How to handle a jealous Ex who don't want to let you move on - This will really help you!

How to handle a jealous Ex who don’t want to let you move on – This will really help you!

How to handle a jealous Ex – When an ex-boyfriend calls, you shouldn’t answer. It’s like… Rule #1. Right before the rules against Drunk Dialing and sending naked selfies. I got the other things down, but when my phone rang and Vic’s name popped up, I wavered.

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I reached for it, stopped, reached for it, stopped, then picked up the damn thing and answered it.

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“Hello?” I answered the phone like I didn’t know who it was, feeling a perverse pleasure with how casual my voice sounded. I pretend all day long like I hate that Vic is still chasing me, but every time he reaches out, every time he tries harder, it’s a boost to my self-esteem, a reminder that someone out there thinks I am worth fighting for.

His voice whips in and out, bursts of static hitting the receiver. “Hey babe.”

“Hello, Vic.”

“You dating movie stars now?” Hmm. I guess Alec didn’t yank the tabloid pics before Vic saw them. I felt a delicious bit of pleasure at his jealousy, the only good thing so far to come from that debacle.

I considered telling him the truth but decided to take the low road. It’s where our lack of relationship seems to be the most comfortable. “Seriously? I don’t have time to talk about this.”

“Joey Plazen is a piece of shit, Chloe. He’s stuck his dick in half of LA.”

There were so many immature comments I could make in response to that but I shut my mouth and managed, for once in our communication, to not sound like the jilted ex. I reached for the remote and turned on the TV. “I don’t really care if you don’t like Joey Plazen, Vic. Because I like him.”

And I hung up. Quickly, before he could say something that stung. I wasn’t dating Joey, never will, but the chances of falling back into Vic’s web… that was a real danger. I shouldn’t have answered the phone to begin with. When would I learn that lesson?.

After a few minutes of silence I picked up my phone and, despite myself, pulled up Vic’s Instagram. Scrolled through his last eight or nine posts, all from Dubai where, according to his feed, forty-six minutes ago he had some brunette laid back on the bar with champagne in her belly button, hashtag #cheers. I threw my phone back down and flipped channels for another twenty minutes.

Then, I picked back up the phone and texted, of all people, Joey Plazen.

Me: hey

Him, five minutes later: hey

Me: what r u doing?

Him: bored?

Me: YES

Him: I’m on a date. Want to join us?

Me: WHY R U TEXTING ME IF U R ON A DATE?

Him: shut up and come out with us. No paps in sight.

Me: K

Joey sent me the name of the pub and I threw a leather jacket over my tank top, traded my Toms for heels, then grabbed my keys and some cash and headed out the door. Becoming the third wheel on Joey’s date seemed, at that moment in time, entertaining. And I needed something to get my mind off of Carter and Vic and Nicole and Paulo and Chanel’s freaking birthday party. This was a good plan,.

A good plan until the elevator doors opened and Carter stood there, his hand catching the door, our heads lifting and eyes meeting in awkward and perfect unison.

–Cosmopolitan

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