The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

My eyes close and I give my head a little shake. Can’t meet his eyes, face flaming hot.

“It made me f-feel…” I take a breath, breathing in through my nose; it’s the only way I can steady my voice, control my speech.

When I steel myself, raise my eyes, and look at him, he’s looking toward the bank of windows near the front of the library. Staring through them, mouth in a determined set, twisted at the corners. Not a frown exactly, but…

I let the quiet engulf us, nothing but the sounds of the library surrounding us, realizing words are no longer necessary. I’ve said what I needed to say in the only way I know how—by saying nothing at all.

Still focused on the windows, he speaks.

“I wasn’t thinking; I was reacting.” He pauses. “It had nothing to do with you.”

He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t say he’s sorry right then, but for now it’s enough.

“All right.”

He shifts his gaze. “Is it?”

No.

I cast my eyes downward, fixating on my notebook before glancing back up. His brows are furrowed unhappily.

“That’s the trouble with you Violet. You’re too fucking forgiving.”

“Why is that a bad thing?”

“Because, when someone treats you like shit, you’re not supposed to let them. Everyone fucking knows that.”

His nostrils flare at me, eyes flash.

And before I can stop myself, the words are pouring out of my mouth, hushed but hurried. “F-Fine. How about this: no, I don’t think we’re friends, because I don’t want friends who treat me like shit. Who act like afraid little boys. Who kick me out of their house after offering me a seat at their table. You’re rude and stubborn a-and a total dick.”

A bubble of laughter builds up inside me, and I fight it the entire way—but in the end, the laughter wins out.

“S-Sorry.” I stifle a laugh. “I shouldn’t be laughing.”

“You don’t sound sorry.” He sounds disgruntled.

“That’s because I’m not. Not at all.”

“But you just called me a dickhead.”

“And you know what?” I sigh, leaning back in my chair, folding my arms behind my head and clasping my hands. “It felt really good.”

If I’ve surprised him by my candor, he doesn’t show it. His face is an impassive mask. “Violet, what’s your last name?”

“My last name?” The question is random, catching me off guard.

His response is a laugh so deep and amused, it sends a ripple up my spine. “If we’re going to be friends, don’t you think I should know your last name?”

“I-It’s DeLuca”

“DeLuca? DeLuca.” He squints at me. “Are you sure?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Wait. Is that Italian?”

I nod.

“Because you don’t look Italian. You’re so pale.”

Another laugh sputters out of me, and I have to put my head down on the tabletop to stop the noises coming out of my mouth. I can’t even look at him; if I do, it will just make me laugh even harder.

“Now what are you laughing at?”

“Oh god. You.” Tears run down the corners of my eyes, and I wipe them away. “Only you could call someone pale so honestly and make it sounds like an insult.”

“Are you making fun of me, Violet DeLuca?”

“It’s called teasing, Ezekiel Daniels.” I stop, tilting my head to the side to study him. “Lamentations, Ezekiel, Daniel, Hosea…”

He watches me, unmoved. “Yeah, I get it—Ezekiel and Daniel are books of the bible.”

“Are your parents religious?”

“No.” He adjusts his black Iowa ball cap. “Well, I guess they must have been before they had me, but they aren’t now.”

“Are you?”

“No. It’s just one fucked up, karmic joke. My parents must have known from the beginning that I was going to be a sinner—that’s why it sounds like they named me after two books of the Bible. Lord knows I’m no saint.”

His big body relaxes, sinking into his chair, slouching, still staring at me with those somber gray eyes. They’re unflinching and so unhappy.

He changes the subject.

“You ready for the fundraiser next week?”

The casual mention of it has my stomach doing flips. To quell it, I dig out a water bottle from my backpack, twist off the top, and take a drink.

“I don’t know. Are you going to be nice to me in public?”

I let the awkward silence between us grow uncomfortably long before clearing my throat. Tip my chin up.

“Zeke. I-I want an apology before I agree to go anywhere with you.”

He frowns. “Violet…”

“You owe me one.”

Removing his black baseball cap, he sets it on the table in front of him, running his fingers through his dark hair. The black slashes above his platinum eyes furrow in concentration.

“It was shitty. I knew as soon as I fucking let you leave it was wrong. Obviously I can’t handle having girls in my house without acting like a jerkoff. I’m sorry.”

I reach across the table and pat his hand. “There now, was that so hard?”

“Yes,” he grumbles.

“Bet it made you feel better, didn’t it?”

He refuses to answer, instead replacing his hat. Squeezes the brim and slouches down in his chair.