How to Date a Douchebag: The Failing Hours

by Sara Ney

  “How the hell am I supposed to change?”

  His mouth is set in a grim line. “I don’t know man. I’ve never really given anyone advice.”

  “Bullshit.” I chuckle. “All you do is give unsolicited advice.”

  “Whoa, back the truck up.” He points at my face. “What the hell was that?”

  I play dumb. “What the hell was what?”

  “Did you just laugh? That’s the first time I’ve ever seen your fucking teeth.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Also, you’re not half bad-looking when you smile. You’re quite reasonably attractive.”

  I laugh again.

  It feels good.

  “See! That right there almost gave me a chubby down under,” my roommate jokes. “Do not tell Jameson.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Since his girlfriend and I barely speak, it won’t be a problem. “And you know smartass, I laugh. Just not—”

  “Pfft, yeah right. Name the last time you laughed out loud at something.”

  “Last week when I was with—”

  I stop. Frown.

  “When you were with Violet?” he supplies.

  “Yeah.”

  Oz’s big hand clamps me on the shoulder and he squeezes. “You’ve got to do something man. She’s one of the good ones—maybe too good considering how fucked you are in the head. You probably deserve someone more like that.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I deadpan.

  He ignores my sarcasm. “No, I’m being real here. You have some serious parent issues.” Chuckle. “You also need to chill the fuck out, that’s my advice—and smile more, chicks love that shit.”

  He’s serious.

  “Anything else?”

  Oz rubs his chin, stroking the stubble along his jawline. “I think you’re going to have to fight dirty to win this one. Violet doesn’t seem like the type who’s going to let this go; this blow was emotional. It’s going to cut her deep and cost you. I’m glad she told you to fuck off.”

  “Violet did not tell me to fuck off.”

  “Basically she did…” he mumbles into his beer bottle.

  “Um, no, she said I wasn’t a nice person and she wanted nothing more to do with me.”

  “So in other words, fuck off.” His middle finger salutes the air.

  “Dude, seriously?”

  “Yeah. That was her way of breaking up with you.”

  I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. “We weren’t going out.”

  “Okay, well now you’re really not going out, sooo…” Oz emits a low whistle, studying his fingernails. “Fuck off.”

  Is he always this impossible? “Is this how you argue with James?”

  Shrug. “Yes.”

  He has no shame.

  “It’s really fucking annoying.”

  “But effective.”

  “Knock it off and help me.” I sound complain-y but refuse to beg.

  “I can’t help you. You have to want to help yourself.”

  “I’m not looking for a twelve-step program, dipshit, I’m trying to…” I search for the words. “I’m trying to…”

  “Win back the girl?”

  I scowl. “When you put it that way it sounds so fucking dumb.”

  The bastard smirks and crosses his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Only if you’re an asshole. And you are, sooo…”

  Good point. “All right, so what the hell do I do?”

  “Depends. How serious are you? I mean, you can’t go through all this effort to apologize and shit and then not do anything with it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you better fucking pony up if you’re going to grovel. And obviously give back all her shit, her backpack and stuff. Date her and commit and whatever.”

  I can do that.

  I can date her and commit.

  I think.

  I mean, I’ve never done it before, but how hard can it be? “What if I’m bad at it?”

  “Dude, let’s be honest, you’re going to be a horrible boyfriend. Like, the fucking worst. You’re already off to a shitty start.”

  “What the hell, Osborne.”

  His hands go up in surrender. “Hey! You said you wanted me to be honest, I’m being honest.”

  “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

  “Immensely.”

  “Where are Violet and Summer? I thought they were coming with us?” Kyle buckles his seat belt.

  “Not today, buddy, sorry.”

  “Why not?”

  I sit quietly, debating between lying and telling him the truth. It’s my fault his little friend isn’t here and the poor freaking kid is going to be bummed. And pissed. “They’re not coming with us to the batting cages because I’m an asshole.”

  He shoots me a sidelong, judgey glance, narrowing his beady little eyes. “You know you’re not supposed to be swearing. It’s in the rulebook.”

  The one I still haven’t read.

  “I know, I know, but sometimes there aren’t any words but curse words to get a point across.”

  He commiserates with a rub to his chin like he’s rubbing a beard. “True.”

  “Anyway, Violet’s pissed. I hurt her feelings ’cause I’m a dumbass, so I don’t think we’ll be seeing her or Summer for a while. Not until I can figure something out.”

