How to Date a Douchebag: The Failing Hours

by Sara Ney

  “I-I guess I should go inside.”

  The yard is dark. With no streetlights, the neighborhood looks shady. My house is dark, save for that one glowing bulb on the east side of the tiny, ramshackle house.

  It’s apparent he’s not going to walk me to my door. Our night is over and won’t be repeated. I’m as certain of it as I’m sure of my own name.

  My face is aflame from mortification, though I know I have nothing to be embarrassed about.

  Deep breath, Vi. Deep. Breath.

  “Thank you for the lovely evening and for the bracelet.”

  He nods in the dark.

  Feeling slightly dejected, I clear my throat. “Good night, Zeke.”

  “Melinda, you up?”

  I come through the back door, remove my dress coat, and hang it on the hook my roommate Melinda hammered into the wall herself.

  “No, it’s me. Mel’s with Derek.”

  I’m not three feet inside the house when my roommate Winnie pounces, releasing the hold she has on the gauzy living room curtains, stepping away from the window.

  The sneaky spy follows me down the dark, narrow hallway to my bedroom.

  “Who on earth was that?” She doesn’t hesitate to make herself at home, propping herself on the foot of my bed, fluffing a pillow to get comfortable. “Seriously, who was that guy?”

  “His name is Zeke Daniels. We were at a fundraiser benefitting—”

  “Bzzz! Time out.” She makes a buzzer sound, holding her hands in the universal sign for ‘time out’ and tapping obnoxiously.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Vi, not so damn fast,” she interrupts, her wide eyes enormous. “Zeke Daniels?” Her throat gives a little hum as she taps her chin. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  I raise a shoulder, not committed to answering. “He’s an athlete. Wrestler. I’ve tutored him a few times, and he needed a favor, so I went with him to the—”

  “Bzzz. Back up,” she interrupts again. “You tutored him? When was this?” Suddenly, her phone is out and she’s furiously tapping on the screen. “Z-E-K-E…ah, here it is.” Long pause. “HOLY SHIT BALLS!”

  She flips the phone and thrusts it in my direction. “This is the guy you were just kissing in that truck? This guy? Holy crap.” Winnie shoves the phone directly in my face, displays a picture of Zeke in an Iowa wrestling one-piece, hands on his hips and scowl on his face. His name in the top left-hand corner, stats below. Weight, height. Record. Hometown.

  Before she can yank the phone away, I catch a glimpse of wide shoulders, bulging biceps, and five o’clock shadow; he hadn’t bothered to shave for the team picture.

  I put myself in Winnie’s shoes, see Zeke through her lenses. The handsome, frowning face, the black slashes above his dispassionate eyes.

  “Wow. He’s hot. Like, super hot. Just…wow. I’m speechless. Wow.” She’s looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. “That is so unlike you, Vi.”

  My face is flaming hot because she’s right; I don’t go around kissing anyone, let alone guys that look like Zeke Daniels.

  Winnie continues tap tapping on her phone, googling and Instagramming him, I’m sure. She’s always doing that—scavenging for information.

  “Oh wow,” she says hesitantly. “Don’t freak, but I found him on Campus Girl.”

  Campus Girl is a website run by college-aged women for women on college campuses around the world. You can search for your school, read articles—some of them helpful, some of them gossip—and submit information. Chat. Rate things like the cafeteria food, activities, student clubs.

  And guys.

  Winnie face is so buried in her phone it’s actually glowing, the reflection from the small screen casting a blue pallor on her skin. “Yeesh. I don’t know if I should read this out loud.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say I don’t want her to, but curiosity wins out. I move near her on the bed, present her with my back so she can slide the zipper down the back of my dress.

  The same dress I’ve worn to every special occasion in the past year, and thank god it still fits.

  I remain quiet so Winnie will start reading the posts out loud.

  “Someone wrote: Zeke Daniels is a sexist pig.”

  Yeah, I could see that.

