The Learning Hours (How to Date a Douchebag 3)

“That’s sweet.” Her voice makes me shiver. “Really sweet.”

“Is it?” Shit, do I sound too hopeful? I hope not.

“Yeah, it is. Really nice.” She releases her hold on the newel post, taking a few hesitant steps toward me. “Guys just don’t care anymore.”

“About courtin’ you mean?”

“Courtin’.” She repeats it almost breathlessly, mimicking my accent, eyes sparkling.

“Shit, sorry, I forgot that’s a southern thing. I meant datin’—you know.”

“I know what you meant.” Laurel tilts her head, studying my face. The lines around her eyes soften, red lips curve. “I like talking to you.”

My only reply? Shoving my hands deeper into the pockets of my jeans and shifting on the balls of my feet.

“Can I say something else?”

“Uh, sure.”

“I like your voice. It’s…” Her sweet voice trails off, pauses. “It’s charming.”

Charming?

I must look fucking confused, because she laughs, holding her flat belly. “The look on your face right now. Oh! It’s so cute. You look so confused.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I just meant your voice is…perfect. I love your accent. I could listen to you talk all night.”

She shivers, a queer expression on her face that I’m unable to decipher. It’s disconcerting.

“It’s kind of cold. Sure you don’t want to go back inside?”

“I was thinking I’d head home if you’re heading in my direction. Are you walking?”

“I came with friends, but yeah, I’m walkin’ home.”

“Walkin’,” she repeats with my twang. “Would you mind the company?”

“Which way do you need to—”

Just then, there’s a commotion on the porch. The heavy door flies open and two girls fall out. Laughing and loud, they giggle their way across the porch, stumbling.

Spot us in the yard, talking.

“Laurel, Laurel, there you are!” She hiccups. “What are you doing out here?” The girl is short with long black hair, and I study her. Cute. “We’ve been looking everywhere and every over for you!”

The girl is drunk, so drunk.

Laurel’s eyes slide closed with a loud groan. “Talking to someone—I’m going to head home. You can go back inside; it’s getting cold out.”

The blonde girl holds a hand over her eyes, searching the yard like she’s scanning the horizon. “Who are you out here with? I can’t see.” She huffs. “What did we tell you about going off alone? Are you trying to get roofied?”

“Or raped?” the girl with the black hair practically shouts into the yard. “No going off alone, jeez! Do you think I want to play babysitter at a dumb frat party?”

“I’m just making new friends.” Laurel holds both her hands up, still facing me. She gives me a wink and a smile, like we’re sharing a secret. “I’m fine, see?”

That doesn’t stop her black-haired friend from trying to make out my form in the dark. She takes a few steps closer, down the steps to get a better look, squinting through heavily made-up eyes.

“Hey…do I know him?” She points an unsteady finger my direction. “Do I know you?”

“Ugh, let’s just go back inside, Alex,” the blonde says impatiently, obviously desperate to get back to the party. “She’s fine. She’s alive. You can tell your moms to chill out now.”

Black hair.

Alex.

“Alex?” I ask. “You’re Alex?” Wow. I don’t know why, but she’s much prettier than I was expecting. “You said you weren’t coming.”

She lied.

“Alex, can you please go back inside.” Laurel steps in front of me, blocking my view.

Alex ignores us both. “Wait, I do know him. I mean, I don’t know him know him, but I recognize him.”

I don’t know what the fuck is going on right now but the wheels are starting to spin real fuckin’ fast.

“Alex, please,” Laurel begs. “Go inside.”

“No, it’s okay.” I put my hand up to stave her off. “She’s who I came here to see.”

Alex snaps her fingers, doing a weird little hop and clapping her hands while chanting, “Oh my God oh my God, you’re him!”

Her abrupt movements send the beer in her hand dumping over the side of her red plastic cup. “You’re the guy! Get Rett Laid! Oh my God, Laurel, that’s the guy! Did you tell him it was you? Sexting? Were. Was.” She bends at the waist, laughing hysterically. “Where is Dylan? I want sex.”

“Oh my God, Alex, please just go away!” Laurel shouts, stomping her foot and pointing at the front door. “Go back inside!”

But drunk Alex only laughs, laughs and laughs and snorts, spilling beer onto the porch. The little blonde beside her gives up holding her cup too, tossing it into the yard with a hundred others.

It lands near my feet.

“Laurel,” Alex screeches, drunk. “Dude, has she told you how she tricked you? That was very bad of you to tell her to fuck off, Mister Get Laid. Bad bad bad.” She’s shaking her finger like she’s reprimanding a child.

Face flaming hot, I look back and forth between them.

Alex on the porch. Laurel alongside me.

Laurel is Alex.

I think I’m going to be sick.

I’m not an idiot, so it only takes me an instant to figure out what the fuck is actually going on here, and no way in hell am I standing around to find out the rest. Starting across the lawn, balled up fists jammed into my pockets, I stalk to the sidewalk, step onto the road to cross it as the sound of my name carries in the breeze behind me.

“Rhett, wait!”

Of course she knows my fucking name.

She calls it with such familiarity my gut clenches; all those questions she stood there asking me, she already knew the damn answers to.

Mon Dieu je suis bête. God I’m an idiot.

I keep walking. Stalking toward campus, back toward my house.

The telltale sound of her heels clicking against the asphalt urges me forward, quickens my pace to get as far away from that girl as possible.

That fucking liar.

That beautiful fucking liar—I hate her already.

God she’s gorgeous.

“Rhett, wait. Please!” She begs as the sound of her shoes slows, unable to keep up. “Please! Please stop, just let me…ouch! Dammit! Ow. Wait!”

I hear her trip on the sidewalk and gradually slow my gait, stand on the pavement without turning around. I give her a chance to catch up, arms crossed defensively, waiting.

Because I’m a nice fucking guy with a conscience and can’t leave her alone in the dark now that we’ve walked this far, not when it sounds like she’s gone and sprained her damned ankle.

I hear the hard breathing, the huffs and puffs as she approaches from behind, the telltale sound of limping.

Laurel stops a meager distance behind, close enough that I can see the steam rising from her mouth as she breathes in and out, warm exhalations mingling with the cold.

We’re standing in silence as she stares holes into my chest, and I can see her deciding what to say, staring at the same broad shoulders that have already carried the weight of so many burdens this year.

She tries again. “I’m sorry I lied.” When I don’t respond, she babbles on. “We thought it was funny.”

My body stiffens. “Funny.”

“I saw you and your teammates at the Pancake House the day they stuck you with the entire bill. I was there with my roommate Donovan, watching.” She continues, talking a mile a minute, “Then my cousin brought one of those horrible posters to this lunch date we have every week and basically dared me to message you.”

“A dare,” I deadpan.

“Yes, but it sounds worse than it actually is because once you and I started talking and I realized you’re actually a really nice guy, I felt terrible.”

“Because I’m nice? What if I had actually been an asshole? Would you have justified it differently?”