Angie. I cannot believe you are choosing journalism over fashion design.”

“Humph, not much designing when I just follow a pattern.”

“But you made it your own. It is one of a kind. I love it.”

I give her a hug. “Thanks for always cheering me on. I know I don’t say it enough, but I am so glad you are in my life.”

She squeezes me harder and pulls back to give me a sad smile. “So, we will be graduating soon, and I’ll eventually need a real job. I am considering going to Los Angeles for that internship in January. This opportunity could lead to more doors being opened for me.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah. I accidentally saw the letter that said you applied,” I whisper, ashamed that I have not admitted the truth until now.

“I just don’t know what I want to do. And this whole thing with Ethan is causing me a lot of grief.”

“I know these are not my typical words of encouragement, but I really do believe that things have a way of working themselves out. Sometimes all it takes is time.”

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