  Winnie goes on. “Zeke Daniels’ number one talent, besides wrestling, is to hit it and quit it.” She glances up. “Yikes.”

  “Zeke Daniels had sex with me at a party in the bathroom and didn’t bother to wait for me to pull my pants up before walking out the door…Zeke Daniels is a fucking prick.” She looks up after that one. “Is that true?”

  I shrug. No sense in denying it. “He’s a little rough around the edges.”

  Her brow goes up, face back in her phone. “Zeke Daniels deserves a medal for biggest asshole on campus…there is nothing nice about this guy…Zeke Daniels is everything your mother warned you about, and then some…don’t bother ladies, he’s not interested in commitment…can someone say issues…”

  I cut her off before she can finish that last one. “Winnie, s-stop. Th-Th-that’s e-enough.”

  She lowers the phone to her lap, looking abashed. “Shit. Sorry, Vi.” Loud sigh. “What do you know about this guy? Is he safe?” Her bottom teeth nibble her top lip. “I mean, is this the kind of guy you’ve been hanging out with?”

  “I-I wouldn’t say we’ve been hanging out.”

  Not really.

  “What would you call it then?” she wants to know.

  “Studying mostly. Volunteering together.” I begin ticking off all the things we’ve been doing the past few weeks. “Play dates. Homework. Tonight’s fundraiser.”

  “Holy crap, Violet! Are you dating him? This guy is ridiculously good-looking.”

  My dress falls to the floor and I bend to scoop it up, not caring that she’s seeing me in my strapless bra and underwear. She’s seen me without clothes on a million times before; we’ve been roommates since her parents let her move out of the dorms sophomore year.

  “Look at me Win.” I raise my pale, sunless arms, running my palms along my narrow hips and stomach. “Do I look like the type of girl he would want to date? Do I s-sound like his t-type?” Pfft. “G-get real.”

  She straightens, sitting up. “What is that supposed to mean? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re beautiful. If he isn’t interested, then he’s a freaking idiot—not that I’m telling you to date him, but if you wanted to, you could…not that I want you to.”

  “Good, because I’m not.”

  “I’m just saying you’re freaking incredible.”

  “No, you’re just saying that because you’re family.”

  The family I created for myself when I got to school: Winnie, Melinda, and our friend Rory, who still lives in the dorms.

  Winnie leans back, propping herself up by the elbows. Rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “I just know how you are, okay? You’re so…what’s the word I’m looking for? Compassionate. Not everyone has a broken wing that needs mending, Violet. Maybe this guy isn’t worthy of your special brand of caring.”

  But she’s wrong.

  He is.

  She goes on. “I mean, he sounds like a total asshole. Please consider that before you sleep with this guy.”

  I slip out of my bra and replace it with a ratty old t-shirt, Winnie’s deafening silence filling the room. Her eyebrows speak a thousand words.

  I turn away.

  “I hope next time you put the moves on him you know what you’re getting yourself into. I don’t mean to be a creeper, but dude, I was checking to see who was in the driveway when you guys pulled up. Totally was not expecting that giant truck to be parked there, and then the cab light went on, and I could see that it was you, and, well, I couldn’t look away.”

  She rambles on. “I know it was you who kissed him first—he wasn’t going to make a move on you. If you could have seen his face from where I saw it—you kissed the stuffing out of him, Violet. He was in complete and u
tter shock.” She laughs, tipping her head back. Her shocking black hair hits my purple bedspread. “I about died. Died! Swear to God, if Melinda had been home…” Her head gives a shake.

  I pad barefooted to my dresser and pull out a pair of yoga pants, stepping into them one leg at a time. “I assure you, I am in no danger of falling into anything with Zeke Daniels without thinking it through.”

  “I think you’ve missed my point, Violet,” my roommate says. “Maybe you’re in danger of…him falling into you. Because from where I stood, he didn’t look that terribly awful.”

