The Lying Hours Read online

  I cannot concentrate.

  Zero focus.

  My broad chest heaves, frustrated, and I run a hand through my thick, dark hair.

  My eyes stray to the cell phone I have flipped upside down so it doesn’t distract me from studying, and I snatch it up, thumb gliding over the smooth surface.

  I hesitate a few moments before deciding which app to open. Check my Snapchat and add to my story, send a short video to my younger brother, another to my younger sister.

  My thumb lingers on that damn dating app, and as much as I protest and pretend to hate the freaking thing, parts of me resent the fact that Jack has the balls to use it. Well, not himself, but at least he’s putting himself out there by going on dates.

  I’m hiding behind his persona, pretending to be him for fuck’s sake, too damn busy and scared to date someone myself.

  No loss there. So few of the girls on LoveU have caught my interest. Most of them come off as way too fake, and don’t get me started on all the cutesy animal filters most of them use. How the hell is a dude supposed to know what a girl looks like when she has a CGI dog tongue hanging out of her mouth?

  So fucking weird.

  Let’s not forget to mention the fake eyelashes. Spray tans. Fake tits and push-up bras. Drawn-on eyebrows.

  Jesus, I’d be afraid to run my fingers through my date’s long hair—what if I accidentally pulled a clump of it out?

  I’m looking for someone real.

  Just haven’t found her yet.

  Not even after scrolling through hundreds of profiles.

  I tap on the app, pretending to be bored by the entire process. The truth is that I am interested in finding a girlfriend myself.

  But I sure as shit am not going to find her on some stupid app.

  Skylar

  “Honestly. Where have all the nice guys gone?” I grab a few fries from my tray, dip them in mayonnaise—then ketchup—popping all four of them into my mouth at the same time, gesturing around my table of friends. “Where. Where’d they go?”

  My friends stare back, all of them either in a relationship or happily single.

  I’m neither.

  I like to complain about my single status because I’ve been actively searching for love—in all the wrong places, apparently.

  Bethany smirks. “You know what they say—all the good ones are either gay or taken.”

  “Or in the library, so forget that—those guys are never going to hit on you, and you’re never going to meet a future doctor because you never go to the library.” Thanks Hannah.

  “You know where the building with books is, don’t you? At the end of campus next to the science department…?” Bethany teases with a nudge.

  I chuckle. “Ha ha, very funny.”

  It’s funny because it’s true, but I’m not about to admit that out loud. I haven’t been in the university’s library since my sophomore year—and that was because I had to sign in for a special project. I don’t even know where the study rooms are on campus, which might explain my less than stellar grade point average…

  Whatever.

  “Right.” My best friend Hannah dangles a carrot from her fingertips and points it in my direction. “And if they’re studying to become doctors and engineers, they’re not going to the bars on the weekend. Girl, they’re busy gettin’ that degree! Which…” Her brows go up, the unfinished sentence dangling in the air like her uneaten carrot.

  …which is what you should be doing.

  She doesn’t say the words, but I’ve heard them from Hannah a dozen times. It’s almost like she’s in cahoots with my mother, being the mother-hen type herself. She loves doling out advice, Hannah with near perfect grades.

  Perfect hair. Perfect boobs.

  And she’s almost always right.

  I ignore her implication. “I love you, Hannah, but now isn’t the time to bring up my shitty grades. Midterms haven’t been released, so let me enjoy my ignorant bliss. Right this second I want to talk about my love life—or lack thereof.”

  Her shoulders shrug. “I’m just sayin’.”

  She’s always just sayin’.

  Hannah rolls her pretty brown eyes and bites down on the end of her carrot, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re constantly complaining like you have no options.”

  “Oh. And what are those?”

  “You can let one of us set you up on a blind date.”

  “We tried that once, remember? Cliff’s fraternity brother? Didn’t talk the entire time then called me for a second date incessantly? That guy?”

  “I asked you to forget about that.”

  “Can’t. He ordered chicken tenders for dinner.” What guy does that?

