The Lying Hours Read online

  BlueAsTheSky: You still there, JB?

  I drop my eyes back down to the phone in my hand.

  Me: I’m here. Sorry, I was just…

  I hit send even though I didn’t finish my sentence.

  Me: Staring out the window, LOL

  BlueAsTheSky: Fair enough. I just flopped down on my bed. I give up on studying. I’m never going to ace this midterm no matter what I do.

  Me: What class?

  BlueAsTheSky: Microeconomics. It’s not my finest work. I feel like I end up reading the same paragraph over and over and I’m not retaining any of the information!

  My pre-med, biology class heavy schedule isn’t going to help Blue with an economics class, so I bite my tongue and don’t reply…though, as JB, I should technically know some of that shit since technically, as JB, I would have taken it, too.

  Everything on my desk is in perfect order. Straight. Tidy. Organized.

  Like me.

  The fact that I’m wrapped up in this shit is a paradox when you consider that, among my friends and teammates, I’m the trustworthy and reliable one.

  The do-gooder.

  The nice guy.

  The person everyone goes to when they have a problem

  or need a ride home at the ass crack of dawn or help with homework.

  The one they call when they need to be bailed out after one too many beers has them pissing on the side of a building and hauled into custody for public urination.

  I’m the guy they always call.

  I’m the guy they go to when they want something fixed, like their car.

  Or their love life.

  When I was a sophomore last year, one of the guys nicknamed me The Grandfather and the name stuck. I even have a rocking chair in the corner of my room, one they bought me as a gag gift for my birthday back in October. One of the guys found a ratty old afghan and it’s folded into a square, draped over the back.

  Ironically, I sit in the fucking thing every so often.

  I stand, kicking back my desk chair to pace the room, thumbs hovering over the keypad of my cell.

  Me: Any plans this weekend?

  No time like the present to be setting her up for a date with Jack. The sooner I can get them together, the sooner I can stop chatting with her. I’ve never gone on this long making small talk with anyone on the app.

  BlueAsTheSky: Yeah, I have tickets to see a comedian in the city. I’m driving in with a few friends and we’re gonna spend the night.

  BlueAsTheSky: What about you?

  Me: I have a wrestling meet on Friday afternoon, but I’m free the rest of the weekend.

  At least, I am—I have no idea what JB is doing, but I assume he’d be down for a quick date if Blue was available. They never last very long, anyway.

  Personally, I’ll be lying on my bed as usual, a biology textbook open and a movie playing on my laptop.

  Exciting shit, I tell ya.

  BlueAsTheSky: Guess you’re stuck chatting with me until we decide if we want to meet, eh?

  Me: Guess so.

  No sooner do I hit send on the message than my bedroom door blows open, Jack Bartlett standing in my doorway, towel wrapped around his waist, hair dripping wet.

  “Dude. You still fuckin’ around in here? Are you coming for tacos or what?”

  It’s Tuesday and I’m starving, and the local Mexican restaurant has dollar tacos from four to five.

  “Yeah, I’m just finishing something up.”

  His eyes trail to the cell phone in my hand. “You talking to someone in here, Grandpa?”

  “Yes.”

  “For me?”

  The yes gets pushed through my lips reluctantly.

  “She decent?” JB tightens the knot in his terrycloth towel and enters the room. Holds out his palm. “Give. Let me see.”

  I give.

  JB scans the bio then the conversation, his mouth doing a weird lilt every so often as his thumb scrolls.

  “Why the hell did you tell her I hate being teased?”

  “Because you hate being teased.” In any way, shape, or form. Because you’re a pussy.

  “You don’t tell girls that shit.”

  “Then tell her shit about yourself yourself.”

  He ignores me and keeps talking.

  “Dude, why are you discussing this garbage? Discuss something else—like music and what her favorite colors are and that other bullshit girls care about. Puppies and shit.”

  Colors and music? Puppies and shit? No wonder the guy can’t keep his girlfriends around.

