Page 66 of Rush of Jealousy

“Yeah.” She gives me a nod. “So, you aren’t mad?”

“I’m selfish to expect you to always be in the same city I’m in. And caring for someone means letting them fly. If you decide to go to Los Angeles, then I will be cheering you on.”

“You’re such a good friend, Angie. I really do appreciate you.” She claps her hands together and bursts with the biggest smile. “But enough of this sappy talk. Let’s get back to the shoes. I think I have the perfect pair. Let’s go find them back in my room.”

I follow her down the hall and wait until she clears a path to her bed for me to walk without tripping on stuff. She pulls a long plastic bin out from under her bed that is labeled with big Sharpie letters across the top that say “DOOMSDAY SURVIVAL BIN.” I stare at the words and try to stifle my laughter.

“Why would there be—”

Before I can finish my question, she whips off the top, and lo and behold there are a beautiful pair of strappy black stilettos. New ones. Perfectly polished ones. My mouth gapes at them. There they are, lying right beside a wad of cash, a few canned goods, four flashlights, Tylenol, an inflatable raft, bug spray, and one of those emergency blankets made of reflective plastic.

“Claire, why are there stilettos in your Doomsday bin?”

“Because you always have to be prepared for whatever life throws at you,” she says matter-of-factly.

“This is so true.”

14

It’s crazy how fast a person’s life can drastically change in just a matter of moments. I go from failing my last semester, to repeating it, to being told my research topic is unsuitable, to waiting to be picked up to meet with a recruiter fromPacific Press. Just when I think all is lost, I get a glimmer of hope—something to hold on to and work toward.

It takes me an hour to get ready for the meeting with Mark and his friend. I agonize over my dress and whether or not it exemplifies professionalism, without having the look of trying too hard. I was confident I nailed the look a day ago when I sewed it, but when I am smack-dab in the middle of the preparations, I let doubt creep in. Hopefully my work ethic will be my selling point and not my attire.

Claire is holed up in her room. Hopefully she’s not stalking Ethan’s social media page and making comments on his posts that she will later regret. She has not been herself since she decided to avoid him. Graham has followed through with my demands. It has been almost a week since we have seen each other, conversed, or fought a winner-less battle. Five days of silence. It is a record.

I wait downstairs in the entryway until Mark’s car pulls up. Then I grab my handbag and portfolio, give my dress one last smoothing, and exit through the front door. I lock up the house and set the security system that I am finally getting accustomed to using. Mark slips out of the driver’s side and watches me make my way down to him.

“Angie McFee.” His eyes coast down my body, lingering on my curves. “You look radiant.”

“Thank you.”

If one positive thing has come from my work at Entice, it is finally learning to just accept a compliment when one is thrown my way. The opportunity to meet a variety of men and their eclectic personalities has helped me to learn how to adapt to the situation I am thrown into. No longer do I feel like the timid girl who is afraid of her own shadow.

“Do a turn.”

My mouth gapes. So much for feeling confident. “Right here? On the sidewalk?”

“Yeah, why be shy? You have to know how sexy you look.”

I reluctantly spin around, trying not to stumble in my sky-high heels.

“Hmm, ready to go?” he asks me, his voice gruff.

I nod my head and make my way over to the passenger side. He doesn’t have a driver this time, and I am glad we are not forced to stare at each other in the backseat.

“Don’t be nervous,” Mark soothes, rubbing his hand along the ruffle of my skirt. He plays with my hem before smoothing it down and giving my leg a light squeeze. “You really know how to make a man want for more. Just be yourself and things will go smoothly.”

I get goose bumps, but they are not the “feel good” kind. “I’ll try.”

I stare out the window as Mark maneuvers his car on the busy streets. For a Saturday evening, there are a lot of people out and about. We cross the bridge and enter the downtown area. He pulls up to the valet booth, signs a form in a lazy scrawl, and hands over his keys. I slide out of the car and shut the door. Mark joins me and places his hand on the small of my back.

We enter Parkhouse Plaza—where I went on my very first date with Graham. It is hard to be here and not think about him. The selfie we took on our way to El Pastel, the decadent chocolate desserts, and the bantering that began that night and that we still can’t stop ourselves from doing when we are in each other’s presence. All of the memories saturate my mind, warming me from the inside out.

I hate that I miss him.

I hate that we see the world so differently.

I hate that our common ground is often used as a battle ground.

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