Twenty-Three
twenty-three
brEATHE (2 AM) - ANNA NALICK
CALLIE - JUNE 12, 2013
T he soft buzz of my phone pulls me from sleep, the early morning light slicing through the cheap curtains like a knife. I groan, squinting against the brightness. These damn curtains. I fumble for my phone, barely awake, when Owen's name flashes on the screen, a small smile creeping onto my lips.
We've been texting constantly for weeks now. He's become my emotional lifeline, always there with a kind word or a sarcastic joke to make me laugh. It’s frustrating how much I’ve started to rely on him, but here we are. If he were closer, I'd do more than just text him. It’s that kind of friendship—the kind that could easily tip into something more, if only.
Owen:
Good morning, sunshine! How’s your day so far?
I stretch, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. Owen's sweet, respectful, and... a little oblivious sometimes–like a golden retriever. There’s a flirty tone in most of our messages, and while I know he wants to stay just friends, I can’t help testing the waters sometimes.
Still lying in bed, I snap a quick photo, letting the sun highlight my newly noticeable baby bump. It’s a full-body shot, and I notice—oh yeah, there’s a lot of cleavage there. Whoops.
Me:
Still in bed, so I can’t complain yet.
His reply comes almost instantly.
Owen:
Aww! You’re actually glowing!
Glowing? Seriously? I send a picture with my boobs nearly falling out and I get "aww"?! That’s it? I can’t help but laugh, but a tiny sting of disappointment slips in. Maybe it’s time to push him a little more.
Me:
Sorry for the boob shot. These freaking things are always getting in the way now.
I wait, my heart picking up pace. My phone goes off with the text tone I set for him–the sound of a better bottle cap being popped. The sound plays two more times in rapid succession, and I smirk. Hook, line, and sinker.
Owen:
Haha! No need to be sorry. It was a nice picture.
And I’m a boob guy so whether we’re just friends or not, you won’t get a complaint from me.
I was just trying to be respectful and not draw attention to it.
Bingo. I bite my lip, knowing I’ve hooked him just enough. My mind churns. Why not take it up a notch? After all, he did admit he's a boob guy. I strip off my pajamas, leaving only my red lace panties on. The baby bump is there, sure, but I know I still look good.
Standing in front of the mirror, I snap another picture, this time strategically covering my breasts with one arm, letting just enough skin show to keep it fun. Damn, I look hot!
Me:
Sixteen weeks tomorrow!
I hit send, adrenaline surging. What was I thinking? I hop into the shower, waiting for the inevitable sound of my phone. Surely, he'll respond... right?
Fucking Chaos Callie making herself known again. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
As the hot water beats down on me, doubt starts to creep in. I finish my shower in record time, anxiety clawing at me. Still no response. Oh no. I wonder if I’ve crossed a line. I throw on some clothes, try to distract myself by getting Sara from her crib, but it gnaws at me. Should I text him and pretend the picture was meant for someone else? Would that be better or worse?
Maybe not since he knows that I’ve been talking to Matt again. But that’s also thirsty as fuck so I quickly talk myself out of it and decide to just face the music later.
I have more important things to stress about at the moment.
Maybe that’s why I was a little unhinged and sent that thirsty-ass picture to my friend Owen this morning. Yeah, let’s go with that. I obviously wasn’t thinking clearly.
The morning rush begins to blur as I drop Sara off at my mom’s, bag packed, ready for Adam to pick her up later. I’m a wreck, juggling my emotions—Adam having Sara for the weekend, the panic of sending that damn picture, and the crushing silence from Owen.
What the fuck was I thinking?
When I get to work, I’m practically vibrating with tension. Barely an hour into my shift at Brooked & Brewed, the door chimes, and my stomach drops. Matt walks in—flowers in hand.
Now I really feel like a dick for sending that picture to Owen this morning. I remind myself that I shouldn’t feel bad because I have zero commitments to Matt or any other man for that matter. He looks around, spots me, and walks over with a grin.
“Hey, Callie,” he says, eyes soft and kind. “Thought these might brighten your day.”
Before I can even respond, the door slams open again, and there’s Adam, looking murderous, Sara clinging to his arm with tear-streaked cheeks.
“Where’s the giraffe, Callie?” His voice is sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.
I blink, scrambling to remember if I packed it. “If it’s not in the bag, it’s probably in my car. She was playing with it earlier,” I mumble, already feeling the tension coil.
Adam’s eyes narrow. “Give me the keys. I’ll get it.”
I dig into my pocket and toss him the keys, my heart hammering. His eyes flick between me and Matt, who’s standing awkwardly nearby.
Adam leans in, his voice dripping with malice. “Nice flowers, Callie. Guess you couldn’t wait to move on. You’re really a piece of work, huh?”
Matt’s fists clench, but Adam towers over him. I shoot Matt a warning look—this is not the time to play hero.
“Good luck, man,” Adam sneers, turning toward the door. “Enjoy my leftovers.”
Matt, ever the calm one, just grins. “Pretty sure it’s you who got my seconds, bud.” He even winks.
Adam freezes mid-step, his face darkening. For a split second, I think we’re about to have a full-on fight in the middle of my workplace. But he just storms out, slamming the door behind him.
I stand there, pulse racing, barely able to breathe.
“I’m really sorry about that,” I say to Matt, trying to shake off the tremor in my voice. “Exes, right?”
Matt smirks, but I can tell he’s shaken too. “No worries. Let’s, uh, talk later?”
I nod, watching him leave. Adam returns moments later, practically throwing my keys at the counter before snatching Sara and muttering, “Maybe next time, focus on your daughter.”
Fuck you , I think, watching him leave.
The rest of my shift drags, every moment punctuated by a growing sense of dread. When I finally get off work, I check my phone. Still no response from Owen. What the hell was I thinking sending that picture?
I drive home, flowers from Matt sitting awkwardly in the passenger seat, feeling more confused and alone than ever. The silence in the apartment is deafening.