Page 76 of Owen North

I stare at his message for what feels like forever.

We haven’t texted since I agreed to stay on at North Management four days ago. I’ve thought about sending him a message so many times, even tapping a few out before deleting them.

My body comes alive with anticipation as I read the message over and over. It’s crazy that a text like this, one without even a hint of anything personal or sexy or suggestive, can make me feel the way I am.

I type a reply and then delete it and re-write it.

I do this no less than five times.

Jesus, he’s going to see the dots going up and down all over the place like they’re confused.

The truth is theyareconfused, just like I’m confused.

I think about the space Owen and I are in. That space where I feel like I know him because we’ve shared a lot of personal things, but where I really don’t know him at all.

I don’t know how his brain works yet.

How he connects dots, or how the train tracks in his mind work, or how he sees the world.

I don’t know how much space he needs in between spending time with a woman.

Is he the kind of guy who texts a lot, or does he like silence, or does it all depend on the things he’s dealing with at the time?

I don’t know if he feels things as deeply as I do.

Does he feel a connection fast, or is he purely physical to begin with?

Another text comes through while my mind thinks all these thoughts.

Owen: One of my favorite memories from childhood is the first time I went out on a boat with my grandfather. I was six and he let me help him sail. My parents had never let me help them do anything. I’ll never forget that feeling of having contributed to something. I think that was the day I learned about challenging myself. About the thrill of learning new skills and competing with myself to do better.

My fingers stop typing as a new rush of thoughts and feelings flood me.

And then I’m madly tapping out a message that I don’t think five times about deleting.

Charlize: It’s my turn now, right?

Owen: Yes.

Charlize: One of my worst childhood memories is of getting caught in a lie by my mother. I shoplifted a cheap ring when I was twelve, and when she saw me wearing the ring, she asked me where I’d gotten it. I lied and told her a friend had given it to me. After confirming that was not the case, she told me she was taking me to the store the next morning to confess what I’d done. It was awful. The store came to an agreement with Mom that I would work off the cost of the ring with interest. I had to face those people twice a week for six weeks.

Owen: Did you ever steal again?

Charlize: Never. I also never lied to my mother again. Well, I mean little white lies for sure, but nothing of significance. I actually can’t lie to save myself. My face always screams “she’s lying right now!”

Charlize: I told my mother about you tonight.

Charlize: Oh God. See: open book.

Charlize: I don’t mean that the way it sounded. I mean, I told her I met someone.

Charlize: Just ignore all that. None of it came out right. I’m going to bed now. Goodnight, Owen.

He calls me.

“I don’t think phone calls are on your list of acceptable behavior to engage in with staff members outside of work,” I answer as I lie on my bed.

“We do have a work trip we need to discuss.”

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