Just a Number(83)

“Explain what, exactly?” he says, his calm demeanor slowly chipping away.

And just when I didn’t think anything could get worse, the door to my apartment swings open, and Owen saunters in with an armload of takeout, chuckling. “You didn’t answer your phone, sweetheart,” he says, his eyes down and looking into the over-sized bag. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted extra spring-rolls again. I know how you tend to be hungry after we—” he cuts himself off the second he looks up and realizes we’re not alone, but I’m afraid it’s too late. Dad’s gone from confused to upset to downright pissed off and seeing red in less than two minutes.

“Do not finish that sentence,” Dad says, his teeth clenched together so hard, I worry they’ll break. He looks between us a couple of times, and I wait for him to explode…

But instead, he shakes his head and pushes past Owen, leaving my apartment.

“Dad?” I call after him, the first few tears falling down my cheeks. He doesn’t respond, nor does he come back. In fact, it sounds like his footsteps are getting farther and farther away.

Worried, I go around Owen and see that I’m right; Dad’s almost made it to the stairs, so I follow after him, barefoot, down the hall. “Daddy, wait! Please!” Even though my vision is blurred from the tears that are now flowing freely, I pick up speed so he doesn’t get too far away. Behind me, I hear Owen drop the bag of food, and I only think about the mess it must have made for a millisecond before I hear his heavy footsteps behind me. I fly down the stairs after Dad, not once concerned that I might trip and fall on my face.

It surprises me when I make it to the main level, and I can hear Owen directly behind me, having caught up in record time. “Alan. Stop. Give us a chance to explain.”

Dad doesn’t. He keeps pretending he doesn’t hear us calling after him as he steps out into the rain. It’s pouring outside, but I can’t find it in myself to care as I carry on after him in my shorts and tank top. The rain is cold as it pelts down on me, mixing with the salty tears that soak my cheeks and plastering my hair to my head and my clothes to my body. The fact that I’m walking on cold, wet concrete chills me, but I need to stop him. He needs to hear us out.

“Daddy, please!” I cry out desperately, my voice reaching a pitch I didn’t know it could, and he stops. He doesn’t turn around, but he stops. This is progress, and I thank God for small miracles.

I stand there, three or four feet away from him, my eyes blinking the heavy rain away as quickly as possible, not that it impairs my vision any less. I can see he’s breathing heavily, and his hands are clenched into fists at his sides.

“How long?”

At first, I’m not sure I hear him with the wind howling the way it is, but he repeats his question, and I take a deep breath before answering. “Since Thanksgiving,” I reply, raising my voice so he can hear me.

He whips around, his eyes wide and furious between blinks. “This has been going on for over a month?” His gaze shifts to something behind me, and I don’t need to turn around to know that Owen is right there. I can sense his presence. I always know when he’s near. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Alan, listen. It’s not what you think,” Owen tries to explain, stepping around me and approaching my dad until they’re within arm’s reach of one another.

“She’s just a child!” Dad bellows, his voice cutting through the rain and wind until even the people across the street turn to see what’s going on.

When his comment sinks in, I grow offended. Frowning, I shake my head angrily. “I am not!” Neither of them seems to hear me, far too focused on each other.

“Jesus, Alan,” Owen starts, pushing his fingers through his sopping wet hair. “I’m trying to tell you that it’s not like that. Amelia and I—”

“’Amelia’?” Dad questions, eyes growing fierce and frightening. Before either one of us can read the situation for what it is, one of his balled-up fists comes flying forward, connecting with the left side of Owen’s face. Shocked, I scream, slapping both hands over my mouth as Owen falls to the wet pavement, his bottom lip split and bleeding.

“Don’t you dare say her name. Do you hear me? You think you can just…” Dad looks like he wants to attach some kind of derogatory label to our relationship, but stops himself short. “…with my daughter and everything between us would be fine? How could you take advantage of her like that?” Dad advances on Owen, who’s still on the ground, trying to regroup and shake off the fuzzy feeling he has to have after a debilitating hit like that.