  I go to the closet and pull out a sweatshirt, slide it over my head. “He’s not.”

  “Because everyone online makes him sound like a shitty human being.”

  “He has his moments, trust me, but…mostly he has no filter. He’s coming around—he’s better with the kids.”

  Winnie hands me a pair of fuzzy socks from the drawer of my bedside table. “So what was it like? Kissing him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She recoils, face scrunched up. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Your lips were all over him—what was it like?”

  I laugh, joining her on the bed. “It was…” I sigh. “Electric.”

  My roommate groans. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say. Crap, I’m going to have to monitor this situation.”

  “There’s nothing to monitor, but be my guest. And get off my bed, I’m tired.”

  Once Winnie finally goes back to her own room and I finally climb into bed, I lie atop the covers, twisting the new bangle on my wrist, the metal warmed by the heat of my skin.

  In the dark, the pads of my fingers trace the etched sunflower, the beautiful words engraved in the metal.

  “Everything happens for a reason,” I murmur, marveling at how the heat from my body now radiates from the bracelet.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  I know this.

  I’ve been learning it the hard way my entire life, one disappointment after the other, starting with the death of my parents—both of them—when I was young. I’ve had time to recover and grow and move on with my life, but—

  I never do.

  Never.

  What I’ve done is adjust. Bend. Amend.

  Change.

  Learn to live without the things I once had.

  That’s what you do when you lose people you love.

  They say that once someone dies, they’re always with you in spirit; it’s something I know to be true, because I feel my parents every second of every day. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It only hurts less.

  Their memories remain, but I have to work so hard to retrieve them, fragmented as they are. They’re pieces I struggle to puzzle together, obscure and fleeting with every day and week and month and year that passes by.

  I was so young when they died. So young.

  They were so young when they died.

  But I’m here.

  I’m alive.

  Lying in a bed, staring up at a ceiling I pay for with money I earn myself.

  The death of my parents is what led to my stutter; I don’t remember ever not having it, but my cousin Wendy does. I stayed with her family for a while when I was in elementary school, until they couldn’t afford to keep me anymore. They just didn’t have the money.

  Wendy, who was ten when I went to stay with them, said one day I talked like a normal kid, and the next…I didn’t.

  It used to be worse; I couldn’t get through a sentence without getting my tongue tied on my words. I guess it was the trauma of being tucked in one night by your parents and having them disappear the next. When you’re four, you don’t understand the concept of death…I mean, maybe some kids do, but I didn’t.

  I was sensitive, Wendy said. Retreated further into myself.

  She was older, and kind. I slept on her bedroom floor; she and her sister—my cousin Beth—slept in the double bed. Together my aunt and uncle had four kids and couldn’t afford one more, especially with my youngest cousin, Ryan, wheelchair bound with mounting medical bills they couldn’t pay.

  Eventually, I was able to start collecting a pension from the state, but that didn’t come until later…too many months later when I was already in the foster care system.

  Then, as a final blow, my uncle was transferred out of state and I couldn’t see them anymore. I’ve never been able to save enough money to visit them, and lord knows they can’t afford to come see me.

  I’m not a fool; I know I’m one of the lucky ones that went through the system and came out fighting for a better life. Quiet but strong, if you don’t count my stutter.

  One last parting gift from my parents.

  One last memento from the trauma surrounding their deaths.

  From the cops showing up at my house the night of their accident. A fluke. A freak accident. On their way home from a play, their premature, untimely deaths involved one strung-out addict who shouldn’t have been behind the wheel, a speeding pick-up truck, and my parent’s compact car. I vaguely remember my babysitter Becky—a teenage neighbor girl—freaking out when the cops came to the house…the scramble to place me because our family was…well, it was small.

  And had just grown smaller still.

  A few years ago I started collecting the bracelets. They’re expensive, so I only have four, each one purchased with the money I make tutoring, working at the library, and babysitting kids like Summer, when I have enough spare cash to buy one, which isn’t often.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  That one single bracelet circling my wrist, resting on my stomach when I finally settle my arm there.

