The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

“That’s not at all what I meant.”

I stare down the street, past her, into the dark. “Well, I’m glad everyone was able to have a laugh. Ha ha.”

“You don’t always have to be so nice to girls, you know, Rhett? Some of us don’t deserve it.”

“That’s the dumbest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard come out of anyone’s mouth.”

She tries again, shifting on her heels and shaking from the cold. “Some girls like assholes.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe you should walk back to the Sig house to find one and let me walk away without making me feel like I’m the douche here and not you.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do! Why won’t you just accept my apology?”

“Because you say so?” My snort comes out more obnoxious than I intended. “Because you’re pretty?”

“No, because I’m sorry!”

“I don’t want to accept your fucking apology, okay? It doesn’t mean shit to me.”

“I don’t think you’d be standing here if it didn’t mean anything, Rhett.”

“You know nothin’ about me,” I mutter the words low and quiet.

“Maybe I want to. Has that occurred to you?”

I have nothing to say to that because I don’t believe her. She’s just a beautiful, spoiled girl who wants to have her way, and I can’t believe I’m still standing here listening to her whine. I’m surprised she hasn’t brought on the waterworks.

She seems like the type.

“Say something, Rhett,” Laurel demands, frustrated, stomping her foot. “Rhett.”

But I don’t. My name on her lips infuriates me more, and I refuse to give this girl the satisfaction.

“It was just a joke,” she reminds me, tipping her chin up.

“I have enough people shittin’ on me right now, okay? I don’t need one more.”

“It wasn’t my intention to mislead you.”

“Those are fancy words—did you hear them at the sorority house?”

“Don’t be mean. I’m not in a sorority.”

“What, they didn’t want you?”

Her wounded gaze focuses on me, head tilted to the side, studying my face. “It’s beneath you to insult me.”

I know it is, and I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth. It was petty and now I feel like a fucking dick.

A car drives by, slowing down, everyone in the vehicle staring through the window as they move past, crawling along. We watch until its taillights disappear around the corner up the street.

“Laurel?” I whisper.

“Yes?” Her voice is hopeful.

“Why couldn’t you just leave me alone when I told you to fuck off?”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is small.

“How about this: fuck you.” I walk ten feet before flipping off the night air. “Fuck you, Laurel.”

The first text comes just an hour later.

Laurel: Rhett, I’m sorry. I truly am.

Laurel: Rhett, I know you didn’t block my number. I can see the conversation dots moving at the bottom of the screen…

Laurel: Would you please say something? Anything at all.

I’ve finally had enough. I pick up my phone and angrily pound out a reply.

Me: Why? So YOU feel better? You’re not the one who’s been getting shit on week after week, are you?

Laurel: No.

Me: Right. At least we agree on something. Do me a favor: you and your bitchy little friends can leave me the fuck alone.

Laurel: We will. I’m sorry…

Laurel

He’s seated at a table in the far corner when I spot him from the door. He’s not hard to miss—not with his purple Louisiana t-shirt in a sea of black and yellow, big wide shoulders, and wavy mussed hair.

He’s slouching, hunched over his table.

Defeated. Tired.

My stomach rolls with guilt, guilt that has me rooted to the spot in the doorway, watching him.

Just watching.

For the entire four minutes I stand here, he sits immobile, studying his laptop, eyes moving along the screen, completely transfixed by whatever he’s reading.

Learning.

“Just go over there,” I whisper to myself, blowing out a puff of pent-up air.

I put one foot in front of the other and begin toward him, spine ramrod straight, steeling myself, prepared for another argument.

Twenty feet.

Fifteen.

Eight.

Two.

“Hi.”

No reply.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” I lay my hand on the back of the wooden chair across from him, intending to pull it out.

He stiffens but doesn’t lift his head. “Yes I mind.”

“Would you mind if I sat at the table next to you?” I’m pushing his buttons, looking for a reaction, but he only spares me a brief glance.

Shrugs. “Free country.”

I bite my lip to hide a smile, glad he didn’t tell me to take a hike. “I guess I deserve that rebuff.”

Up goes one eyebrow. “Rebuff?”

“Yes, that’s when you—”

He snorts but still doesn’t look at me. “I know what a rebuff is, Laurel. I’m just surprised you do.”

Shit. I get that he’s pissed, but does he have to be such a jerk?

I huff, loudly. “You don’t have to be mean.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you, of all people, were so sensitive. Guess you’re not a fan of being on the receivin’ end of a joke.”

My fingers grip the chair across from him tighter. “I get what you’re doing.”

“Jokes are supposed to be funny, right? Ha ha.”

“I guess I deserve that,” I allow, shifting on the balls of my feet, transferring the weight of my backpack from one shoulder to the other. It’s getting heavy and I don’t know how long I want to stand here holding it. “So, can I sit here?”

“I don’t know why you’d want to.”

“Because I…” I can’t finish the sentence because I don’t know what to say.

“You want to sit here because you feel bad? You feel guilty? You want to apologize again?” He’s rattling off questions, rapid-fire, but still not looking at me. “Trust me, whatever you have to say, you can stop worrying about it. I’m over it.”

What a liar.

“Rhett, please, I’m trying here.”

He grumbles under his breath in a language I can’t understand. “Oui en effet.”

“Why won’t you at least look at me?”

This time his hands pause above his laptop keys. He lifts his face and narrows his eyes—his dark brown eyes.

“You’re a real bitch, do you know that?”

“I-I…” My mouth falls open. “No need to be so harsh.”

“You honestly thought all that shit was cute, didn’t you? Texting and sexting me then showing your fucking cousin.”

“No. That’s not how it was.”

“Do you think you can pull that shit because you’re pretty? Think you can do whatever you want?”

“No.” I mean, sometimes, yes.

“God, I’m such a fucking idiot. I should have known.”

“I didn’t show my cousin the texts, I swear. I just told her about them because she kept asking.”

“What’s the difference? Telling and showing are still invading my privacy.”

I roll my eyes. “Only if you’re going to be literal.”

“She knew you texted me as a joke.”

“Yes.”

“And she knew about the sexting.”

I blush. “Yes.”

“Sex isn’t a big deal to you, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you don’t believe in privacy?”

I groan. Why is he being so stubborn? “The only thing I lied about was my name. Fine, and my hair color. It’s not like I did anything terrible. I’m sorry. How many times are you going to make me say it?”