  He has no idea what girls want—not that I’m a freaking expert, but I do know enough to know Blue couldn’t care less what my favorite color is. She wants to know if he’s a decent guy. Caring. If he’s going to be her rock, or split when times are tough.

  JB tosses the phone on my bed; it lands with a thump. “Whatever. When can she meet me?”

  He didn’t read that far. Typical. “Not this weekend.”

  “What about during the week? I wanna get this over with.”

  Get this over with.

  Nice.

  “This one could be a game-changer, so don’t be an asshole.”

  “She looks boring.”

  “No she doesn’t. You’re just not used to girls who are wearing clothes.”

  “That’s probably true.” His fingers fiddle with the waist of his towel. “Hurry up and get your shit together—I wanna leave here in ten minutes.”

  “You’re the one standing in the middle of my room dripping wet from a shower.”

  “Yeah, but it takes me three seconds to get ready. None of this”—he trails his fingers up and down his torso—“requires any work to look good.”

  “Fuck off, Bartlett.”

  “Fuck yourself, Grandpa.”

  My eyes roll toward the ceiling. “Am I driving?”

  “Duh.”

  Typical.

  Skylar

  Days pass before I hear from JB again. Which is confusing the crap out of me. I thought we were having a great conversation.

  One minute we were talking about our plans for the weekend, and the next…

  Nothing.

  Dead silence.

  No explanation—nothing.

  This. This right here is why I want nothing to do with dating. Guys pulling shit like this. No respect for the person on the other side, waiting patiently.

  Waiting for something.

  Give me anything.

  Say good morning. Tell me you’re busy. Tell me you’ll get back to me in a few days, but don’t just stop talking to me.

  Frustrated and confused, I put my cell on silent and flip it over on the table I’m using as a desk; I don’t want to see the stupid notification if the dumb jerk finally decides to message me.

  Deep breath, Skylar.

  Focus on yourself and your studying and the fun you had this weekend with your friends.

  We laughed our asses off at the comedian over the weekend, and Hannah’s parents were awesome enough to put us up in a hotel so we didn’t have to drive all the way back to campus so late at night.

  “Don’t think about that great guy who turned out to be kind of an ass. He even admitted he wasn’t going to turn down the chance to get laid—that’s probably what he was doing this weekend while you were drinking virgin daiquiris and giggling in your cat pajamas.”

  Great. Now I’m talking to myself.

  Yes, out loud.

  Me, in my cat pajamas.

  I glance down at the white, two-piece set with its orange tabby cat printed top and matching bottoms.

  I don’t even own a cat, let alone a tabby, yet here I sit dressed as one—a joke from my friends, who tease that I’m going to wind up a bitter, old cat lady if I don’t put myself out there.

  “Meow.”

  Oh my god, stop before you completely lose your damn mind.

  Nearby, my phone vibrates and I roll my eyes at it, playing the game I love to play with myself before I grab it: the
Who Is Messaging Me game.

  Jessica.

  No—she went home for the weekend and isn’t driving back until tomorrow.

  Hannah? Yeah, it’s got to be her. She ran to the grocery store and is probably asking if I need anything.

  I do kind of wants chips and salsa. Or popcorn. Because I’m only going to pretend to study for twenty more minutes before ransacking the kitchen and vegging out in front of the TV. I’ll text her and put in my requests.

  My phone vibrates again.

  And it’s not Hannah.

  It’s the LoveU app, and there is only one person I’ve been talking to, though more than thirty guys have swiped to match with me.

  One guy. One conversation.

  JB.

  Ugh. It’s been days.

  Am I just an asshole with high expectations, or should he have messaged me at least once?

  Although I did tell him I was going to be gone this weekend.

  On the other hand, who cares? He can still shoot me a note if we were having a good time talking and he still wants to chat? Right?

  I want to be mad, but he’s just so good-looking. And insightful, and quick with the comebacks.

  Reluctantly, I tap open the conversation.

  JB: Hey stranger. How was your weekend? Does your throat hurt from laughing last night?

  Aww, he remembered I went to see a comedian! Oh my god, he is so sweet for asking.

