The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 2)

“We could grab something on our way back to your place?”

“Sure, sounds good.”

Together, we clean up our messes, toss our paper towels in the trash, throw our brushes in the water, wipe up the black paint surrounding my fucked up mug. When I tip the stupid thing over to write my name in pencil on the bottom, the yellow smudges and gets on the end of my sleeve.

Awesome.

But, despite that, I can’t help noticing that Violet looks cheerful. Chipper.

Chipper, Zeke? Really?

Christ, that’s something my grandpa used to say when he was alive. Whatever, Violet looks happy. A thousand times happier than she did when I arrived on her doorstep tonight.

When she’s loaded back in my truck and we’re headed back toward campus, I stop at a fast-food burger joint and buy us both hamburgers. We eat them in silence, sitting in the parking lot.

“Thanks Zeke.” She takes another bite of her sandwich and chews. Swallows. “For tonight, and for…this.” She holds the half-eaten burger up in the dark, the wrapper making crinkling sounds.

“No problem.”

And it wasn’t, I realize. For the first time in a long time, I’m not completely put out by going out of my way for someone else. Maybe because my participation in this outing was of my own free will, wasn’t forced. In any case, seeing her happy makes me not quite so…something.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m feeling, but it’s not irritation.

Or annoyance.

Or anger.

It’s more like…

I glance over at her in the dark, nothing but the glowing lights of the restaurant filling the cab. Illuminating the soft, delicate planes of her face. The glossy strands of her hair.

She catches me watching and smiles.

I…

Smile back.

Violet

Should I invite him in?

He’s just sitting there, watching me, and I know I have to decide before I hop out of his truck if I’m inviting him in or not. Zeke is removing his seat belt, hands fiddling with the keys in the ignition, and I know now is the time to make a move.

Or not.

Not that kind of move, god no—I’m not that kind of girl.

I wonder if he’d come in if I invited him to watch a movie. Wonder if it would be totally awkward, or not a big deal.

I blow out a frustrated puff of air, frustrated with myself for having no experience with guys like Zeke Daniels. He has experience written all over him, like he’s been around the block a time or two then jogged around another lap.

I glance over.

“Do you want to come in?” I’ve never been this bold and can’t believe I’m asking—and asking him of all people. Winnie would kill me. “Maybe watch a movie or something?”

His head turns, and he stares at me for a few of the longest seconds I’ve ever counted, eyes flickering up and down my person.

The heart inside my chest races. My temperature rises. Palms get damp.

“Sure.”

“R-Really?” I blurt out, shocked.

“I have nothing else going on.” His hands motion around the interior of the truck. “Do you?”

“Nothing but calling it a day early, maybe reading.”

His head tilts in thought. “What’s your genre? I know you saw mine.”

“Um.” My face gets even redder. “New adult romance.”

“What the hell is new adult romance?”

Oh god.

“I-It’s characters that are over the age of eighteen?”

“So, like, love stories and shit.”

“Yes. Exactly like love stories and shit.” I laugh.

His head nods toward the house. “So when we go inside, are you going to force me to watch chick flicks?”

“I actually didn’t think about what I was going to force you to watch, but now that you mentioned it, the idea does have merit.”

His brows lift. “The idea has merit?”

I push open the passenger door, nudging it with my shoe. “Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’.”

He follows me into the house, removing his big brown boots at the door, setting them off to the side on the mat. His coat follows, draped on the back of the couch.

Zeke Daniels standing in the middle of my living room, surveying the space, deliberating on where to sit—couch or recliner, couch or recliner.

He’s massive.

He chooses the couch, dead center, legs spread.

Finds the remote, clicks on the television.

He looks…content.

“Uh, want anything to drink?”

He cranes his neck toward where I’m puttering in the galley kitchen. “Sure, if you have water, I’ll take a bottle or two.”

Or two?

I hear him flipping through the channels, the audio changing every few seconds.

“Is this a Netflix and chill thing, or just Netflix?” he calls from the living room, laughter in his voice.

“U-Um, we have Prime, so j-just that.”

Oh my god, this was such a bad idea. I’m in way over my head with this one.

“You’re no fun, Pixie,” he replies, and I hear more action from the TV.

Pixie? Did he just give me a nickname?

I try my hand at a joke when I walk back into the living room, carrying three bottles of water that took me way too much time to retrieve from the fridge.

“If you want to get crazy, you can always practice snuggling with me. I’ll let you hold the blanket.”