Just a Number(50)

Owen’s gaze snaps to mine so fast, I fear he might get whiplash. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, it’s been a few weeks, right? Is it serious?” I’m not saying any of this in hopes he’ll answer, I just don’t think that my remaining silent on the matter will help us keep the fact that I’m his mystery woman a secret.

“Serious…” he says, almost uncertain if this is something he should attempt to dance around. “I suppose it’s showing promise.”

Dad laughs, taking a swig of his beer. “Well, you should have brought her! I think it’s safe to say we’re all curious to meet her.”

I smirk, bringing my glass to my lips, because I can honestly say that I’m not; I already know she’s awesome.

Looking down into his glass of scotch, he exhales a breathy laugh, the outer corners of his eyes crinkling. “She’s celebrating the holidays with her dad, actually.”

Oh, he’s fucking hilarious. A regular stand-up comedian, this guy is.

“And what about you?” Julia says, nudging me with her elbow. “I suspected you were seeing someone, and your dad told me I was right.”

I narrow my eyes in my dad’s direction. “Oh, did he, now? And what exactly did he say?”

Dad tries to backpedal his way out of this. “Hey, I only told them that I ran into your neighbor the night I was in the city and he told me you were seeing someone.”

“An older someone,” Julia amends, causing Dad to grimace. Not a good sign for when I tell him about Owen and me, but we’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it. “So, is it true?”

“I…um…” Stammering isn’t a good sign, but it’s all I’ve got. If I lie, they’ll all see through it. “Well…yes?”

Shit. I don’t think I meant to say that out loud. This brings on a bout of nervous rambling.

“He’s really great, and I know you’d all really like him.” Dad doesn’t look so sure, but I know he’s wrong. In fact, he’s known my mystery man longer than I have, so it’s not like he can say that Owen’s a bad guy, right? Yeah, let’s go with that.

“How much older?” Dad asks, his tone serious, all signs of his earlier joking with Owen gone.

Double shit.

“Does that matter?” I ask. “I mean, if I’m happy, what does age really have to do with it? It’s just a number, right?”

“It matters,” Dad says, emphasizing his words, “because he could be taking advantage of you.”

“Alan, stop,” Owen interjects suddenly, his tone borderline defensive. I can tell that he’s trying not to be insulted by my dad’s assumptions.

“He’s not,” I tell my dad, my voice low and harsh.

Dad looks across at Owen and shakes his head. “I won’t stop. This guy can’t find a woman his own age, so he heads out and manipulates young girls? My daughter?”

I roll my eyes at his stupid double standards. I guaran-damn-tee you that if it came out that Owen was dating a much younger woman, Dad would be high-fiving the shit out of him. How do I know this? Because of his previous advice to go out and find some “hot young thing” to help him forget about his whore of a wife. But because it’s me dating an older guy, it’s all of a sudden forbidden and the guy is “taking advantage of me.”

Whatever.

Before I can let my simmering anger, or this conversation, escalate to a full-out raging boil, I force a smile and excuse myself. I head over to the table that houses all the booze and find that the wine bottles are empty. Knowing that Dad has a spare fridge in the basement where he stored the alcohol because the one in the kitchen is full, I head down there.

I grab a bottle of wine and set it on the counter, not quite ready to go back upstairs yet. It’s quiet down here—a little cool, sure, but I’m okay with that. I’m far enough away from everyone that I can let my dad’s words roll off my back and get a hold of my emotions. I know he doesn’t mean to be an asshole, and I’m sure this is the last conversation he wanted to have during the holidays. But it’s out there now, and I handled it as best I could.

“Hey.” Even though his tone is soft, concerned, it still startles the hell out of me, and I jump.

“Owen,” I say, breathless, as I slap a hand over my fluttering heart. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you come down here.”

“Sorry,” he says, stepping closer to me as I lean against the washing machine across the small room from the spare fridge. “You okay? What he said…”

“Was complete bullshit,” I finish for him. “I’m not… You would never…” Apparently I’m still pretty upset about this, and I struggle to breathe through my rising anxiety.