  Me: It was so fun—we had a blast. I’m exhausted, though. I was about to wrap up “studying” and eat my feelings on the couch.

  JB: Sounds like my kind of Sunday.

  Me: You’re allowed to eat your feelings?

  JB: Well, no. I mean—I can eat as many lean proteins and vegetables as I want…

  Me: Why does that sound kind of gross?

  JB: Lean protein sounds gross?

  Me: It doesn’t sound like chips and salsa, that’s all I’m saying.

  JB: So, no to chicken and hardboiled eggs.

  Me: Maybe to chicken. No to hardboiled eggs.

  JB: Noted.

  JB: What are you binging on Netflix right now?

  Me: Everything. I think I’ve been through them all, and now I don’t know what to do with myself. Which is why I subscribed to Hulu.

  JB: It sounds like you have a procrastination problem.

  Me: It’s genetic. My sister has the same affliction. She’s a solid C+ student like I am. We’re basically winning at colleging.

  JB: Is she at Iowa, too?

  Me: No, she goes to small private university in Missouri. Our parents are so proud of their mediocre students. Every semester they send us newspaper clippings of the dean’s list.

  JB: Why?

  Me: Because we’re never on it. It’s my dad’s idea of a sick joke, although my brother more than made up for it. He’s the only one who ever got good grades without even trying.

  JB: Do you get along with him?

  Me: Yes, mostly. He’s…a riot. But he’s a pain in the ass, always up in our business.

  JB: How?

  Me: He lives in Iowa too—I’m actually from Indiana—and every once in a while he’ll “pop in” unexpectedly to check up on me. It’s so annoying.

  JB: That sounds kind of cool.

  Me: You haven’t met my brother.

  JB: How old is he?

  Me: Twenty-four. He thinks he’s thirty, and he thinks his shit doesn’t stink because he started his own company with his dumb friends. Now he knows everything about everything.

  Me: What about you—any brothers or sisters?

  JB: Me? Um, no.

  Me: Dang, you’re lucky.

  Me: I would trade my brother for a few dollar bills and a package of Tim Tams.

  Okay, I really have to stop making stupid jokes at my brother’s expense. He might be a total, grade-A pain in my ass, but he’s a pretty decent guy, and he only butts into my life because he loves me.

  I’m kind of impossible not to love and adore.

  My siblings would throw up in their mouths if they heard me saying that, and then they’d both laugh in my face.

  I smirk at my bedroom full of no one.

  JB: So, I guess I should have asked you this last week—and sorry I didn’t message you over the weekend but I figured you were out of town, and I had that wrestling meet and I was just so fucking tired.

  JB: I know it’s not the weekend, but do you wanna grab a drink or something this week? Like Wednesday?

  Me: Wednesday?

  My stomach actually gurgles—gurgles for God’s sake!—from nerves, a sensation way worse than any butterflies.

  A date.

  An actual date.

  Ugh, I think I might be sick.

  I want to say yes, but I’m chickenshit, no good at this dating business.

  Just say no, my stomach thunders

  Say yes, you idiot! my heart pounds.

  Hesitate a little longer, my brain mocks.

  JB: Or…not? A different day maybe?

  Me: No. Wednesday works. What did you have in mind?

  JB: Maybe just drinks. Keep it simple? That way…you know…

  Me: If there’s no chemistry, we both have an easy out?

  JB: LOL exactly.

  But we’re going to have amazing chemistry, I just know it. I can feel it—look at how easy it is for us to talk. We haven’t had a single lull in the conversation, if you don’t count this weekend when he ghosted me.

  I take a deep breath and go out on a limb.

  Me: We’re not going to want an easy out. We won’t need it **wink**

  JB: You don’t think so?

  Me: No. I think we’re going to have fun. Don’t you?

  JB doesn’t respond right away, and my stomach does another gurgle, this one filled with insecurity. Did I say something wrong? Was that too forward?

  Did I come on too strong with the optimism? Shit, I really need to learn to be more pessimistic.

