Just a Number

by A. D. Ryan

  I look forward to seeing what

  your devious little mind comes

  up with.

  “Okay,” Liz says, putting the car into park. “You need to tell me about this guy. You’ve been smiling like the Cheshire Cat over there the entire ride, and I’d be willing to bet it’s because you’ve been sexting your booty call.”

  “You can stop calling him that,” I tell her with a laugh. “And I’m not ready to talk about him. Things are…complicated and new, and we’re not quite ready to go public until we’ve figured everything out.”

  “Is it Nolan?” she asks. “He still totally wants you, you know.”

  Shaking my head, I unbuckle my seatbelt, open my door, and shift to step out. “You’re delusional. Nolan is with Michelle and they’re beyond happy. Besides, things between us never would have worked out.”

  “You said he was the best lay you’d ever had,” Liz reminds me, and she’s not wrong—or up until last week she wouldn’t have been wrong. Now, though? Now she’s dead wrong, because Owen has upped the ante in that department.

  Liz must see evidence of my thoughts on my face, because her lips curl up into the goofiest smile I’ve ever seen in my life. “Could that devilish glint in your eyes mean that you’ve found, dare I say it, better?” She squeals, drawing the attention of a few students passing by. “Well, now you have to tell me everything!”

  “We’re going to be late,” I tell her, getting out of her car and closing the door behind me.

  She’s not far behind, locking the doors and speed-walking to catch up. “Okay, you don’t have to tell me who he is, just…how did you meet?”

  “We’ve known each other for as long as I can remember,” I tell her honestly, and I hope she ends her line of questioning there. She doesn’t, because, quite frankly, I’m just not that fortunate.

  “So, like, you used to play together as kids?”

  “Um,” I hum, biting the inside of my cheek. Technically, she’s not wrong. I mean, Owen wasn’t a kid, but he used to indulge me in the occasional board game or play tag with me after nagging him relentlessly. “I suppose you could say that. Look, as much as I want to tell you about him, Liz—and believe me, I do, because I’ve never felt like this before—I need to figure things out with him first. Can you accept that?”

  Liz smiles, wrapping an arm around me as we walk. “Of course, bestie. I’m just psyched for you. You seem happy.”

  A warm blush fills my face, and I laugh lightly. “I am.”

  Truthfully, I would love nothing more than to tell Liz about Owen. She won’t judge me—at least I don’t think she will—but I’m scared that if I speak aloud about what Owen and I have going on that it might somehow get back to my father. And there’s no way he’s going to react well. We need to be extra careful when telling him…should we decide that this is serious enough to do so.

  The day seems to drag on forever, and I blame my damn anticipation of seeing Owen again. I try to drown myself in the subject material of each of my classes, but it’s not long before my mind starts to drift back to my apartment, where I imagine Owen is just getting back from doing his laundry.

  I try to keep myself from zoning out in the car as Liz drives me back to my place. I do all right, for the most part. I mean, she only has to repeat herself three times in the forty-minute drive through rush hour traffic. I’d chalk that up as a win.

  Before I get out of the car, Liz turns to me and smirks. “Is he coming over again? Because if he is, I won’t call you later…you know, give the two of you a little privacy.”

  I laugh. “Yes, he’ll be over tonight. I actually don’t know if he left the apartment at all.” I open my door and turn my head in her direction. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

  “Definitely.” She nods affirmatively. “Have fun,” she sings after me as I step out onto the sidewalk and wave.

  Even though I’m not sure if Owen’s even in my apartment, I race up the four flights of stairs and walk briskly down the hall toward my door. I slip the key into the lock and disengage it, and the smell that greets me makes my mouth water. Owen’s cooking, and it smells like marinara sauce…possibly from scratch.

  “Hey,” I say once I step through the door and spot him in the kitchen, standing at the stove and stirring something in a pot. I drop my bookbag by the front door and join him, wrapping my arms around his waist and peeking around him. I was right; he is making a marinara sauce, and in another pot, it looks like he’s cooking some pasta.

