Just a Number(129)

“Owen?”

Snapping back to reality, I look at Julia. “Yeah. It’s still something I want, but I’m in no rush.”

“So, you’d be happy to wait ten years for Amelia to be settled in her life and ready to take that step? You’d be fifty-three.”

I think about this and come to the realization that I actually would be okay with that scenario. I would wait for as many years as it took if it meant Amelia and I were still together and planning a family. “I would,” I tell them. “She’s worth the wait.”

“I’m sure she is,” Julia said with a smile. “Look, I’m not bringing all of this up to convince you to walk away—I’ve noticed the differences in both of you. But these are questions that most people don’t think of so early on in a relationship. They learn them as they go… But with the age difference, it’s something that both of you need to think of before you get in too deep.” Julia locks eyes with me. “You need to talk to her about this, and you need to figure out where she stands. If you’re going to continue seeing each other, I think that couples counseling might be a good idea. To help you communicate better and so she can see your side of things, and you hers.”

My head bobs up and down. “Yeah, that would be something to think about.” I stand up, Julia and Stephen following suit. “Thanks, Jules. This helped.” I pull her into a tight hug.

“Who am I, if not your voice of reason?” she jokes.

“I should head home. Clean myself up and try to get a hold of Amelia.”

After saying goodbye and thanking them both again, I head for home. While I know I still have a long way to go, I feel I’m a little better prepared to talk with Amelia when the two of us are ready to take that step. I hope it’ll be soon, but I plan to give her all the space she needs.

An hour and a half has passed since I left Amelia’s place, and I’m still unsure how to go about opening the lines of communication between us. Texting her is too impersonal, and if I call her, she’s likely to either hang up on me or not answer at all. Deep down, I know I should wait for her to make the next move. After everything that has happened, I owe her that much, so I decide to grab a quick shower and wait the storm out.

I know that I won’t be able to cleanse the last ten hours away, but it’s either that or drown my feelings in that expensive bottle of whiskey in my liquor cabinet just to gain some courage.

When I step off the elevator, I hear a muffled voice. Then it stops. I’m either hearing things, or someone on my floor is being exceptionally loud on a Saturday morning.

The moment I round the corner and head for my door, I hear the voice again. It’s a little clearer now, and distinctly female. More than that, I swear it’s Amelia. I glance up, only to find her sitting on the floor outside my door, her back pressed to the wall and her phone held up to her ear. Our eyes meet, and I can only hope I convey just how sorry I am for everything—last night, this morning. All of it.

“Daddy, I have to go. Thank you.”

Fuck me. Her dad knows. I’m probably going to have to hire a security team to keep him from killing me. Fantastic.

“Love you, too.” She hangs up her phone and climbs to her feet.

We stand there for a couple minutes, our silence thick and awkward. Finally, I nod toward my apartment, and she follows me inside.

“Please, come in,” I tell her gently, running my fingers through my wet hair. “Make yourself at home. I just need to change.” Truthfully, I don’t have to change, but her being here unexpectedly has caught me off guard, and I need a minute to compose myself and figure out what it is I need to say.

“Sure. Yeah. Thanks,” she mumbles softly, her hands still clenched together, eyebrows furrowed. I can’t get a read on her, and it frustrates me.

I leave her for a moment, hurrying down the hall to my room to put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. When I return, I find her in the living room, sitting on the sofa. She looks tense, and I don’t blame her; I’m not even sure how to start the conversation we need to have.

Still unable to read her, I decide to keep a little space between us, leaning against the island bar that separates my kitchen and living room. We remain silent for a few minutes, both of us unsure of what to say as we stare at each other and then around the room.

“So, you talked to Alan?”

Her eyebrows pull together as she drops her eyes to her clasped hands. “He, uh, he called to see how everything was going. At first, I thought maybe you’d talked to him.”

“I didn’t,” I assure her.