  Some people hate positive people. Maybe he’s one of them, and if he is, we’re not a good match.

  Finally, he messages me.

  JB: What’s your drink of choice?

  I have to give this one some serious thought, because I hate the taste of alcohol, and the first and last time I got drunk was my twenty-first birthday.

  Me: Honestly? Iced tea? LOL

  Me: What about you?

  JB: Beer

  Oh.

  That one words leaves me oddly disappointed. For some reason I thought he’d say he wasn’t a big drinker either, but guess I was wrong.

  My phone pings again.

  JB: I like beer, but because of the carbs, I usually drink vodka.

  Oh, great—the hard stuff. Even better.

  Nothing would thrill me more than a boyfriend who probably outweighs me by a hundred pounds getting drunk at a bar on hard liquor and forcing me to figure out how to get his sloppy ass home.

  No thanks.

  Still. I’m putting the cart before the horse here; we haven’t gone out on a date, let alone gone out drinking.

  But my grandfather was an alcoholic before he died, and it really affected my mother, who passed down her aversion of alcohol to me.

  It’s just…one of those things.

  One of my things.

  I can’t help the fact that alcohol is a deal breaker for me, and that one word—VODKA—glowing like a headlight on my cell phone, has the hairs on the back of my neck tingling, and not in a good way.

  I feel like a buzzkill when I’m the only one drinking an iced tea, or water, or something else that’s not alcoholic, though I know no one is actually judging me for it.

  It’s a fact: drunk people absolutely do not give a shit if you’re drunk or not, as long as they are. They’re too busy being drunk to care.

  Peer pressure (for the record) has never been my thing. When it comes to hard limits, I won’t let anyone force me into crossing them.

  I’m stubborn like that.

  My teeth rake across my bottom lip as
I deliberate what to say to JB that isn’t snarky, or judgmental, or short. After all, he’s in college and over the age of twenty-one, so what business is it of mine if he imbibes? I just want to know if he’s one of those guys who parties too hard or someone who knows his limits.

  JB: I don’t go out very often, in case you’re wondering. We’re really not allowed to.

  I let out the pent-up air I was holding in my lungs, a little sigh of relief passing through my lips.

  Seriously, is this guy a mind reader?

  Me: I’m too busy being lazy to go out very often. My friends and I like hoofing it to the city to hang out—my roommate’s dad is an entertainment lawyer, so he gets tickets for us a lot. It’s pretty awesome.

  JB: That does sound awesome. Way more awesome than going out downtown, which now sounds incredibly lame.

  Me: It’s nice because I’m not a big partier, and it takes a lot of the pressure off. I mean, I go to parties SOMEtimes, but it’s rare.

  JB: We all have our thing. Yours isn’t parties. Mine isn’t hanging out at home. I like to be busy.

  Me: Must be easy considering you practice all the time, and have meets and stuff?

  JB: Yeah, there isn’t much downtime.

  Me: But doesn’t it get old?

  He doesn’t respond right away, which surprises me. It’s almost like he’s taking his time and thinking about his answer.

  JB: Yes. It gets old.

  Me: I’m sensing some hesitation…

  He hesitates again, the tiny conversation bubbles appearing then disappearing. Appearing.

  JB: It’s not easy to admit that despite having this quote-unquote great life, in reality, it’s kind of fucking dull. No one wants to admit that to someone they’re trying to impress.

  He’s trying to impress me?

  My heart does a clichéd little leap.

  Me: I think my life is pretty basic, if I’m keeping things real. And at the risk of sounding…off-putting? I’m pretty boring, LOLOL

  Me: How is that for an endorsement? It just screams DATE ME! DATE ME! doesn’t it?

  JB: No more off-putting than me saying I like beer and vodka!!! LOLOL

  Me: I mean…you do, right?

  JB: Not THAT much! LOL

  Me: Okay, well, I binged three different shows this week. Which—now that I’m thinking about it, could be why my grades are sub-par.

  JB: I ate twelve tacos for dinner last week.