“Do you seriously not understand what I’m saying?” “No,” I tell him, frustrated too, heat spreading fast over my body, my face. “All I can hear is you describing yourself kissing someone in very rich detail. Which is just lovely—again, really happy for you, but—” “You’re not—you’re not jealous?” Of course I am, I want to say. I want to hang up the phone and go find him in person and shake him. I’m so jealous it’s embarrassing. It makes me sick, even though I don’t really have a right to be jealous in the first place. There’s nothing in our agreement that forbids him from kissing other people.
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