Just a Number (33 page)

I swallow thickly and nod. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I thought I could get him to talk to you.”

“No. It’s, um…it’s fine. I get it.” I’m trying to fight back more tears, not wanting to sully my first actual date with Owen. “I’m just glad to know he made it back safe. I was afraid with the way he left and that storm that…I was just afraid.”

“He actually just got back a couple hours ago. He wound up staying in the city last night, not wanting to brave the highway.”

Hearing this is a relief, and I’m glad that, even with how angry he was, he had the presence of mind to keep himself safe. “So…is he…? How bad is it?”

“He won’t tell me much, I’m afraid. How are you?”

That’s all it takes to force the tears from my eyes, and I quickly excuse myself before I draw the attention of all of the other patrons. I move to the back of the restaurant and hang out by the washrooms. “I feel awful. I never meant for him to find out this way, Carla.” I’m bawling and my lungs start to burn as I enter the beginning stages of hyperventilation.

“I know you didn’t, sweetie. Had I known he was heading down when he was, I’d have called you. He didn’t even tell me.”

“No,” I tell her, sniffling and shaking my head. “This isn’t your fault. It’s ours. We should have just told him when all of this began. Keeping it from him was stupid…we just thought…” I growl in frustration. “I don’t know what we were thinking, if I’m being honest. I guess I thought that if we could tell him in our own time and in our own way that he might not react the way he did.”

Carla tells me she understands, and that she’s tried to talk some sense into him, but that he’s still trying to process everything. “I’ll keep talking to him, Amy. I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. “For everything. And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry we dragged you into our mess. It wasn’t fair of us.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay,” I reply, hanging up the phone and slipping it back in my pocket. I step into the washroom to clean up. After blowing my nose, I use the pads of my fingers to wipe the tears from beneath my eyes and grimace at how red and puffy they look. I give myself a couple more minutes when there’s a light knock at the door. It doesn’t surprise me when it opens a crack and Owen pops his head in.

“You all right?” he asks as I step out into the hall.

I nod, though it’s definitely forced. “Yeah…or, I will be, I think. He’s home,” I tell him. “Apparently he stayed at a hotel last night and drove back today.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” Owen tells me.

“Yup. He’s still pissed, though.”

“Not surprising.” Owen pauses, offering me a comforting smile. “You still want to stay and eat? We could always grab something to go? Talk a little more back at the apartment?”

I take a deep, calming breath. “No. Let’s stay. This is our first official date, and I don’t want to spoil it.”

Chuckling, Owen wraps his arms around me, kissing the top of my head. “Sweetheart, there’s no way you could ruin tonight.”

We head back to our table and order our food. I’m surprised at how hungry I am, and I polish off my burger and fries in what has to be some kind of record. After paying the bill and leaving a decent tip, Owen and I walk back toward the theater where we left the car. Once we pull out onto the street, I turn to look at Owen. “Can we stay at your place tonight?”

Smiling, he reaches across and takes my hand. “We can stay wherever you’d like.”

“Thanks.”

“Should we stop by your place so you can grab a few things?” he inquires, and I nod in response.

After packing an overnight bag and a couple changes of clothes—you know, in case one night turns into three or four—we’re en route for his condo. He parks in the underground parking garage next to Gretchen’s old car, and we take the elevator up to his floor.

I drop my bag off in Owen’s room, and when I come out, he’s waiting for me with two glasses of wine. With a smile, I take one from him and follow him to the living room, where we settle down on the couch. He turns on the TV and puts an episode of
Game of Thrones
on, then he pulls my feet into his lap and begins to rub them.

He’s scoring more and more brownie points.

I can feel my entire body relax as the wine warms my blood and his fingers massage the pressure points in my feet. It’s the most relaxed I’ve been in the last twenty-four hours, and I have Owen to thank. Even though he’s struggling with the same issue as me, he’s been nothing short of amazing as he tries to keep me as distracted as possible…

I suppose I could return the favor.

Drinking the last of my wine, I set the glass on the coffee table and pull my feet from his hands and move to my knees on the couch and crawl toward him. He looks at me, confused a little at first until I straddle his lap and begin trailing kisses along his jaw. I can feel the conflict in his body language—how he wants to give into the desire, yet he’s holding back out of respect for me.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, brushing his ear with my lips before nipping it lightly.

His hips thrust up against me in response, and then his hands ensnare my hips, pulling me against him as his mouth attacks mine. I cup the side of his face in my hands and slide my tongue over his, deepening our kiss as his hands move up and under my shirt. A tingling sensation moves like a current beneath my skin as his fingers pull my bra down and work my nipples into hardened peaks.

I moan into his mouth, and in a flash, Owen has me pinned beneath him on the couch, his hips thrusting against me with purpose. I loosen my legs from around him and slide my hands down his body until I’m fumbling with the button on his jeans and trying to push them down. When he pulls away from me, both of us panting wildly and trying to catch our breath, he does the same to my jeans, yanking them from my body and throwing them across the room. He stands next to the couch and removes his clothes while I shed my sweater and bra, and then he eases his way back between my trembling thighs.

I whimper when he slips between my legs, teasing and promising all at the same time, and before I can turn into the girl who begs to be fucked senseless, he pushes himself inside of me slowly.

The urgency from before is gone as he moves against me, his eyes locked with mine as his fingers brush my hair from my face, and I am so overcome by emotion, feeling his love for me radiate through us both.

The pressure of my orgasm swells and rolls in my belly, and I lift my face to his, kissing him hard and fast as he keeps his steady pace between my legs. The first wave of pleasure crashes over me, and I gasp against his lips before declaring, “I love you, Owen.”

Closing in on his own orgasm, Owen’s hips pulse against me, and he presses his forehead to mine. His eyes once again entrap me, and he breathes heavily before returning the sentiment. “I love you, too.”