  “I said I was sorry.”

  I harumph and catch Bethany’s eye roll.

  “What about the university’s new dating app?”

  “Uhhh,” I groan. “How about not.”

  Nope. I’m not doing a dating app. The only guys online are desperate or want an easy hook-up, and I’m not looking for either of those things.

  I want a long-term relationship. Something real. I’m not going to find that swiping my finger on stupid profiles.

  “Why are you so quick to shoot it down? Jessica met her boyfriend on LoveU.”

  Our friend Jessica nods. “You love Aaron.”

  We all do.

  I really like her boyfriend. Aaron is awesome, even though he’s not remotely my type. And therein lies the problem; I’m beginning to think my type doesn’t exist in the real world. He only lives on paper and in my imagination, neither of which are convenient.

  So what is my type? Believe me, I’ve given this matter hour upon hour of consideration, mostly after my friends tell me I’m being too picky. Or too judgy.

  My type is tall. Not crazy, Big Foot tall, but at least six feet—minimum—would be amazing. An Adonis. Someone who will make me feel petite and small, and feminine. Dark hair—God I love dark hair—and I wouldn’t mind if some of it was on his chest, either. No facial hair—that’s gross, and makes me think of my father, who has a beard and always has food stuck in it.

  My boyfriend will be strong. Thoughtful. The kind of guy who thinks before he speaks, so when he does it means something.

  Handsome, but not pretty. He needn’t be perfect, or in great shape. Lord knows I’m certainly not.

  Nice hands. Big hands.

  Maybe he likes to read in his free time, like I do? That would be nice.

  A dimple would make me melt, but it’s hardly required.

  I prop my chin in my hands and lean on the table when I’m done zoning out, suddenly realizing all three of my friends are staring at me.

  “What?”

  “Are you even listening?” Bethany gives me a nudge under the table with the toe of her boot.

  “Uh, no. Sorry.”

  “I was asking what you have against the dating app. It’s just for fun. You wouldn’t actually have to meet any of these guys in person, but what’s the harm in looking?”

  “Focus, Sky. You’re the one who said you wanted to put yourself out there. Well, this would be you putting yourself out there.”

  “We’ll help you.”

  I laugh and pop another fry into my mouth. “No thanks. If I’m going to do this, I’m doing it without the three of you.”

  Hannah’s smirk is smug. “So you’re going to do it?”

  Shit. They just trapped me into it. Damn them.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “It’s freeeee,” Jessica sing-songs, knowing I’m a cheapskate who pinches every penny. I get an allowance from my parents occasionally but try not to spend it on booze, parties, or frivolities.

  Like dating apps.

  So many of them cost money.

  “I said I would think about it—don’t push.”

  “Yeah yeah, you’re gonna do it. Stop denying it.” Jessica digs in her backpack for a notebook and pen. “Can we at least help you write the bio?”

  “Could you no
t?” Lord knows what it would say. “And I haven’t even created a profile yet, so cool your jets.”

  She stuffs her notebook back into her bag. “Fine. Promise us you’ll at least let us see it before you post it.”

  We’ll see.

  BlueAsTheSky, 21.

  I stare at the fake name I created, not wild about using my real one, and smile. I like it. It’s playful and gives a little hint about who the real me is.

  If I actually start chatting with a guy, he can learn my name. Until then, he’s stuck only knowing the nickname.

  Let’s see, what else can I tell people about myself…what else, what else…

  I stare at my tiny phone screen, at the three photos I uploaded. None of them are full face shots; my face is half cut off in every single one. God forbid some dude recognizes me on campus and tries to hit on me in real life.

  Or announces to everyone that he’s seen me on LoveU.

  I would die.

  I run through a bio that goes something like this:

  My friends said I need to put myself out there, so here I am, putting myself out there. Hey there. I’m only outgoing once I get to know someone. Slender. Love going to the movies, esp. chick flicks. You are: tall and funny. Not sarcastic funny, but the haha kind of funny. I can’t promise to laugh at you, but you can try to amuse me.

  Shit. That’s not good—I sound kind of bitchy. Plus, I’m almost out of characters and need to shorten it up.

  It takes me another half an hour to get it the way I want it, another few minutes to edit and finalize the photos, and no time at all to press publish.

  I am live on LoveU.

  My stomach does a somersault, butterflies balancing on the uneven bars, wings fluttering in the breeze.

  I want to vomit.

  The first ten guys who swipe on my profile aren’t keepers; I delete them immediately without reading their information. Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m judging them based on appearances.

  So I want to be sexually attracted to my partner—sue me! I want to take one look at him and know. Or at least kind of know. I want to feel the butterflies dance when I meet him for the first time, and I won’t want to meet him at all if my girl parts don’t tingle at least a little when I see his profile picture.

  Is that so wrong?

  My phone pings with a notification from LoveU with another match. He sends me a message almost immediately, and I groan, already sensing this isn’t going to be a match. Knew it the second I swiped on him but curious enough to give him a chance.

  Luke: Sup

  Me: Not much, what are you up to?

  Luke: Nothing

  I wait and wait for more words from Luke, but none come. Rack my brain for something new and original to say. I mean, if he doesn’t want to talk, why did he message me?

  I stare, wondering if Luke is familiar with the standard flow of a conversation, how it’s his turn to ask a question to keep the chat going. Swiping my thumb over his photo, I open his profile and scan it. Pretty basic, not much detail, nothing really to go on, and apparently, he has no desire to talk. Name, age, and one line: Don’t bore me.

  I delete Luke and find six more connections when I swipe myself back to the home page. Drag my finger over a kid named Eric, 21. He’s a finance major with a handsome face and dimples. His first photograph is a selfie from the gym; he’s wearing a ball cap, leaning into the camera. Half-smile. Stubble.

  I know he’s online because the tiny green dot is lit up next to his name, so I’m not at all shocked when he sends me a quick note. Rather, I’m pleased to not have to make the first move.

  I hate the feeling that I’m chatting a guy up.

  Eric: You feeling blue?

  Me: Haha, no. I’m doing homework. What are you up to?

  Eric: Not homework! I’m sitting on a weight bench at the gym.

  Me: You mention the gym in your bio—do you live there?

  Eric: I could probably bench press you.

  Assuming I wanted him to.

  Which I don’t.

  Me: Where do you hang out when you’re not working out?

  Eric: The bar, my house, the frat house. What about you?

  Me: I like the movies, hanging out at home, and spending time with my friends.

  Eric: What about parties?

  Me: Meh, depends on my friends. We like going out in groups, it’s more fun.

  Eric: Are any of your friends hot?

  Um. Okay. Bye, Eric. He and I aren’t ever going to be a thing. Who the hell asks a question like that? What an idiot.

  I delete Eric. Sigh before grabbing the remote, flipping through the channels to find my favorite show. Toss the controller on the far side of the bed—far enough that I don’t land on it, but still within reach—and flop down on the bed, phone in my hand, head propped on a pillow.

  I manage to occupy myself with bad reality television for more than two hours.

  Check my phone to see the little yellow and black icon lit up.

  Skeptical—because after ten more wildly mismatched matches, this app seems to be a bust—I swipe it open to unlock my new potential partner.

  Hmm.

  Okay. This one doesn’t seem so terrible.

  I give his small photograph a good, hard look. Actually cock my head to the side as I study it.

  Not bad. Not bad at all…

  He’s easy on the eyes, and my gaze lingers on his first photo. Drifts down to his name and lands on his profile.

  JB, 22

  Hopeless romantic looking for long-term; where have all the nice girls gone? Fit, tall, college athlete. ISO: someone to take home to Mom. Long conversations, dates to the park, movies, and dinner. You: fit, girl next door, likes to laugh and smile.

  Well, well, well—hello JB.

  He sure is a looker, and as a bonus, he’s actually filled out a biography, which is more than most guys have done.

