The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

For once in my life, I pull off a bitchy tone to perfection, secretly applauding myself with a mental pat on the back. I turn to the wall so I don’t have to look at his handsome face—the one that not two minutes ago was so very unfeeling and dispassionate.

“We all know I’m an asshole, okay?”

“No. Actually, it’s not okay.”

Silence.

“What do you want from me, Violet?”

Is he serious?

With those words, I swing around to face him. “What do you mean, what do I want from you? I want nothing! Why can’t we just be?”

What the hell is wrong with you! I long to shout at him, get up in his face, so he hears me. Really hears me.

I lower my voice instead, each word chosen carefully. “Why are you so angry all the time, Zeke?” I pause. “My god, you can’t even handle your friends teasing you.”

“I fucked up. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to be a good friend, but you can’t even do that, can you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, was that necessary back there?” I gesture toward the door. “You could at least have told them we were friends; they kept calling me your tutor.”

“I know.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“What do you expect? Jesus, how many times do I have to say, I’m such an asshole! before you start believing it? Everyone is not good and kind Violet. Some of us are mean. Some of us don’t care enough to try. Stop the attempts to make me better!”

I’m ashamed to admit my shoulders sag, defeat pressing down on them. “You don’t get it, do you Zeke?”

“No.”

“You know that Zeke out there?” I point toward the door. “That Zeke treated me like a body for hire. That Zeke is not my friend. That Zeke can walk back out that door and out of my life for good.” My arm remains raised, finger pointing. “I don’t need him.”

“Violet—”

“No! Be quiet! Stop saying my name! Oh my god, we were having sex last night and look how you treated me today. Y-You humiliated me by acting like I’m only your tutor!”

“Violet please, cal—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down! You humiliated me out there. You’re a user and everything my friends warned me about. Did I listen? No!”

His hands dig deep into his pockets. “I never said I was perfect.”

“No, you said you were an asshole and a douchebag and a shitty boyfriend and I should have listened. I’m the idiot here for letting you lead me around. Me.”

“I’m glad you didn’t listen.”

A laugh begins in my abs, rises through my chest, and escapes my lips. “Oh, I’m sure! You’re so glad I was dumb enough to ignore the warning signs!”

“Are you mocking me?” His eyes narrow. “I’m being serious.”

“Oh please. If this is how you treat someone you’re glad to have around, I shudder to know what you’re like when you’re not.”

We stand warily regarding one another across the table; I seize the opportunity to size him up, drinking in the sight of him: tall, broody, and moody. So devastatingly handsome. Clear gray eyes. Heavy brows. Chiseled cheekbones and defined, masculine jaw covered in five o’clock shadow.

Beautiful. A poet’s dream.

He might have acted like he didn’t care but…

It’s his eyes that give him away. They’re remarkable, yes, but forlorn. Serious but sad. Lonely.

That doesn’t make it better, doesn’t make his callous behavior right.

“What in the world do you have to be so mad about, Zeke?” I whisper into the room, more to the walls than to him, knowing he won’t answer. “You’re surrounded by amazing people. Why are you the only one that doesn’t see that?”

He braces those giant palms on the table, leaning toward me. “You want to analyze me now? Go right ahead.”

He’s pushing back, and he’s also giving me a small opening to talk—one I intend to seize.

“You have everything you could possibly want; why do you push people away?”

He scoffs, snorting through his nose. “I’m not getting into this with you—I hardly know you.”

Yet his feet are rooted to the ground, hands anchored to the table.

“That’s not true. You do know me,” I whisper. “Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself.”

He’s never had to say it with words; Zeke Daniels gets me. Looks past all my imperfections and sees that deep down inside, we’re kindred.

We bear similar scars.

“Fine. Maybe I do,” he concedes, one brick of his wall coming down. “You want to talk? We’ll talk.”

I suck in a breath, afraid to move lest I push him away, like spooking a wild animal I’ve finally convinced to eat from my palm.

“Everyone chooses to leave,” he begins, the low baritone of his voice reverberating down my spine. “When my parents started their company, my mom’s plan was to travel the world once they made their money. She wanted to ‘see things’, made list after list of places she wanted to go, things she wanted to see, and at first she would take me with her, right? I was only five when my dad sold his first software program. But you know, I was kind of a little asshole when I was little, so hauling me along became too difficult. It wasn’t fun for her anymore. Having me along was work, because I didn’t listen.” He shrugs. “Because I was only fucking five.”