The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

“Fine,” he complains again. “But there is nothing else.”

I chuckle. “Then paint a mug.”

Long silence. “Okay, grab me one.” Pause. “Please.”

I grab two and head back to the table where a cute brunette girl who looks like a high school student has us set up with brushes, water, and paper towels.

She’s been watching us walk around the entire time we’ve been here, both intrigued and surprised by the sight of the massive Iowa wrestler. He’s a stark contrast to the colorful and bright surroundings, and stands out like a sore thumb in all black.

I guess we both do, because I’m wearing black, too, to match my earlier mood.

“What are you going to paint on yours?” I ask Zeke. All we have left to do is choose our paint colors.

“No fucking clue. What about you?”

“Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe something purple? Or…my initials?”

“What about your initials in purple? Add some flowers and shit.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” I beam up at him. “You know, you could paint something having to do with wrestling. What about painting it black and yellow?”

“That’s not a bad idea.” He’s definitely warming up to the idea of being here. Together, we collect our paint—black and bright yellow for him, lavender for me. Lime green. Dark purple.

We take our seats and work in silence…at least for the next fifteen minutes.

Until, “So, do you want to tell me about them?”

“Who?”

“Your parents. What were they like?”

I sit back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, pausing with my paintbrush in the air, a blob of lavender dripping off the end. “From what I remember, they were fun. My dad was shy and kind of a huge book nerd, and my mom was this beautiful, fairylike…” I swallow. “She was blonde. Beautiful.”

Zeke nods, cleaning his brush in a jar of water. Blots it dry on the paper towel.

“Anyway, they were young when they had me, but really in love. They met in a law library where my dad worked, just out of college, just barely. He wanted to be a lawyer.” I resume painting my mug, focusing on the curved leaves I’m making around the handle. “My mom was still a student, but she was only taking one or two classes because they had me so soon after they got married. My aunt told me she wanted to be a teacher.”

“I’m…” Zeke starts. “I bet she would have been a good teacher, just like you.”

“I’m not going to be a teacher. I’m going to be a Social Worker.”

“I know, but you love kids. You must get that from her.”

“Yes.” I don’t know how to broach this next part, so I just blurt it out. “What about your parents Zeke? You hardly mention your family.”

His brush pauses too, but he doesn’t look up. “There’s not a lot to tell. I’ve always been more of an afterthought.”

“What does that mean?”

His cold gray eyes look into mine. “It means they don’t give a shit.”

“How can that be?” I whisper as the festive and upbeat top forty music beats through the sound system above us. It’s loud, but I know he can hear me. I know he’s considering the question.

“They’re selfish, that’s why.”

“Where are they?”

“They travel. I don’t know, Violet. They don’t tell me where they’re going.” He dabs at the mug with his brush.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Dab, dab, dab. “Nope. Just me.”

“I already told you I’m an only child. Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different if I had a sister. Or a brother, you know? To share this burden. So I wouldn’t be alone.”

God, now I sound like a one-person pity party. “Thank god I have my friends.” I’m smiling as I say it.

“Speaking of which, what’s up with your roommates?”

I look up. “What do you mean, what’s up with my roommates?”

“Are they around a lot or what?”

“Yes and no. We all work a lot. None of us really go out because—not to sound pathetic or whatever—but that costs money none of us have. Although”—I dip my brush in the water jar and tap it against the edge—“we are going out tomorrow night to the bar where Melinda’s boyfriend works since neither of them could be around tonight, and honestly, it’s been forever since we’ve done anything fun.”

“Fun?”

He says the word out loud; it’s the one word he’s picked out of my entire diatribe, his paintbrush slashing through the air toward me, tracing the small silver V on the necklace hanging at my throat.

“V.”

I raise my fingers, grasping the small silver letter dangling around my neck.

“My aunt gave it to me when I was little, for my fifth birthday, the last one I celebrated at home.” I swallow. “The V is for Violet.”

He snickers quietly, tipping his head back. “Or V for virgin.”

“That too, I guess,” I say quietly, embarrassed, even though I gave up my virginity two years ago.

“You don’t think that’s funny?”

“If I was actually a virgin I’d probably be embarrassed by it.”

“You’re right—that’s private. I shouldn’t be joking about it.”