“You shouldn’t call her that,” Bo says gently, leaning forward in his seat, his hands clasped between his knees, wringing. “I mean… sorry. You can call her whatever you want. I just…” His voice trails off. I feel a twinge of guilt and unease pull my lips askew. “Sorry,” I offer simply. So he’s not over his ex, then. The sudden pang of sadness thrumming around my chest is unexpected. It’s not jealousy, I don’t think. Or at least, not entirely. It’s more complicated than that. It’s wondering if during one of the more meaningful sexual experiences of my life, certainly the most pleasurable, my
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bitch if you don’t stfu, we get it you’re a “nice guy” 🙄
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