We collapse onto the couch, sweaty and breathless with our legs tangled up. We use our fingers to lazily trace nonsensical designs on each other’s skin as we slowly come down from our post-sex high. Maybe I’m just overly sentimental, but I feel like this was the best sex we’ve had, due in large part to how we’ve declared our true feelings for one another. It’s a first for me, and I can’t imagine that it gets any better than this.

I must start to doze off, because I’m suddenly being coaxed by Owen to get off the couch and come to bed. We gather our clothes off the floor and head to the bedroom where we collapse, naked and exhausted, beneath his comforter. He pulls me into his side and begins tickling my back, lulling me back to sleep, and I find myself thinking about how perfect my life is in this moment…

…until my dreams remind me of how my relationship with my father still hangs in the balance.

I relive the night he found out with vivid, ice-cold clarity, and when I jolt awake the next morning, I’m surprised to see Owen sitting on the edge of the bed next to me, dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and nothing else. His head hangs, and his eyes are fixed to the floor. He looks upset, and this worries me, so I lay a hand on his back, drawing his gaze to me.

“You were talking in your sleep last night,” he says, smiling brokenly.

I try to lighten his mood with a smile. “Well, that’s not unusual for me.”

“I hate how things between you two have turned out,” he confesses. “I think you should talk to him.”

Keeping the sheet around me, I bring my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them. “I’ve tried. He doesn’t want to talk to me right now.”

“Then make him,” Owen says, turning to me and holding out his hand; dangling between his thumb and forefinger are the keys to his Lexus. “Take my car. Make him listen to you. My relationship with him probably isn’t salvageable, but yours is.”

“Owen…” I start to say, but he shakes his head.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” he promises. “But you need to try and get him to hear you. Until you do, you won’t be able to rest easy.”

He’s right, so I take his keys and nod. “All right,” I agree. “I’ll go.”

24. Coming Home

I
pull up to the house a little after noon, but I can’t bring myself to get out of the warm vehicle. Not because it’s particularly cold outside, but because I fear the chilly reception I might receive for my unannounced visit.

Not that my dad doesn’t deserve to be surprised by my arrival after he pulled the same stunt.

Four songs play on the radio before I finally find the courage to turn the car off and step outside. Hesitant, I take my time climbing the front steps. I reach for the doorknob, knowing it’ll be unlocked, but then think better of it and knock instead.

Footsteps approach behind the door, and I take a deep breath, steeling myself for my father’s reaction, but when the door opens, I release the breath, a cloud forming on the cool winter air.

“Amelia! What a surprise,” Carla greets with forced enthusiasm as she looks over her shoulder and toward the living room. Even though I’m outside and the door is blocking my view, I know she’s looking at my father.

“Hey, Carla.” My voice is quiet and cracks when I say her name, so I clear my throat. “Is he here?”

Carla steps out of the way, allowing me to come inside, my gaze travelling until I find my dad in his recliner. He regards me with an expression that confuses me; if I look deep enough, I see his willingness to listen, but it’s also not hard to see how angry he still is. My heart breaks when he remains silent, not even mustering up an annoyed “hello.”

“Hey, Dad,” I say, offering him a very hesitant smile as I close the door and take a step toward the living room.

Carla reaches out and gives my hand a gentle squeeze before I get too far past her. “I’ll give the two of you some privacy,” she says, picking up her purse and jacket and heading outside.

My anxiety spikes with every step I take, and I’m suddenly not sure what I wanted to say. Part of me wants to apologize for keeping something this huge from him for as long as we did, but another part of me is still so angry with him for not listening to our side of things, and I want to demand an apology from him. As I sit down on the end of the couch closest to his chair, the first emotion takes over, forcing my eyes to the floor as I bite my lower lip nervously.

I glance up briefly, noticing his eyes aren’t on me but on the keys I’ve just set on the coffee table. He inhales a big breath as realization hits him. Based on the wide-eyed look on his face, I figure he’s assuming I haven’t come alone, so I decide to assuage his fears. “He’s still in the city,” I quietly assure him. “He loaned me the car so I could come talk to you.”

He exhales a sigh of relief, probably feeling like he’s just dodged a bullet. We sit in uncomfortable silence for several minutes, and I look around the room uncomfortably. My hands are clasped tightly in my lap, and I periodically crack my knuckles—something I only ever do when extremely agitated. When I look over at my dad, I notice the pained look on his face. I can tell he wants to comfort me in some way, but his hurt and anger toward me keeps him from following through.

“We didn’t plan for this to happen,” I begin, my voice cracking again before I clear my throat. “But it has.” I want him to say something—anything—but he remains silent, and I continue. “You, yourself, told Owen he should try to forget Gretchen with someone younger—” He shoots a warning glare my way that tells me that, while I might be right, this is not the way I should be presenting my case.

“Sorry,” I quickly tack on. “I’m honestly not trying to piss you off more than you already are, but you’ve set these ridiculous double-standards that I can’t even begin to understand.

“You found out that Owen was dating someone half his age, and he got congratulated and slapped on the back… Jesus, Daddy, you asked him for
details
.”

He looks horrified at being reminded about the night he showed up at Owen’s place unannounced when I’d been over as he closes his eyes and groans.

“And yet, when you found out I was seeing someone older, you accused me of making poor choices because there was no way a man that old wasn’t taking advantage of me.” Exhausted at being the only contributor to the conversation, I sigh, shaking my head. “I know you were just being a dad and looking out for me—the way you always have—and I appreciate that you’re so protective over me, but…I’m not a child anymore, Dad. I’m twenty-one years old, and I’m fully capable of making my own decisions and dealing with whatever consequences they may have.”