Just a Number (44 page)

Then it all comes rushing back.

His text telling me he might not make it to the club. The copious amounts of alcohol I tried to drown my sorrows in. Dancing with Liz and Justin. Justin getting punched by Owen. The fight…

Slowly, I pull my feet from his lap and sit up. I rest my elbows on my knees and bury my face in my palms, hoping it might help with my headache until I can head into the kitchen for some Aspirin.

I jump when Owen’s hand rests on my back before moving in small circles. “Here,” he says, his voice raspy from sleep.

When I glance over, I see him holding Aspirin in an open palm. I take them without a word, still unsure what I should even say to him. He grabs a glass of lukewarm water off the table beside him and offers it to me.

An awkward silence hangs between us. I can see he’s no longer angry with me—not that he ever had a reason to be, really—but that doesn’t excuse his behavior. His jealousy was unwarranted, and he acted without thinking. Because of this, someone I cared deeply about was hurt and may never speak to me again.

“You should go,” I tell him, standing up and putting some more space between us.

“Amelia,” he starts to contest. “Please.”

“I know what you’re going to say, Owen, but unfortunately, I’m in no condition to hear it. My head hurts, and I’m drained. I can’t do this right now.” I hate seeing the remorse in his eyes, but I can’t just forgive and forget what he did. Not right now, anyway.

“Just let me explain.”

“No need,” I reply, crossing arms. “I had front row seats to last night’s show.”

“Would you stop acting like such a petulant child and listen to me?” he demands, banging his hands on the coffee table before he shoots to his feet, making me jump. I’ve seen him angry before—annoyed with me, even—but he’s never raised his voice like this. Then his words cut through my hangover and punch me square in the gut.

Offended, my brows furrow, and I look him up and down. “It’s nice to know what you really think of me,” I state. “You can leave now. I have nothing else to say to you, and nothing you say will change my opinion of you right now.”

Owen flinches as though my words physically sting, and part of me hates that I revel in it just a little after what he just said. “I acted without thinking.” A pause. “But when I saw him all over you…I just lost it. It brought back—”

“Don’t you
dare
compare this to what happened with your ex-wife. I haven’t given you a single reason not to trust me.” Frustrated, I push my fingers through my gnarled hair and groan. “God, do you really think that I’d invite you out and then cheat on you if there was even the slightest possibility you might show up? What kind of person do you think I am?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but Owen looks ready to reply.

“You didn’t even call,” I point out.

Owen’s eyebrows rise. “Had I, then maybe you’d have behaved appropriately?”

Did he seriously just say that? I have the overwhelming urge to slap him across the face, but I don’t, because that’s not me, and also because it won’t accomplish anything.

He releases a weary sigh, running his hand down over his face. “I did call,” he informs me. “Several times. You didn’t answer.”

“So this is my fault.”

Owen’s eyebrows knit together, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s frustrated. “What? No. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Just…go,” I repeat. “Please.”

“Don’t you think we should settle this now?” Owen asks.

I shake my head. “There’s nothing to settle. You acted like a total lunatic last night. You embarrassed me in front of my friends!”

Owen’s attitude soon mirrors my own, his remorse taking a back seat to his frustration. “Can you blame me?” he demands, his voice rising. “You were pressed up against someone half my age!”

“Is that was this is about? His
age
?” I laugh dryly, feeling just a little bit crazy and unsure how else I should react. “He’s gay!” I shout, thrusting my fingers into my hair and gripping it tightly. “There was absolutely no threat there!”

Owen’s breathing picks up and he advances on me. “How was I to know that?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” I retort, throwing my hands up and letting them fall heavily to my sides. “Maybe you could’ve asked. Or, I don’t know,
trusted
me.”

“Trust needs to be earned, Amy,” he says, his voice so even it’s almost terrifying. His words cut deep, but it’s the look in his eyes that lend a twist to the blade that will keep the wound from closing.

I stand there for a moment, completely stunned into silence, until finally I say, “And I haven’t earned yours?” He says nothing, and I straighten my posture and keep the tears that burn behind my eyes at bay. “Get. Out.” My hands shake as anger and hurt fight for dominance. How could he not trust me?