  “What happened?”

  “I, uh, wasn’t nice to her in front of my friends. It made her feel sad.”

  He scrunches up his face distastefully. “Why’d you do that? I thought you were friends.”

  “I don’t know, because I’m an idiot, remember? I think I freaked.”

  Admitting that out loud makes it that much worse, because clearly, the more self-reflection I engage in, the more I’m convinced I’m actually just a giant pussy, not the badass I originally thought.

  It’s sobering.

  “My mom says you clearly have abandonment issues,” Kyle says so casually I have no idea how to respond. “Hey Zeke?”

  “Yeah buddy?”

  “What are abandonment issues?”

  My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I consider my answer. “It means…a person thinks if they keep their heart closed, then no one in their life can abandon or reject them.”

  I rattle off a definition I read on Wikipedia just last night, after my little girl talk in the kitchen with Oz when he told me I had issues.

  The problems associated with abandonment are typically wrong, one article read. Abandonment, in simple terms, is essentially a heart that’s been closed off.

  A broken heart.

  “What does a heart closed mean?” Kyle innocently wants to know, and now I’m sorry I started this fucking conversation.

  “It means…” I pause to think. “It means not letting people in your life—like not telling them shit. Not getting to know people even if you’re hanging out with them.”

  “Do you do that?”

  Do I? Uh, yeah.

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Is it because of your parents sucking?”

  I laugh at his unexpected choice of verbiage. “Yeah, I think so. Remember how I told you they were never around? Still aren’t?”

  He nods.

  “Well, I really missed them when I was little. I cried a lot, and the people taking care of me used to get really mad and yell a lot, which just made me cry more, and all I wanted was for my mom and dad to come home.”

  But they rarely did.

  “Did you have a home?”

  “Lots of them,” I admit. “But I lived with aunts and uncles. Once my parents were home for Easter. We took a trip down to Florida and I played in the ocean while they sat on the beach.”

  I remember it like it was yesterday; I was twelve. My parents had been in Greece for a month and thought it would be charming to celebrate Easter as a family. While I blissfully swam in the ocean, my dad spent most of his time on his laptop, and my mom drank wine while supervising a photographer for a magazine, s
ent to photograph the beach house.

  The real reason they’d come home.

  So her fucking beach house could be in a damn magazine. She squeezed it in before moving on to the next city on her world tour. City, town, island—wherever the hell they went next, they sure as shit couldn’t be bothered to take their son.

  “I guess you could say I was inconsolable, you know? Cried a lot. That sadness turned to anger, because by the time I was in middle school, I couldn’t tell people how I felt. I couldn’t put a label my own emotions because I was so young.” I glance over to find him watching me rapidly. “We call that articulating our feelings.”

  He’s soaking up every word like a sponge.

  “Do you think I’m going to be like you when I grow up since my dad’s not around?”

  My throat contracts and I find it hard to swallow. “What do you mean, be like me?”

  “You know, mad and stuff.” He turns his head and stares out the window, watching the buildings and houses and trees roll by. People on their way home to their families. On their way home from work or running errands.

  I slow for a woman in the crosswalk.

  “I don’t think I’m mad and stuff—not all of the time.”

  Kyle glances over. “Just most of the time?”

  Am I?

  “Is that what you think? That I’m mad most of the time?”

  His slight shoulders give a shrug, and now he’s looking down at his sneakers. “I think it would be cool to be like you when I grow up.”

  “Why?”

  My blinker goes on, and I hang a left at the stop sign, racking my brain for a way to respond without sounding callous and bitter.

  “Because you’re big and good at wrestling and nobody tells you what to do.”

  “Violet tells me what to do sometimes,” I point out.

  “True.” His head bobs up and down. “Why do you let her?”

  “Why do I let Violet tell me what to do?” I clarify the question.

  “Yeah,” he says with a comical scowl. “You’re always letting her boss you around.”

  “Well…I definitely wouldn’t say she was bossy—she’s too sweet.” Suddenly it’s hard to swallow. “But I guess I let her tell me what to do because I like her.”

  “Like boyfriend girlfriend?”

  “Uh…sure.”

  Kyle’s head hits the headrest and he quirks one of his puny little eyebrows, giving me a look I myself have made at him a thousand times.

  Shit. The scrappy turd is mimicking my behavior.

  “What do you mean sure. You either do or you don’t.”

