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THE NUMBERS GAME

T immy keeps slipping out to smoke cigarettes, leaving the apartment to head down to the sidewalk. Each time, it pulls at me in small, uncomfortable ways, like a stone in my shoe. There’s something unsettling about the fact he needs to leave the building entirely, pacing back and forth under the palm trees and streetlights at odd hours. I don’t want to be that person—the one who makes smoking a dealbreaker, or someone who doesn’t trust their partner whenever they’re not in the same room as them—but it bugs me, especially in the middle of the night.

When I’m done with some emails, I decide to head down to join him, hoping it will make these smoke breaks seem less… distant. But as I step onto the street, I see him standing with a blonde girl. She’s leaning toward him, the way people do when they’re locked into good conversation, her face tipping up with laughter that I can’t quite hear.

Then, just as she leaves, something strange happens—they both make a gesture, like they’re miming sending a text. It’s subtle, but synchronized, like an unspoken agreement. My heart drops. The scene feels oddly intimate, like the kind of exchange that shouldn’t be happening between strangers that aren’t wanting something more.

The thought slithers into my mind before I can stop it. Did he just get her number? I try to shake it off, but the way it makes my stomach churn makes it impossible.

“Did you get that girl’s number?” I ask when he sees me, my voice sounding more accusatory than I intended, but I can’t help it.

“No! Why would you say that?” Timmy says, his face twisting in offense.

I cross my arms, the knot in my chest tightening. “Why were you talking to her?”

He exhales, the cloud of smoke curling away into the night. “It makes me feel better about myself to talk to strangers,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “When I walk past people, I feel like they’re judging me, assuming the worst. So I go out of my way to chat, and when I get a good reaction, it makes me feel okay again.”

The vulnerability in his words catches me off guard, tugging at my heart. I feel bad for him, and want to comfort him. It must suck to feel that way.

After being with a huge introvert for more than half a decade, I’m not used to someone striking up conversations with strangers, regardless of gender. With someone as outgoing as Timmy, I’m going to have to get used to it and trust him. Still, something’s still not sitting quite right, and the image of him and the girl lingers in the back of my mind like an itch I can’t scratch.

I sigh. “That’s rough, Timmy. I’m sorry you feel that way. But why did you both gesture like that? It looked like you were pretending to exchange numbers or text each other.”

He shakes his head, frustration flickering in his expression. “I don’t know. I didn’t get anyone’s number. Why would I? I’ve got you . We have so much sex I couldn’t possibly be looking for any more. My dick is about to fall off, for real.” He shoots me a grin, but there’s a flicker of something beneath it—impatience, maybe, or the hint of a performance. “And besides, I really like you. Why would I fuck that up?”

His answers reassure me, at least on the surface, but that tiny gesture between them keeps playing on repeat in my head. I guess she might just be one of those people that gesticulates freely when she talks. I do that too , I tell myself. But it was so oddly specific. Maybe I’m reading into it.

Later in the evening, the thought still gnaws at me, small and persistent, like a splinter.

“You’re sure you didn’t get her number?” I have to ask, hoping I’ll feel better if he reassures me one more time.

His smile drops, his features darkening. “Oh my god, you’re still going on about that?” His voice sharpens. “Can you please just move the fuck on?”

His reaction stings. “I’m sorry,” I frown back, my cheeks heating with shame. “I just can’t stop thinking about it, and I’m trying to be open and honest with you rather than me being upset and you not knowing why.”

He sighs deeply, rubbing his hands down his face like I’m exhausting him. “Well, you need to get over it,” he says flatly. “I didn’t get anyone’s number. I wouldn’t.”

I nod, trying to believe him. “Promise?”

“Yes. Jesus Christ, Margaux. Please, just stop. If I knew you were going to be this jealous and insecure, I never would have pursued anything with you.”

“Okay, sorry,” I say, his words landing like a slap, sharp and stinging. I sink back onto the bed, disappointment hanging heavy in my chest. I hate that I let this spiral out of control. I should trust him. He’s right—this kind of paranoia isn’t me.

“I just thought I saw something, but I guess I was mistaken,” I mumble, my voice small. “Let’s just watch a movie.”

Timmy softens, at least a little. “Yeah, let’s do that.” He pulls me closer, his arms draping over my shoulders as if to seal the moment shut. He’s attentive for the rest of the evening, skipping the rest of his smoke breaks for the night. I don’t bring it up again, and I try to let it go.

As we sit there, though, the gnawing feeling in my stomach won’t entirely fade. I already feel like I nagged him about it. I’m disappointed in myself, and hate that I mentioned it more than once. He told me he didn’t get her number, and I need to trust him.

Besides, he makes sure I’m always with him. He takes me to work. He calls me during breaks on the rare occasion he goes without me. He texts me whenever I’m out of his sight. Hell, he never even leaves me alone in the apartment for more than a few minutes, barging in when I shower or use the bathroom.

There’s logically no time for him to cheat. And he’s always saying how much he loves me, how great things are between us. He asked me to marry him because his feelings are so strong. His logic makes sense—why would he fuck this up when we’re having so much fun?

I need to calm down, swallow my doubts. There’s no way he got that girl’s number. I’m just being jealous and insecure and weird, and I’m sure it’s wildly unattractive. I need to nip it in the bud now, because that’s not the type of person I am.

Maybe I’m just acting this way because I care so much about him. Maybe it’s just fear—fear of losing something so special.

But deep down, a small voice whispers: That hand gesture wasn’t nothing. You saw what you saw.

I push it down, forcing myself to breathe through the anxiety.

Enjoy this, enjoy us , I remind myself.

Because most of the time, us is pretty fucking awesome. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel adored. He’s different from anyone I’ve been with before, and I need to focus on that. I can’t let my mind ruin something that could be beautiful.

I snuggle closer to Timmy, burying my doubts deep. Tomorrow I’ll be better, I’ll be calmer. This isn’t who I am.

Everything is fine. It has to be.