Owen must recognize my rising distress, because his mood shifts drastically. It’s as though he’s another person in a millisecond, going from distrustful to apologetic. But I’m not ready to accept his still-unspoken apology.

“I mean it, Owen.” My voice quivers, and the first tear slips down my cheek. “Leave. Now.”

His mouth opens, but then he closes it just as quickly as he swipes his jacket off the back of the couch and heads for the door. He grabs the knob and pauses, looking back over his shoulder and exhaling a heavy, defeated breath. Without a word, he leaves my apartment, and I collapse onto my knees and bury my face in my hands as I cry.

This isn’t our first disagreement, but it’s absolutely our first fight.

After letting myself sob for a few minutes, I decide to quit dwelling on my own issues and check in with Justin. I find my boots on the floor in front of the couch and grab my phone from the pocket inside. When I turn it on, I see several missed calls from Owen, and my gut rolls. He was telling the truth when he told me he tried calling.

I shake my head to rid myself of the guilt I suddenly feel. Just because he’d tried to get a hold of me doesn’t change the outcome. He lost his mind in a fit of jealous rage and punched one of my best friends without even trying to find out what was going on.

I swipe open the lock screen, trying not to tear up again when I see the picture of Owen and me as my wallpaper. I have no missed calls or texts from Liz or Justin, and naturally I worry about this. I wouldn’t blame either one of them if they wanted to cut ties with me after what happened.

Taking a deep breath, I dial Justin’s number. He answers on the third ring.

“Hey,” he says, sounding pretty cheerful for a guy who got punched by my boyfriend the night before. “You make it home okay last night?”

I sniffle and wipe my nose on the back of my hand like a total animal. “I’m surprised you even care.”

“Amy,” he says, his tone chastising. “Of course I care.”

“Why? After what Owen did…”

Justin laughs, confusing me further. Is he still drunk? High on pain killers because Owen hit him hard enough to warrant it? “Can you blame him? I can only imagine what he saw and subsequently thought.”

“Why is this funny, Justin? He acted completely irrationally.”

“Maybe so,” he replies, his laughter dying down. “But he also acted like any man in love with a girl would. He saw a good-looking man dancing with his girl, and he lost his mind. Jealousy is an ugly little monster, but it’s also kind of hot.”

“There was nothing
hot
about what Owen did last night.”

There’s silence on Justin’s end. “Really? So, his jealous and slightly possessive behavior didn’t turn you on just a little?”

“I…I…” I stammer. “I guess I didn’t really think about it. I was taken by surprise… Jesus, he
hit
you. Of course it wasn’t hot!”

“Take me out of the equation, Amy,” Justin instructs. “Say it was some random guy—”

“I would never dance like that with some random guy,” I interject.

Justin sighs, annoyed. “Can you just, I don’t know,
pretend
? For the sake of salvaging your relationship?”

I nod, even though Justin can’t see me. “Okay, fine.” I imagine dancing with someone other than Justin—someone other than a close friend. It’s disturbing and feels wrong, but I do it so I can try to imagine how I would feel about Owen going ballistic on someone other than Justin.

Unfortunately, I can’t. Owen was unrecognizable to me last night. He was violent and short-tempered, and it frightened me. It’s a side of him I’ve never seen before.

“So?”

Even though I want Justin to be right, I have to be honest. “I can’t get the image of him standing over you with that murderous look in his eyes out of my head,” I admit.

Justin hums contemplatively on the other end. “Okay…” He drags the word out a little longer than necessary. “Then put yourself in his shoes. You walk into a bar to surprise him and you see some scantily clad hussy grinding up on
your
man.”

My throat tightens and my blood runs cold as I imagine this scenario with such crystal clear detail that I swear I’m actually seeing it. “I…” I swallow thickly, my voice scratchy. “Justin, I have to go.”

“You’d kick her ass, wouldn’t you?” he guesses, sounding pretty confident.

“I…uh… Yes, okay? If some slut-bag whore was dancing with Owen the way I was dancing with you, I’d lose my mind. You’re right, and I was wrong to accuse him of overreacting. I should have respected him enough to not dance like that with you.”