  “Uh…”

  He taps his fingers on the center console. “It’s not a difficult question you know.”

  “Yeah, but now you’re confusing me because you’re eleven and you sound twenty-four.”

  “I’ve had a rough life; I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

  “You know Kyle, you might have had a rough life, but there’s always someone who’s worse off than you—remember that.”

  “Okay, I will.”

  “I mean it, kid. If there’s one thing I’ve learned through all this bullshit with having to hang out with you—”

  “Hey!”

  Now we’re both rolling our eyes. “You know what I meant—no offense.” I continue, “Anyway, if there’s one thing I’ve learned being your Big, it’s that even if the things you have are shitty—your clothes suck or you have to eat peanut butter and fucking jelly for every meal, there’s a kid out there starving.”

  I cannot believe I’m giving him a pep talk. What do chicks call this? A life chat?

  “It took me a long time to figure it out. I think I’m starting to be a better person. Maybe.”

  Jesus Christ I sound like a sap; thank god no one else can hear me but the kid.

  “Do you think it’s because you met Violet?” He wants to know, and I turn my head slightly to get as good a look at him as I can while driving. A good, long look at the kid.

  His hair is shaggy and still needs a cut. His t-shirt is wrinkled and needs to be washed. His shoes are new but need to be cleaned. He’s a mess, but an honest, hopeful one.

  “No. I think it’s because I met you.”

  “Me?” His voice is full of wonder.

  “Yeah kid. You.”

  Kyle has nothing to say to that, so we sit in silence, the radio playing soft rock in the background. Finally, a smile lights up his scrubby face, and he’s grinning from ear to ear.

  “Cool.”

  Zeke: Hey Vi, just making sure you got your backpack and laptop? Barbara from the library was worried and knew we hung out, so she asked me to bring it to you.

  Violet: Yes, she texted me. Thank you for bringing it home.

  Zeke: Your roommate Mel threatened to chop my nuts off when she came to the door.

  Violet: Yes, she told me the whole story.

  Zeke: Um, did she give you the message that I stopped by hoping to talk?

  Violet: Yes.

  Zeke: Well can we? Yes or no.

  Zeke: Sorry. That came our harsher than I wanted it to. What I meant was, can we please talk?

  Violet: I realize you’re trying, and that’s a big step for you on a personal level, but I’m not ready to sit down and listen to excuses. Not even close.

  Violet: And the only reason I’m texting you back is because I felt it would be rude to ignore your messages. That is the only reason I’m replying.

  Zeke: Please, Violet, I fucked up—I know that. There’s some shit I need to say and I don’t want to do it in a text.

  Zeke: Please.

  Zeke: Over the past few days, I was tempted a few times to come into the library, but didn’t want to come off as a fucking stalker.

  Violet: Thanks for the texts, really. I’ll think about it and let you know.

  Zeke: All right. Let me know—I can wait.

  Zeke: How long do you think you’ll need?

  Violet: I don’t know, Zeke. I guess when I decide what I want for myself and how I’ll allow myself to be treated by you. That’s how long I think I’ll need.

  Zeke: Violet…

  Don’t do this, I want to beg. Don’t make me wait.

  I can’t. It’s going to fucking kill me, this uncertainty, the doubt I already have about myself and my ability to be in a relationship with anyone other than myself.

  I’ve never been a patient person, not even when I was younger. Add to that my competitive nature, and taking no for an answer just isn’t in my vocabulary, even though technically that’s not what Violet is saying.

  She wants me to give her time, wants me to wait. She wants more for herself than a selfish, contemptuous asshole…but there’s so damn much I have to say. If I don’t get this shit off my chest, eventually I’ll say fuck it and I’ll bottle it up inside like I do with everything else in my life.

  The rejection will be unbearable.

  So I go to my desk, pull out the chair, and root around for a pen. Paper.

  Bow my head and do something I’ve never done in my entire fucking life:

  Write a letter.

  Dear Violet

  I know you didn’t want to talk, but

  I’m an idiot

  Fuck

  If it were anyone but you ignoring me I wouldn’t give a fuck

  I cannot handle the silence.

  Please talk to me.

  Violet.

  By now we all know I’m a fuck up an idiot when it comes to basically every single relationship I’ve ever had with anyone. My friends can’t stand me, my parents think I’m a handful, my teachers tolerate me.

  I won’t admit outright to being a shitty human being, but I come close. I know what they say about me. That I’m unfeeling. