Chapter Eighteen: Numbers
445 Words
The grocery store was bright and sterile.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a harsh, almost surgical glow.
Owen pushed a cart lazily down the aisles, half-listening to the squeak of the wheels.
His list was short.
Soup.
Ginger ale.
Tissues.
He tossed cans into the cart without looking.
A bottle of cold medicine.
Some crackers.
A box of tissues with stupid daisies printed on it.
He rounded the corner into the baking aisle and nearly crashed into her.
The woman was standing on tiptoe, stretching for a box of cake mix just out of reach.
She wore tight jeans and a fitted sweater, her hair twisted into a messy bun that exposed the curve of her throat.
She was laughing under her breath, frustrated but unbothered.
Owen stopped.
Watched for a second.
She noticed him and flashed a grin —
bright, playful, unapologetic.
"Hey," she said, tilting her head.
"You’re tall. Wanna be my hero?"
Owen smirked.
There was no hesitation.
He stepped closer, plucking the box from the shelf with lazy ease and handing it to her.
She smiled wider.
"Thanks," she said, laughing a little. "I swear, they design these shelves just to mock short people."
Owen chuckled —
a low, genuine sound he hadn’t heard from himself in months.
"Or maybe it’s a survival test," he said.
"Only the strong get cake."
She laughed again, tossing her hair over one shoulder.
"You’re funny," she said.
Her voice was light, teasing.
She tucked the box under her arm and bit her lip lightly —
an unconscious, nervous gesture that told him everything he needed to know.
He leaned a little closer, letting the air between them tighten.
"I’m Owen," he said, voice low and casual.
She smiled like she already knew she was going to give him her number.
"Jessica," she said, offering her hand.
He took it.
---
They chatted for a minute.
Cake recipes neither of them really cared about.
Small talk with teeth hidden just beneath the surface.
Before she left, she pulled a pen from her purse and scrawled her number on the back of one of his tissue boxes.
"Call me," she said, winking.
And then she was gone —
vanishing down the aisle with a little extra swing in her hips.
---
Owen stood there for a moment, staring at the crooked black numbers bleeding into the cardboard.
The smile that pulled at his mouth was real.
He tucked the box into the cart, whistling softly under his breath as he pushed it toward the checkout.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
The world spun on.
And Owen smiled all the way out of the store.
- Writer