The cocky sigh that filters through the phone makes me roll my eyes. “I’m just glad I could help put everything into perspective for you,” he says. “Now, go find him and make up. I hear it can take hours to reconcile after a misunderstanding of this magnitude.”

I say goodbye to Justin and shoot Liz a quick text as I fly into the bathroom to brush my hair and teeth. I take an extra minute to wash the smeared makeup off my face, and then race out of my apartment and down the stairs. I grab a coffee from the store on the corner, hail a cab in no time, and give the driver Owen’s address. I’m a bundle of fidgeting nerves the entire drive, and when we finally arrive at his building, I thrust a handful of bills at the driver, not realizing I paid him way more than the trip and standard tip. I don’t care about the money; I only want to see Owen, wrap my arms around him, and tell him I understand what he must have been feeling and that I’m sorry for accusing him of being irrational. How could I have been so blind to that?

The doorman isn’t here, so I use my key to let myself into the main building and head to the elevator. Inside, I can’t stop my legs from shaking and bouncing. My stomach is a bundle of nerves, and I can’t seem to quell the waves of upset. I’m anxious, and I can’t help but imagine several different scenarios as I ascend each floor. In one, he whisks me into his arms and kisses me passionately, both of us mumbling how sorry we are as we stumble down the hall to the bedroom. That one isn’t too likely to happen given how heated our discussion was before I kicked him out. There’s another where he slams the door in my face. That one isn’t my favorite. And the last—and probably the most likely—is one where he invites me in and we sit at the kitchen table over a cup of coffee and talk everything out.

I hope for any scenario but the middle one.

When I reach his floor, I step off the elevator. My palms sweat, my hands shake, and I take some very slow steps toward his door. I stand there, staring at the number on the door for what feels like an hour, when it’s probably only been thirty seconds.

I know I can’t stay out here all day; someone from the security office would probably feel obligated to call the cops on me. I contemplate using my keys to let myself in, but something tells me that Owen might not be too receptive to that. I should announce my arrival instead of just slipping inside. Give him some kind of warning.

Inhaling a deep and shaky breath, I raise my hand to knock when my phone rings loudly in my jacket pocket, surprising me and forcing me back from Owen’s door momentarily. I find myself hoping that it’s him calling, but when I look at the screen, I see that it’s my dad.

Letting my nerves get the better of me, I move down the hall a little and answer the call.

“Hey, Dad,” I say quietly so as not to draw attention to my presence. I don’t want Owen to find me out here until I am ready to speak to him. I need to be in control of the conversation.

“Hey, Ames,” he greets back, his voice happy and boisterous. It reminds me of how he used to sound before he found out about Owen and me.

My stomach rolls again just thinking about Owen and how we fought, and I have to close my eyes to keep the tears at bay. The last thing I need to hear right now is my father tell me he was right. How this would never work.

“What’s up?” I ask, turning and leaning against the wall a foot from Owen’s door.

“Oh, nothing much. Just wanted to check in. See how things are going.”

Does he know? Did Owen call him after leaving my house? Out of habit? This phone call seems awfully convenient, that’s for sure.

“Ames? Are you okay?” That’s all it takes—my father’s genuine concern for his daughter’s well-being—and I shatter like a cheap vase.

I let my head fall back against the wall with a light
thud
, reminding me of my hangover, but I can’t find it in myself to care about my headache right now. I sink to the floor, tears streaming from my eyes. I lift my arm to wipe them on the sleeve of my sweater when I realize it’s actually Owen’s sweater. I hadn’t even realized I was wearing it until now, and the memory of him handing it to me in his car last night comes rushing back.

“I messed up, Daddy,” I confess with a sob, sniffling when my nose starts to run.

There’s a moment of silence before I hear chair legs being pulled across my dad’s dining room floor. “What’s going on?” he demands, his voice firm yet comforting. I can’t bring myself to tell him anything more, afraid of how he might react. He sighs. “Ames… Whatever it is, you can tell me.” Another pause. “E-even if it’s about Owen.” His hesitance is audible.

I glance back to Owen’s door again before sighing in defeat.

“Honey,
talk
to me,” he prods, sounding even more concerned, and finally, I cave.