  “Now I know I didn’t have any of the necessary ingredients to put this meal together…unless those are my ramen noodles in that pot there,” I quip, squeezing his sides in an attempt to tickle him.

  He laughs, shaking his head. “They are most definitely not ramen noodles. And I had a bit of free time after doing my laundry, so I figured I’d make a trip to the grocery store and pick up a few things.”

  Curious, I remove my body from his and turn to open the fridge. The sight I’m met with shocks the hell out of me: he’s completely stocked my fridge. I’ve got various meats in the freezer—all individually wrapped into portions—and my fridge is stocked with various condiments and produce.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I say, still a little stunned. “I mean, thank you, but it really wasn’t necessary.”

  “Amy, I couldn’t, in good conscience, let you live off those damn noodles.” He turns off the stove and grabs the pot of noodles, taking them two feet to the sink and draining the water. “Do you mind grabbing plates?” he asks. “Dinner’s ready.”

  Owen plates our meal—spaghetti with a homemade meat sauce—and we sit side by side at the counter while we talk about our day. As he goes on about his afternoon, I listen raptly, taking in every word and imagining being able to end every day like this. While I know I have feelings for him—feelings that seem to have grown over the last few days—I begin to wonder what kind of future we could have.

  Will those closest to us understand?

  Better yet, will it matter to either of us if they don’t?

  12. Dirty Little Secret

  Returning to work was inevitable. While I’d hoped to have the week off before being forced back into the fray, an emergency call from my assistant on Tuesday night changed that. She told me that one of my clients isn’t happy with the latest ad campaign I’d sent them last week before my impromptu trip to Portland.

  Since I hadn’t packed anything to wear into the office when I left Seattle, I knew a stop at the condo couldn’t be avoided. The very thought of running into Gretchen makes my stomach twist with nausea and my blood run hot with rage. Our marriage has been troubled for years, and I had already been in talks with my lawyer—and brother-in-law—about getting started on the proceedings. It didn’t matter that Gretchen might wind up gaining half of my estate; it was a price I was willing to pay to get her out of my life.

  We’d discussed separating at length, and Gretchen seemed completely on board…until I’d heard a rumor that she’d been cheating on me for the last year-and-a-half. In order to keep her from finding out, I’d used my personal account to hire a private investigator. Never in my life did I ever think I would be that guy—the guy who hires a PI to follow his wife around the city where she meets a few times a week with several different men for an hour or two at a time.

  The pictures made me see red, and they sent Gretchen into a blind panic. She knew that because she’d been caught having an affair—or technically, several—that she wasn’t going to see a single cent of my money. This worried her because she’d gotten used to living a certain way: going to charity galas in expensive gowns and jewelry, going on week-long trips to Palm Springs with her girlfriends and spending hundreds—sometimes thousands—of dollars, and let’s not forget the new black Porsche she bought a few months back that’s in my name.

  This is why she’s suddenly changed her tune about the divorce.

  She’d tried to explain it away as the men just being old friends who were
going through a rough time, but the pictures of her cozying up to them before getting into her car extinguished that argument before it had a chance to ignite.

  When I pull my Lexus into its spot, my stomach lurches at the sight of Gretchen’s car in its place. While I try to tell myself that she’s probably left it here because it’s not her property, I know better than that. I know that confronting her can’t be avoided any longer. While seeing her won’t change my mind on any of it, I’d really rather avoid her until I’ve gotten the divorce papers drawn up—which I should be sure to do this afternoon if Stephen is available.

  Steeling my resolve, I lock up the Lexus and head for the elevator. I can’t prolong the inevitable no matter how much I’d like to.

  The elevator feels like it’s moving far too slowly, and the walk down the hall to my door feels even longer. I feel how I imagine a man headed for his execution feels, and when I finally reach my door, I pause, taking one more deep breath before opening it and tripping over several suitcases in my way.

