by Julie Olivia
“How’s the new chair working out?” he asks.
“Papasan.”
“Bless you.”
A laugh erupts from me.
“No,” I say between laughs. “It’s called a papasan.”
“Okay, so how’s the pop-pa-sin?”
I continue laughing at his purposefully butchered pronunciation. “No candle attacks yet.”
“Good,” he says. “I’ve seen some with scents like ‘wildfire’ and ‘dark rain’. Those are the names of some candles looking for trouble.”
I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing again.
His shoulders relax down, hands sliding a bit deeper into his pockets, and a low breath leaves his lips. It’s almost swoony, like he enjoys my laugh—admiration from an old friend or lover, one I’ve known for more than a week and interacted with outside of a musty hotel basement and a furniture store. But the fact is that we don’t know each other, and I shouldn’t feel like I do, except there’s that silly old warmth each of his smiles leaves behind.
“What brings you here?” I ask.
“Emma dragged me,” he says. “She says I need to get out more.” His eyebrows rise at the latter part of the sentence, as if he doesn’t entirely agree or it’s just that ridiculous of a statement.
“You don’t like networking?” I ask, which is a silly question, and with the quirk of his eyebrow, I know he knows it. Who in their right mind actually enjoys networking?
“Eh,” he says with a shrug.
“Eh,” I agree.
“Oh, you’re going to get onto me about not liking networking and then do that?”
“Do what?” I ask.
Owen laughs, lifting his shoulders up to his ears, displaying the palms of his hands out in front and sticking out his bottom lip in the most apathetic stance of teenage ‘whatever-ness’ I’ve ever seen.
“I did not do that,” I say, aghast. Did I?
He laughs. “Yes, you definitely did.”
I cross my arms, letting out an involuntary harrumph. I’m turning into an old man. Only men over the age of sixty who smell like soup do things like harrumph.
Owen mimics my harrumph, but it’s much more subdued. “I’m just…not a people person, I guess.”
“You don’t have to be,” I say. “I’m sure your boss is happy you’re not out networking.”
He pauses for a moment then nods. “Yeah…”
I narrow my eyes. “You don’t strike me as a corporate type.”
“Oh, no, absolutely not,” he says with a laugh. “We’re much more relaxed. There are only three of us.”
“No suits?”
“No suits,” he echoes.
“You mean you don’t like being called Mr. Owen?” I ask.
He inhales sharply, raising a thick eyebrow, stunned to silence. The words weren’t meant to leave my mouth like that—seductive, as if I could have substituted the word for ‘sir’ or ‘daddy’—and yet, they were saucy on the exit. They left like a train careening down the tracks, and they didn’t stop for anyone, not even my own good-for-nothing filter. My face grows hot and my chest warms quickly once I remember just how easily a blush on my skin tone will give me away.
I hope he doesn’t comment on it—please ignore it, please ignore it—but the twitch at the edge of his mouth tells me I won’t be so lucky.
“No, I prefer just Owen.” He lifts an eyebrow. I want to soak him in more, find his dark eyes and gaze into them, but I’m knocked out of my thoughts when a man nudges past me.
I shift out of the way as he circumvents me with a kind smile, round glasses having fallen to the end of his nose as he reaches around to grab the sign-up sheet. The glance is knowing, as if to say, ‘Sorry I interrupted whatever this is.’
Exactly. Whatever this is.
I turn away from Owen and use this as an excuse to move on from the conversation.
We’re here to listen, see? My crossed arms say. It’s a meet-up.
I can’t see him, but there’s the burn of the sun on my neck once more, and I know his eyes are set on me.
I watch the glasses man walk-jog to a small stage-like area—why do most middle-aged men default to that mode of travel?—then tap on a live mic.
“Hey everyone,” he says. It’s barely audible, and a voice yells from the opposite side of the room that they can’t hear him. He taps the mic again, looks off to the side to consult another man with round glasses—what is this, a meet-up uniform?—then taps again. A shriek of feedback echoes and he begins once more. “For a man in tech, I sure am baffled by technology.” Cue polite laughter.
He goes on to make community announcements, give a recap of the meeting before, and then does the introduction for the guest speaker for tonight. I clap politely, but I’m barely paying attention. The sun shines brighter. I can feel myself warming under its rays. Surely, it’s all in my head. Owen may not even be staring at me. He’s likely walked away, off to join Emma.
After what feels like an hour of staring down at my boots and wondering why the hell they didn’t supply folding chairs, for Christ’s sake, I vaguely soak in knowledge on some new app hackers are using from the guest speaker—I only register how ridiculously purple the logo is—and I clap along with everyone else when he exits the stage, only to be replaced with the man in round glasses once more.
Oh god, this is going to be the end of me.
I zone out, bending my knees to ease the pain of standing for so long. I work a sit-down job, mostly at my home office. Don’t all of us here? Give us a break!
Names start getting called. Maybe it’s a raffle. Maybe it’s some honorable mentions for whatever they do here. I should be listening, yet nothing can draw me away from my thought spirals. Owen, my aching legs, Owen, my burning toes, Owen…until—
“Francesca Evans and Elijah Owen?”
Owen’s name being called over the speakers startles me more than my own name being announced, followed by the head-bonk realization that the elusive Elijah and the mysterious Owen are the exact same person. Elijah is his first name, of course. It’s baffling. Though, what’s truly baffling to me is how odd it is that I process this information before I even begin to consider why our names are being called in conjunction.
Elijah. My ghostly man—my dreamboat—is none other than my archnemesis. If I had known, I wouldn’t have come. Yet here I am, the fool.
The speaker repeats our names until finally looking in our direction and smiling. I turn around to see Owen’s hand raised in the air followed by pointing over my head to indicate that must be Francesca. In this moment, I wish I wasn’t.
“There you are!” the speaker says. “Perfect—you’re paired.” That is all I get before another set of names is called and the announcer repeats the same sentiment upon finding them.
I get a small comfort in seeing Owen’s eyebrows raised in what I imagine must mimic my own expression of similar surprise. Good, so I’m not the only confused one. I take a step back, falling in line with him, arms crossed and mouth twisted to the side in thought.
“What happened, exactly?” I ask.
His expression does not falter as he glances down to me. I hadn’t realized until standing so close that his height easily dwarfs mine, and I’m not exactly a small girl.
“Did you not read the sign-up sheet?” he asks.
“You’re answering my question with a question?”
A small smile tugs at the edge of his lips.
“I have an idea of what’s going on but honestly don’t know. I’ll go check,” he says, sidestepping past me. I watch him get the attention of the round glasses man, who waves goodbye to his current conversation and joins in with Owen. Elijah Owen. Elijah? How do I address him now?
After a few moments of talking, a delightful head nod, and a jovial laugh, E. Owen makes his way back to me, hands tucked in pockets and slowly nodding with his lower lip stuck out in understanding.
“Well, this meet-up group has a…well, I guess an AA-type
program, but HA,” he says.
“Alcoholics Anonymous? What type of dark self-help program did I just join?”
“It’s an off-color joke, sure, but same concept,” he says. “Hackers Anonymous. They pair two people together twice a year as a kind of sponsor program—”
“They’re honestly taking the comparison too far.”
He acknowledges my statement with a chuckle but continues anyway. “Well, we all work in a sensitive field, so it sounds like we don’t discuss company names or contracts, but it’s just to have someone to bounce ideas off of.”
“Seems like a potential breach of client contract.”
“Hence the ‘anonymous’ part, I believe.”
I don’t recall signing up for this program of theirs, but then it hits me: the checkbox I absentmindedly ticked on the sign-in sheet. Bollocks. Maybe I did sign up voluntarily. Curse my now partner in crime for distracting me.
I slowly nod. “So we’re partners?”
Owen exhales, uncrossing and crossing his arms with a shrug. He’s biting the inside of his cheek again, tilting his head to the side. “Looks like it. For the record, it’s completely random. I didn’t plan this.” His hands fly up in a pleading way. It’s almost cute how fidgety he gets at the prospect of me accusing him of something I hadn’t even considered. “I’m just as surprised as you are. You know, don’t feel like you have to stay. I can find another partner.”
I wonder for a moment if I should, but the moment is short-lived, rather like when you’re sitting in morning traffic on a bridge and you think, ‘Could I turn this wheel and careen off the side? Would that get me out of this daily drive?’ At the end of the day, it’s a split-second thought, and I give no more weight to finding another partner than I do to sacrificing myself to the commute gods.
“You underestimate my stubbornness,” I say.
His smile slowly transforms into a grin. “I thought I might.”
“So what do we do now?” I ask.
“I guess we should exchange numbers?” Owen tugs his phone from his pocket.
I lift an eyebrow. “Was this all a ploy to get my number?”
He barks out a laugh. “I wish I planned that far ahead.”
How does he do that? Be so sly and charming and yet so seemingly genuine?
I try not to smile, curling my bottom lip inward. “How am I supposed to believe you?”
“Have I lied before?” he asks.
I shrug. “You told me your name was Owen when I met you.”
His eyes crinkle at the edges, signs of a smile unable to resist emerging. “And it is.”
“Your last name,” I correct.
He laughs. “I don’t even know the last time someone called me Elijah. People have always called me Owen. Elijah is my dad’s name.”
“I kinda like it.”
“And is Fran your real name?”
I laugh. “It’s Francesca, actually.”
“See? Two can play at that game. Now, phone number, please?”
It’s odd how I find myself wanting nothing more than to distrust Owen, and yet I am also, against my own battling desires, pulling out my phone to exchange numbers with him. He’s weirdly demanding, but I’ve always been a sucker for a man who knows what he wants.
No. Stop it. Bad, Fran.
I tell him my number, and in exchange, I receive a simple text: It’s Owen.
“Curious,” I say, tilting my head in mock confusion. “I just got a text from an Owen. Elijah, would you happen to know who that is?”
“Ha-ha,” he says in mock laughter, pocketing his phone once more.
“Hm, weird,” I muse, continuing to feign skepticism.
Owen shakes his head back and forth, grinning. “Okay, Francesca.”
It’s the end of the meeting so people begin to disperse, heading toward the stairwell, which Owen and I are currently blocking. We step off to the side, opposite the check-in table. I watch the crowd pass as we exchange no words. His jaw is set as he looks out, likely searching for Emma, who I can’t seem to get eyes on either. It’s hard to break away from staring at his profile. It’s the reason I registered only about thirty percent of this meeting. I’ve never seen such a thing, how the muscles in his neck draw a direct line from his collarbone to his ear, how entrancing his deep brown eyes are.
Distracted by the exiting people and drowned out by them at all, we don’t say anything for about a minute until Emma arrives. She looks exhausted approaching us, but her hair is still poofy and whimsical.
How does she do that?
“How’d it go?” Owen asks her.
“I got paired with Randy. He’s a kooky dude,” she says. She seems unbothered by the descriptor, the slight sparkle in her eye making me wonder if it’s almost a compliment coming from Emma. Contrastingly, I might use that for someone who wears a bowler hat unironically and maybe grows a curled mustache. “We talked for a minute or two before he said he had to go home to his parrot.” There we go. “Anyway, I’m calling a car. Do you guys want to carpool?”
“Oh, no, I’ll use the train,” I say, likely a bit too quickly, so I add, “But thank you.”
I’m tired and I just want to go home. I feel like I’ve had to carry myself with some sort of decorum for the past hour—watching my posture, choosing my words carefully, trying not to stare at the mysterious man beside me. It’s a strain on me to attempt to look so put together and unaffected by him.
Owen’s eyebrow rises, and he chuckles. “You’re going to get lost.”
I mimic his expression, pursing my lips. I want to argue, but it’s hard to when I know getting lost is not outside the realm of possibility. I’ve attempted the train precisely three times, and this was the first instance that I did not mistake my stop. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“I’ve got it just fine, thank you,” I say, ignoring his jab.