  I get excited.

  Not going to lie—this one has potential. And wow, he’s pretty darn cute—so attractive I feel that familiar flutter deep in my belly. Shoulders give a tiny shudder as I bite down on my bottom lip with a grin.

  JB wants to chat.

  My index finger hovers over his profile—over that green dot he wants me to press down on so we can talk—and a sound carries up my throat.

  “Guh!” I squeak out as I tap, sealing my fate. Connecting with JB, opening the door to opportunity.

  It takes no time at all before he’s replying, sending me a cool, Hey Blue. Quick—tell me what you ate for breakfast.

  That’s an easy one.

  Me: As soon as I wake up, I’m starving. This morning I made myself an omelet [Please note: the pan is still sitting on the stove]

  I think for a second then shoot him back another message: Quick—what’s your strangest habit?

  I don’t think I have one. But, in the spirit of the conversation, I pull something out of my ass, knowing it’s inevitably going to come up in this conversation.

  It takes JB much longer to reply than it took me, and I impatiently wonder what’s taking him so long.

  JB: I’d have to say my strangest habit is…I put ketchup on everything? Is that weird?

  Me: Not at all, try again. Get really weird.

  JB: All right, but you can’t repeat this to anyone and you can’t make fun of me for it.

  Me: Go. Your secret is safe with me—I don’t even know you.

  JB: Here goes nothing then—I have a troll doll in my gym bag and rub it for good luck.

  I can hardly not laugh at that. Seriously. I’ve heard athletes are superstitious, but don’t they usually just wear the same socks to practice and jump up and down five times in the same spot? Maybe utter the same curse word before walking onto the field? Slap their bro on the ass?

  I have no clue—but a troll doll?

  Me: What color is its hair?

  JB: Yellow.

  Me: School colors?

  JB: Exactly.

  Me: That makes sense I
guess. I don’t have any strange habits—not like that one. Sometimes when I’m pissed at my mom, I step on cracks in the sidewalk ;) But that’s not a habit, that’s just me being spiteful. **angel emoji**

  JB: LOLOLOL

  Me: I would never tell her that of course. She’d be so mad, considering she’s always complaining about her bad back.

  JB: LOLOLOL

  He’s laughing at me again, which I take as a good sign. I wouldn’t say I’m stand-up comedian funny, but I do like to think I have a great sense of humor, and I’d like my boyfriend to appreciate it.

  And laugh at me.

  With me.

  JB: Favorite filter to use on your photos?

  Me: NO FILTER. I especially cannot stand the dog ear/tongue filter. WHY DO GIRLS USE THAT?

  JB: No idea. I’ve been on enough dates to know that the girl showing up looks nothing like her puppy alter ego…

  Me: That bad, eh?

  JB: I mean…for the most part, people don’t look how you expect them to look based on their pictures.

  Me: Sounds like you have plenty of experience.

  JB: I’m not a serial dater or anything, but after two or three dates show up and they’re barely recognizable, it tends to get…

  Me: Old?

  JB: Yeah, kind of.

  He fires off another quick message: What about you?

  Me: I haven’t been on any dates yet, but I expect that most guys will look like themselves since most guys don’t use filters

  Me: And can I just say—guys should NOT be taking selfies in the first place. It’s so weird!

  JB: Really? Girls think it’s weird when dudes take selfies?

  Me: I have no idea what other girls think, but I personally think it looks bizarre. A poll definitely needs to be taken about this topic.

  JB: Noted. I will take your word for it and will never take a selfie.

  Me: The women of the world thank you.

  JB: At your service **takes a deep bow**

  Me: Are you always a gentleman?

  JB: Yes? No. LOL

  Me: Lol only when you’re trying?

  JB: If I’m being honest, I have to work at it. I probably spend way too much time with guys. Full disclosure: it’s something my ex-girlfriend used to complain about.

  Ugh, an ex-girlfriend. And he’s already bringing her up? Red flag.