  “What the hell?” I bellow after clipping my shin on the pointed corner of one of the designer bags.

  Gretchen rushes down the hall, her hands in her hair as if she’s in the middle of getting ready to head out for the day—to where, I have no idea; it’s not like she goes to work this early. She appears shocked to see me, though I’m not entirely sure why. Who else would she be expecting to be walking through the front door to my condo?

  Her hands fall to her side, letting her outrageously expensive blonde hair cascade around her shoulders in loose waves, and she takes a few tentative steps toward me. “Owen,” she exhales softly. “You’re here.”

  A humorous laugh escapes me, and I shake my head, slamming the front door behind me as I step around her things. “Yeah, you too, I see. Figured you’d be gone by now.”

  “I, um…well, I was leaving today.” Her eyes catch mine, hope glimmering in them faintly. “Unless…?”

  “Do you need help with your bags? I’d be happy to put them in the hall for you,” I tell her, walking past her to the kitchen and ignoring the pleading tone of her voice. I open the fridge to find it almost bare; makes sense considering I’m the one who does the shopping around here. I’m not really hungry anyway, having just shared a big breakfast with Amelia at her apartment before she went to school.

  “Where’ve you been?” Gretchen asks, breaking the silence as I shut the fridge door hard enough to make the bottles in the door rattle.

  I turn on her, ready to tear into her. Instead of finding her looking at me with hope, I find her with her arms crossed in front of her and her eyes narrowed. This is the Gretchen I’ve been living with this last year. “Excuse me?” I demand.

  “I called Alan’s. You weren’t there, and you didn’t answer your cell when I called.” She pauses briefly, her eyes burning into mine with an unspoken accusation.

  I stare at her for a minute, completely dumbstruck. “I didn’t answer any of your calls because I have nothing to say to you at this time. As for where I was…that’s really none of your concern anymore, now is it?”

  Her eyes widen, and I think I see realization dawn in them before she speaks. “You were with someone,” she assumes, jumping to conclusions that aren’t wrong.

  There are several reasons I’m not quite ready to tell Gretchen about Amelia. I mean, I would love to rub her nose in the fact that I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life, because I know that would get under her Botox-riddled skin, but I can’t. Not until Amelia and I have figured out what exactly our relationship is—if that’s even what we’re calling it—and definitely not until after we’ve talked to Alan. He’ll be the first to learn about us.

  “Gretchen, you have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, sloughing her accurate assumptions off as nonsense without flat-out lying to her.

  “I’m still your wife, Owen, and I can tell you’ve been with another woman.”

  “My wife?” This time, my laugh isn’t dry. I actually find genuine humor in what she’s said. “You sure have a funny way of honoring your marriage vows.” Shaking my head, I walk past her, my arm brushing hers as I make my way down the hall. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out…I know how much the implants cost me. I’ll be meeting with my lawyer this afternoon to get started on the divorce proceedings. Expect to be handing over the keys to the Porsche, and perhaps start gearing up to use public transit.” It makes me smile when I notice her cringe at the mere suggestion of public transportation.

  “Owen, be reasonable,” she starts to plead, clearly getting ready to make some sort of deal. “Surely we can work something out.”

  Turning around and taking a couple of backward steps away, I shrug. “The pre-nup was pretty straightforward,” I tell her. “Not my problem. Goodbye, Gretchen. Leave the keys to the condo on the counter. I’ll be having the locks changed today.”

  With an exasperated huff, Gretchen tosses her keys on the kitchen counter and picks up her bags. “This isn’t over, Owen.”

  “Maybe not yet,” I agree. “But I’ll see what I can do to speed up the process.”

  As strange as it seems, the sound of her slamming the door behind her is music to my ears. After stripping out of my clothes and grabbing a suit and tie from my closet, I freeze before tossing everything on the king-sized bed that I once shared with Gretchen. While I don’t think she was stupid enough to bring men back to our home, I can’t be sure. And, even if she hadn’t, I still didn’t want to sleep in it—alone or with Amelia—knowing Gretchen had once occupied it. I pull on my suit quickly and grab my phone off my dresser, flipping through my contacts and finding the one person I knew would love to help me out.

  “Cavanaugh Interior Design. Julia Cavanaugh-Bennett, speaking.”

  “Jules,” I greet happily, balancing my phone between my ear and shoulder while I knot my tie.

  “Hey, big bro,” she responds. “How was your Thanksgiving? You sound good, like maybe it was just what you needed.”

  Unable to contain my smile, I nod; my sister has always been able to read a person’s mood regardless of whether or not they’re in the same room. “It was good, and, you’re right, just what I needed.”

  “Is the wench gone?”

  I chuckle, tightening the double Windsor knot around my neck. “Just. That’s actually why I’m calling. You busy today?”

  “Um, not really. I have a quick meeting with a potential client in about fifteen minutes, and then the rest of my day was going to be spent in the office surfing the ‘net and screwing around on Facebook,” she replies candidly. “Why?”

  “I’m in need of your assistance. I’d like to redo the condo. Paint, furniture, everything. I want to basically eliminate all traces of Gretchen from my home. Cost is not an issue.”

  Julia exhales happily. “Music to my ears.” I hear the creak of her chair over the phone and then what might be the scratch of her pen on paper. “Deadline?” Julia asks. I assume she’s trying to fit the project in amongst whatever else is on her plate at work.

  “I’d like the bedroom done by Friday, if possible,” I explain, and I know the minute it leaves my mouth that it will likely raise questions with her, so I quickly add more in hopes of drawing her focus away from it. “But the rest of the house can be done gradually over the next few weeks unless you can fit it in sooner.”

  I can practically hear the smile behind her words. “The bedroom, huh? Does someone plan to have company over?”

  “Yes or no, Jules?” I inquire with a laugh.

  She hums contemplatively. “Your lack of confirmation or denial only makes me think I’m right, big brother. Who is she?”

  Julia and I have always been able to be open and honest with one another over the years, but this is one thing I’m not ready to share with her. Julia loves Amelia…like a niece, so it isn’t that I think she’ll be against it—in fact, I’m sure she’ll be more than supportive—but Amelia and I have agreed to keep what we ha
ve a secret until we’re ready to tell Alan. He’s the one that our relationship will affect the most, so it’s only right that he be the first to hear of it.

  When we’re ready and have him as far away from his arsenal as possible.

  “I’m not ready to talk about my personal life right now, Jules. I’m late for a meeting.”

  Exasperated, Julia sighs. “Fine. I’ll stop by after my meeting and see what I can do. I won’t be able to do the full remodel of the bedroom today, but I should be able to make a plan and have it done for Friday.”

  “Perfect. I’ll leave a key with the doorman, so feel free to come and go as you please,” I tell her.

  “You won’t be there?” she asks, confusion lacing her tone.

  “I was going to stay with A—” I’m barely able to stop myself before I say too much, but I do, and I can practically hear the wheels in Julia’s mind shifting into gear as she tries to finish my sentence. “With a friend.”

  “Riiiight,” she says, clearly not buying the “friend” cover story. “Well, I’ll call you if I have any questions if you can tear yourself away from your…friend long enough to indulge me.”

  Her playful teasing is not lost on me, and I laugh. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to keep my phone close.”

  After saying goodbye to my sister, I make a quick call to the building’s superintendent and request to have the locks changed. I explain my situation, and he agrees to come up and do this as soon as possible, telling me he’ll leave the new keys with the doorman for me to pick up later.

  With those few things squared away, I head into the office to hopefully figure out the problem with the campaign in an attempt to salvage this business deal. When I arrive, I have about fifteen minutes before my clients are to arrive, so I send Amelia a quick text.

  Hope your morning’s going well.

  I set my phone down on my desk and head out to the main office for a cup of coffee. When I return, I see she’s messaged me back—even though she should be in class.