Just a Number(124)

“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.