“Sure.”
“Hey, maybe I can at least discover something new.”
“Aw, that’s so beautiful,” Emma murmurs.
Owen pauses for a moment, looking me over from head to toe. Not slowly and agonizingly like one might do to an object of affection, but as if giving me the once-over to detect if I’m capable of taking care of myself.
“Well, if you feel good about it, then go for it,” he says with a shrug.
Huh.
A very odd, unfamiliar feeling of fluttering in my chest starts. What is that? Trust? This would be a first for me. He does not intend to make me feel like a damsel in distress or some type of feeble woman lost in the big city all on her lonesome. This is understanding and comfortability. I quite like it.
“No, wait, you should totally go with her,” Emma says quickly, darting eyes between the two of us as if slightly panicked. I honestly expected Emma to be more aligned on this. She seems quite the Girl power! type of woman—very Baby Spice—but I’m not sure why I would think she would be on my side. Up to this point, it’s felt like she’s been more than adamant about shoving Owen and me together in any way possible.
But Owen simply shrugs again, brushing off the comment by crossing his arms with a slow smile spreading over his features. “Nah, Fran’s got it.”
I can’t help but smile back. Why does it feel so natural, like some unspoken connection where he can tell I need this for myself? Like he respects my independence? It shouldn’t be something unusual, but for me, I’m having a hard time reconciling that this isn’t some type of trick.
“Oh,” she says, her face falling as if she hadn’t anticipated this roadblock. But her expression seems to correct itself when she bats the air with a dismissive wave. “Oh, you know what? I live on the opposite side of town from you, Owen. It’d cost a fortune to have both of us ride together. The subway is much cheaper. You should go with Fran!”
I want to comment on how she literally just offered to share a car, but I decide not to. I barely know her, and I should at least try to be polite—not at all like I was when I first met Owen. Plus, Emma al
so seems like she should be a cute hobbit in Lord of the Rings, and that exempts her from my crankiness. Well, I suppose Owen might belong in that franchise too…with his locks, he’s like the swoony warrior, Aragorn, with slightly shorter hair, and when I think of it like that…oof.
I open my mouth, but Owen protests for me. “Hey, she says she wants to take the train, she’ll take the train. I’ll pay for the fare, Emma.”
And now I’m concerned he doesn’t want to ride with me at all.
With Owen, I can’t make up my mind about how I feel. I want him to respect me, but why does it now feel like he’s pushing me away? Am I so jaded by men that I can’t decipher halfway-decent gestures anymore? Or do I now view men who push me away as more desirable?
God, I’m screwy.
The crowd has dwindled down, and both of them are heading toward the stairs, conversation left behind. I follow them, averting my eyes from Owen’s jean-clad behind with every step we take, no matter how delightful it looks ascending each stair.
When we reach the ground floor, the hotel lobby is calmer than when I arrived, and the sun has started dipping below the skyline, placing the skyscrapers in a burnt orange silhouette. It’s undeniably a beautiful city and I want to admire it longer, but Emma’s swift whistle draws me back. She’s a couple steps from the sidewalk, hand extended and hair whipping back every time a car drives by.
“This was fun,” Owen says next to me, hands in his pockets and a lopsided smile on his face.
“It was acceptable,” I say.
“Acceptable,” he echoes with a laugh. “How very polite of you.”
“I am nothing if not exceedingly polite,” I say. “Even if it’s unwarranted.”
“You had to throw that in there.”
“Of course I did.”
We stand there and I poke my thumb in the direction of the subway. “I’ll be heading out now.”
“I’ll call you,” he says.
“I hope I didn’t sign up for any spam calls.”
“Absolutely not. Just a daily cat newsletter.”
“Fabulous.”
“I thought you might like that.”
I take my exit, feeling just as confused and upset by the presence of Elijah Owen as I was only one week ago. I vow not to call him, text him, cyberstalk him, or otherwise use my professional powers for obsession-fueled evil.
