The Lying Hours

by Ney, Sara

  I tread lightly, not really wanting to talk about it yet feeling the need to acknowledge it.

  Me: How long were you together?

  JB: Let me think for a second. Um. Just over a year?

  He’s not sure? Typical guy.

  Me: When did you break up?

  Jesus, why am I asking? It’s not like I really care. Still. The time frame between relationships can say a lot about a person. It will tell me if he’s a relationship jumper, AKA always needs to be in one. It’ll also tell me if he’s looking for a rebound, even though he says he’s looking for something long-term.

  JB: It’s been about three months.

  Hmm.

  Questionable, but not terrible. I guess time will tell. Then, because I cannot help myself, I venture to ask,

  Me: Who broke up with who?

  A few minutes go by before JB’s conversation bubbles pop up on my screen.

  JB: She broke up with me.

  Ouch. At least he’s honest. For once, I resist the urge to ask the question niggling in my brain: Do you know why she broke up with you?

  Tempting—so, so tempting.

  Me: Ah, I see.

  JB: Yeah.

  Although I really don’t see, because I may never know why she dumped him after a little over a year. Did he cheat on her? Did she cheat on him? Was he a jerk? Was she too selfish? Did they fight all the time?

  I’m sure he’d give me a million excuses as to the reason why, so I don’t bother asking. There are two sides to every story, and if he and I keep talking, I can ask him to give me his side in person.

  I must be taking too long to message him again because my phone dings and it’s him, asking, Hey Sky, you still there?

  Me: I’m here. Sorry.

  JB: What have you been up to tonight?

  Me: I was hanging out with friends. They’re the ones who convinced me to sign up for this dumb app. No offense.

  JB: None taken. It is kind of dumb.

  Me: Really? You think so?

  JB: Mostly yes. I haven’t had any luck. You would be surprised how many girls just want to hook up.

  Me: And you don’t?

  His pause is long enough for me to know he’s debating about his reply, long enough for me to know he doesn’t want to offend me by being honest.

  JB: I didn’t say that LOL

  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

  JB: I’m just being honest.

  Me: It’s the best policy!

  JB: But judging you solely on your pictures, you don’t look like the kind of girl who is into hook-ups.

  Me: What else can you tell about me judging solely on my pictures?

  JB: Well, let me think for a second. Let me go STARE.

  It takes him an entire minute. I guess he’s really thinking it through.

  JB: Okay. I bet you like going out with your friends, but you don’t like being bothered by guys. You’re there with them, not to get picked up. You hate cheesy pick-up lines.

  Me: Go on…

  JB: You get just okay grades because you’re too social, but…you don’t really care. Do you?

  Wait—is he spying on me? How would he know a thing like that?

  Me: You can tell all that just from looking at my pictures?

  JB: Those observations weren’t insults; they were compliments.

  Me: Stop. Can we please quickly acknowledge your proper use of a semicolon in your last message?

  JB: Good thing or a bad thing?

  Me: If I’m being honest, I’m a sucker for good grammar. What are you a sucker for?

  JB: Now that’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one…

  Me: **eye roll**

  JB: I don’t know—I don’t think I’ve taken the time to figure it out yet. It seems like all I do is go to practice, eat, sleep, and study.

  Me: Same, minus the practice part. What is it you’re practicing for?

  JB: Don’t stalk me or anything, but I’m on the wrestling team.

  Me: Here?

  JB: Yes, here, LOL—where else would I be?

  Me: I haven’t met any wrestlers on this campus yet. Football players, yes. Wrestlers, no.

  JB: Jock chasers love it, the rest of them hate it. It’s not easy dating an athlete.

  JB: It’s probably not easy being on a date with one, either.

  Me: Why wouldn’t it be easy being on a date with one??

  JB: If someone recognizes us, they want to talk, and suddenly we’re being interrupted, which ruins the mood. Trust me.

  Me: You have lots of experience with that?

  JB: Enough to know it sucks.

  Me: I have NO experience with that, so…I’m a nobody, haha.

