Just a Number(35)

My heart clenches and my stomach flops as I step forward and gently place my hand on his chest, kissing his cheek softly and feeling his heart pound under my touch. There’s so much I want to say, but I know I won’t be able to say any of it without breaking down, so I simply turn around and head for my apartment building.

Little do I know, I won’t hear from him all weekend.



“Hello…Earth to Amy.” Liz’s voice pulls me from the painful memory of Friday night, and I turn to her.

It’s Monday morning, and we’ve just arrived on campus. I’m exhausted, having not slept well almost all weekend, and it shows in my eyes. Every time I’d lie down in bed, Owen’s scent on my pillows would remind me of what happened Friday night. Every time I’d open the fridge and see all the food in there, I’d remember again. At one point on Saturday night, I remembered that Owen still had my spare keys. Several times, I’d find myself hoping—even praying—that he’d come to his senses and show up, kissing all of this away and assuring me that, as long as we were together, we could handle anything the world had to throw at us. This never happened, so when I crawled out of bed on Sunday, smelling his smell and seeing all that food in my fridge once more, I gave up hope that he would come to me. Everything in my small apartment screamed of the past week that Owen and I had shared together; there was no escaping it.

Hence my lack of sleep.

“I’m sorry,” I say, smiling weakly. “What?”

Liz shakes her head disapprovingly. “What’s up with you today? I hate to say it, but you look like hell, and you’re acting like something from another planet.”

I’m too exhausted to feel insulted, and one look in the passenger-side mirror is all the proof I need to know Liz is totally right. I run my fingers through my hair, not that I expect this to do anything, and I pull it into a messy bun-thing on top of my head, hoping it looks intentionally disheveled and not as horrifying as the rest of me. Along with the dark circles of exhaustion under my eyes and the pile of slightly tangled hair on top of my head, my clothes also indicate my mood. Unable to find it in myself to really give a shit, I paired my favorite jeans—the faded ones that have holes in both knees from wearing them so damn much—with my high school sweatshirt. This isn’t normal for me, as I typically take a little more pride in my appearance.

This should bother me, because I’ve never let a guy get to me like this before, but it doesn’t. Why? Because Owen isn’t like any guy I’ve ever been involved with, and I find myself feeling lost without him. Even though we’d only just been together a short time, what we had felt so real.

Having always been able to tell when something’s bothered me, Liz watches me sympathetically. “What happened? On Friday, you were in such a good mood, and now? It’s like you’ve done a 180 or something.”

I feel the tears starting to well up behind my eyes, so I turn away from her and try to hold them back. “Nothing,” I lie. “I just didn’t get a lot of sleep this weekend.”

Liz lays her hand over mine, and I glance down at them. “Normally, I’d say ‘way to go,’ but the look on your face would indicate that your lack of sleep isn’t due to that guy you’ve been seeing.” She pauses, then adds, “Actually, I bet it is, but not in a feel-good way.”

I laugh wryly. “Something like that.” I want to tell her—I really do—but there’s nothing really to tell anymore. He didn’t even call…of course, neither did I.

“I’m here if you need someone to talk to,” Liz whispers softly. “You know that, right?”

I nod. “I do. Thank you.”

“And you know it’s the best friend’s job to castrate any man that hurts the other, right?” I laugh genuinely, for the first time since Friday, at her joke—at least, I hope it’s a joke. Kind of. “You just tell me who, when, and where.”

Liz and I step out of the car and head to our first classes. The day goes by as I’d expected—painfully slow—and nothing can hold my focus long enough to keep me from thinking about Owen. I imagine I look like a zombie to most people I pass in the halls, and I don’t know when I became this girl—the girl who’s sick to death over a guy—but I have. I find I can’t help it, though; I miss him terribly, and I want to call him, even if it’s only to hear his voice and then hang up.

During lunch, Liz talks about her first few classes and tries to get me to join in on the conversation. She never pressures me, instead always trying to keep it going by asking questions or changing the topic to one she thinks I might enjoy. She really is the best, but all I’m interested in is pushing my salad around my plate with my fork. I don’t think I even eat any of it by the time lunch ends and we have to part ways for class, but I can’t really tell because my appetite just hasn’t been what it used to be.