  The other four remain on my dresser.

  I finger it, rubbing the sunflower disk with my thumb, smiling in the dark despite myself. Smiling despite Zeke Daniels and his reluctance to get close to another living human being.

  That’s fine.

  I’ve been fighting for better my whole life.

  One scared man-child isn’t going to stop me from finding it.

  Zeke

  Why did I give her that fucking bracelet?

  Jeez, now she’s going to think I care and shit.

  I give my pillow a thwack, pounding it into a flat, downy mass, and readjust it under my head. Staring at the damn ceiling above my big, half-empty bed, arms behind my head.

  I’m so fucking tired.

  But I swear, every damn time I close my eyes, I see the look on Violet’s face when she opened that box. Jesus, that face; those goddamn doe eyes—they gazed straight at me like I’d…like I’d healed an invisible wound I hadn’t even known was there.

  Those eyes are the reason for the bracelet.

  In my life I’ve never seen eyes so damn wide and alive—they are going to haunt me for the rest of the night. Maybe longer. I caught a glimpse into her soul in that moment, which makes me sound like a fucking lunatic, but to hell with judging my own inner thoughts.

  Violet just…

  Just…

  I can’t even describe the moment, couldn’t if you paid me.

  Fucking Violet and her sappy, bleeding heart. This restlessness is all her goddamn fault.

  I thought she was normal.

  I didn’t realize she was hurting, too.

  I roll this idea around in my mind, fluffing my pillow again so it’s resting against my headboard, trying my damnedest to relax.

  It doesn’t work because I’ve realized Violet is broken.

  Hurt. Damaged. Like me.

  I punch my pillow angrily, frustration building—I can’t even formulate my own fucking thoughts anymore.

  Whatever, I’m not going to be around her long enough to find out what her problems are. She might be a friend, someone I’d take to fundraising dinner, but it’s not like we will be hanging out any more after tonight, painting each other’s toenails and sharing crybaby stories about our childhoods.

  Especially since she stares straight through me, trying to figure me out. Sees through
my bullshit.

  I pound the pillow one last time, tossing one of the four onto the floor.

  Violet might be quiet, might stutter, but she’s no fool.

  Maybe the fool here is me.

  Zeke

  Violet: Hi…

  I’m surprised to see a text from Violet when my phone pings; we haven’t seen or spoken to each other since the fundraiser. Not because it’s been weird, but because my training and traveling and tournament schedules have been fucking insane.

  I had to cancel on Kyle this week to accommodate wrestling, and already feel kind of guilty about that.

  We’re entering town when Violet’s second message pops into my notifications, the streetlights illuminating the inside of our bus. Around me, my teammates and coaches stir as we approach campus.

  Violet: I know it’s been a week or wahtever but I just wanted to see how everything was doing. Summer was asking about play date, but no rush. I know you’re busy and I won’t hold you to the three but lets’ I don’t want to let them down/

  Zeke: Okay.

  I stare at the text, reread her message a few times and can’t think of any way to respond, mostly because there doesn’t seem to be any point in her random text. Considering this is Violet we’re talking about—organized, prompt, studious Violet—the run-on sentence, bad punctuation, and misspelled words throw me off.

  I frown.

  Violet: I’m sorry, ignore that

  Too late for that, Vi.

  Palming the phone in my hand, it glows again when the bus passes through security at the stadium, drives across the expansive mass of concrete, pulls up near the building. Stops.

  We wait patiently as Daryl, the bus driver, does his quick cross-check, speaks with Coach at the front, and finally unlocks the folding door at the front.

  We’re home, and free to exit the bus.

  Grabbing my shit from the overhead bin and the empty seat next to me, I follow behind my teammates as they’re slowly herded forward, shuffling down the aisle, my wireless headphones still in place, heavy metal guitar riffs playing in my ears.