  JB: Oh god, don’t say HAHA.

  Me: Why? Pet peeve of yours?

  JB: Sort of. There was this girl on here—the app, I mean—and she used it four times within two messages. It was so obnoxious, I thought for sure that was how she was going to talk in person.

  Me: So she annoyed you but you went out with her.

  There’s another pause in our conversation.

  JB: Yes.

  Me: Ahhh. So, you’re not really all that discriminating. Good to know. I can let myself go and you’d give me a free pass as long as you thought you might score some action. Is that it?

  JB: Haha, very funny.

  Me: But am I kind of right? Be honest: you have nothing to lose. There is always the next swipe if I don’t like your answer and you don’t like mine, LOL

  Hell, he’s probably having three other conversations right now at the same time he’s speaking to me.

  JB: I like how you switched it up and went with LOL instead of HAHA. Very smooth… But to answer your question, no, I’m not here to score some action. Action is NICE but not the point of all this.

  Me: So you ARE looking for something serious?

  JB: If it’s out there, yes. But I’m not going to force it either. Don’t you agree?

  Me: Yes. But I’m also not going to make out or have sex with some guy I’ve chatted with for a few hours and met for a drink then never have him contact me again. No thanks, not into it.

  JB: So what you’re saying is: you have standards.

  Me: Some, LOL

  JB: I have a few, but most of them are questionable, LOL

  I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not, but it makes me laugh anyway, to the point where I’m giggling out loud with a hand covering my mouth.

  Me: I’m not even going to ask what those questionable standards are. I’m too scared. I actually don’t get out much.

  JB: Somehow I doubt that.

  Me: Are you basing that on my pictures again?

  JB: Yes. You’re way too cute to be sitting home.

  Me: Cute. See, that right there is the problem. At the risk of getting too personal on a dating app, I’ll tell you a little TMI: I’ve always been cute—never hot, or whatever. Girl-next-door cute. For some reason, that’s always bothered me.

  JB: Trust me, hot is overrated. And did I say cute? I meant pretty.

  Me: Please don’t think I’m whining or whatever. I’m not insecure, but sometimes that word just makes me cringe.

  JB: That’s another thing that drives me crazy about being an athlete. Girls think they have to meet some unrealistic criteria if they’re dating one. Like they have to be Miss America or something. And instead of acting normal, we get all these fake airheads pretending to give a shit about us when in reality it’s only to project an image they think we want.

  Me: So you’re saying that’s not what athletes want? Hot girlfriends?

  JB: I mean…fine. Some of them do.

  Me: But you’re not one of them?

  JB: I’d rather have someone who gave a shit about me at the end of the day, because this wrestling thing isn’t turning into a career. I’ll probably work in some bullshit office in a suit and tie after I graduate, God willing I’m able to actually get a fucking job.

  JB: Shit. Pardon my French.

&nb
sp; His apology makes me laugh, because obviously he could have deleted the curse word before he sent the message.

  Me: What’s your major?

  JB: Business.

  How cliché.

  JB: What’s yours?

  Me: Business with an emphasis on advertising/marketing. I’ve known that’s what I want to do since I was in middle school. Before that, I wanted to be an archaeologist, but then I realized you have to be good at math and science, and I suck at both. No dinosaur carbon dating for me **crying emoji**

  Me: Is yours just general business, or do you have something specific you want to do?

  JB: My plan is to work for my dad.

  He doesn’t expand on that, so I prod him.

  Me: Doing what exactly?

  JB: Financial planning and investments.

  Me: So what you’re saying is, you’re good at math, and probably science too.

  JB: I get by okay, LOL. I’m not a tutor or anything.

  Me: But you could be?

  JB: Incidentally, my roommate is actually a math tutor.

  Me: Is he a wrestler, too?

  Abe

  I wonder how much to tell her about me. I mean, I’m supposed to be pretending to be JB, not giving her the dirt on myself. I’ve never done that before, given personal details that weren’t about my roommate.

  And now I am.

  What is it about this girl that has me breaking my own rules?

  Rule 1: Don’t get personal. This is not your account.

  Rule 2: Do not get personal. This is not your account.

  Rule 3: Start the conversation, but don’t get invested.

  Rule 4: These girls come and go like yesterday’s practice routine. Don’t get attached to any of them. They are not for you.

  Rule 5: See all of the above. Repeat.

  Once JB takes this Blue Sky girl out on a date, he’ll never speak to her again, so what good would it do me to continue having this in-depth conversation with her? She’s only going to get dumped after he realizes she’s not going to sleep with him.

  No. She’s going to want to get to know him first, and he’ll never put in the time required for a girl like her.

  She’s a keeper; I can already tell.

  My heart pounds in my chest when I stare down at her last message, the yellow conversation bubble mocking me.

  Suddenly I feel like a fucking idiot, speaking about myself in the third person, although she has no idea that’s what’s happening here, no idea I’m pretending to be someone else.

  BlueAsTheSky: There you go again with the good grammar. Swoon! Both commas in the proper place? You’re on a roll here, JB. Keep it up.

  Me: You sure you’re not an English major?

  BlueAsTheSky: No! I love to read, but I’m not a writer. Not by a long shot. I’m definitely the creative type, but I can never remember if it’s I before E except after C…

  Me: Sounds about right.

  BlueAsTheSky: But I still have to say it when I’m spelling words! I SAY IT OUT LOUD, JB, not in my head. LOL I’m so ridiculous.

  Me: Do you use your fingers to do math?

  BlueAsTheSky: Only when I’m multiplying by 9.

  Me: Huh? That makes no sense.

  BlueAsTheSky: Let me see if I can explain this so it makes sense (I had an old tutor teach me this trick in—no lie—fourth grade): whenever you need to multiply by nine, you count on your fingers the number you’re multiplying by. So, say it’s nine times seven. Take your seventh finger and fold it down. You now have six fingers on the left side of the seventh, 3 on the right. The answer is 63.

  BlueAsTheSky: That is seriously the only way I can multiply by nine. I suck SOOOO bad. Don’t judge me now that I’ve told you my secret, and NEVER bring it up again.

  I stare down at my fingers and mentally calculate nine times five—then fold down the fifth finger on my left hand. Four fingers remain on that hand, five on the other. Forty-five.

  Me: Holy shit, you’re right.

  BlueAsTheSky: Yeah, I guess you could count it as a stupid party trick, but it only works for nines. Which totally screwed me during math exams since I’m horrible at all multiplication and not just nines. Sigh.

  BlueAsTheSky: My teachers were probably so confused about why I was killing it with that number but failing the rest. I’m so awkward sometimes. Actually, I’m awkward all the time.

  If she’s anything like this in person, there is no doubt in my mind that I would find her fucking delightful.

  Me: Bullshit, you are not.

  BlueAsTheSky: Okay, I’m not. I actually talk a lot and am quite personable, LOL

  Me: Random question.

  BlueAsTheSky: Fire away

  Me: Is your name Blue, or…something else? I can’t figure out what BlueAsTheSky means. Are your eyes blue, or did you just randomly make it up?

  BlueAsTheSky: It’s not randomly made up. I mean, it is, but it has to do with my name.

  Me: Which you have no intention of telling me?

  BlueAsTheSky: No, not yet. Sorry, I’m still a little gun-shy.

  Me: That’s okay. I totally get it.

  BlueAsTheSky: Besides, it’s not like JB is your actual name, so technically I don’t know yours either.

  Yeah, and she never will, because my initials will never be JB because I am not Jack Bartlett and never will be.

  Me: JB is obviously my initials.

  BlueAsTheSky: Obviously, lol

  Me: I’m not nearly as creative as you.

  BlueAsTheSky: You couldn’t get any less creative with your profile name if you tried. Which you clearly did not. LOL

  Me: I’m not usually a fan of sarcasm, but I find yours irresistible.

  JB hates being mocked or teased in any way. He’s kind of a sensitive prick, actually. A titty baby, as an old member of the team used to call Jack when he was a freshman.

  Zeke Daniels has long since departed, but some of the shit he said stuck with me.

  Like my roommate being a complete sissy when it comes to taking direction or being the subject of a joke. So much so that I feel the need to point this out to Blue, even though we haven’t gotten to the part where I’m setting her up on a date with Jack.

  She should know he gets butthurt easily.

  BlueAsTheSky: You don’t like being teased, or you don’t like sarcasm?

  Me: At the risk of sounding like a sissy, I hate being the butt of jokes.

  BlueAsTheSky: Noted. It’s a good thing I’m not a sarcastic asshole.

  Me: There are some real assholes on the wrestling team I’ve had to deal with, so…

  I hit send before I can think twice about it, knowing that if JB goes back through the conversation after he logs in later, he’s probably going to be pissed I told her that.

  Oh well.

  It’s out there and I can’t take it back.

  A small part of me gets a cheap thrill at dishing out that particular bit of information, knowing it was a shitty thing to tell her.

  BlueAsTheSky: I respect that; thanks for telling me.

  I roll my eyes toward the ceiling, not looking forward to the argument I’ll have with my roommate about it later.

  I’m making him sound like a pussy.

  And in all honesty, since Tasha broke up with him, he’s been acting like one. He kind of was one before, but for the past three months, it’s been worse.

  He fucking hates being picked on, and you know how dudes are—constantly giving each other shit, especially in the gym and practice room. It’s almost like we have nothing better to do than screw around when we’re supposed to be focused.

  Dick jokes.

  Lowbrow insults.

  Mocking someone’s intelligence is always a favorite go-to.

  We’re all pretty offensive, and at the same time, we’re like one big happy dysfunctional family. It’s really fucked up in a weird way that only makes sense if you’re part of it.

  Anyway.

  Jack is a titty baby and he’s going to ha
te that I told Blue.

  I change the subject.

  Me: So there is no chance you’ll tell me your name?

  BlueAsTheSky: Not tonight. Sorry big guy.

  I am a big guy.

  Much bigger than JB, not that she would have any way of knowing that. All she sees are his photographs; she’ll never see mine, and why I’m even thinking about it is beyond me.

  I wonder what she would think of me.

  Me as me.

  Abe.

  Me: You said you like tall guys, right?

  JB says he’s six foot, but that’s a total lie. He’s five ten on a good day; I have several inches on him, measuring in at six two.

  BlueAsTheSky: I do. I really do.

  Then you’re going to be disappointed when you meet me in person, I start to type.

  Delete.

  Me: I’m your guy then.

  BlueAsTheSky: I’ll have to take your word for it. You’re not going to show up for our date and be standing eye to eye with me, are you? Because I love wearing heels, haha.

  I flip back to her profile to see if she makes any mention of how tall she is.

  Nothing.

  Me: How tall did you say you were?

  BlueAsTheSky: I didn’t. I’m five seven.

  Oh shit, that’s pretty tall for a female. Only three inches shorter than JB if you’re doing the math.

  That’s not going to end well.

  I wonder if I should say something but decide against it. No reason to put the cart before the horse, and who knows—

  maybe she won’t even notice, or care.

  I laugh at the thought, knowing that when a girl has her mind made up about something—especially what they consider their “type” to be—there isn’t much room to change their mind.

  Especially not when the entire relationship is built on a lie.

  Five foot eight.

  That’s pretty fucking sexy, and my mind quickly wanders, wondering about her legs. How long they are, if they’re smooth. If she ever wears skirts or favors jeans.

  I wonder how closely she resembles the pictures in her profile. One thing is for certain, she’s not using any filters. Still, you never really know until you’re face to face with a person.

  I have no right to be having these thoughts. When I lift my eyes and stare out my bedroom window, the bathroom across the way is dark, the white curtain flapping a little with the breeze since the girls living there have cracked the window open a bit.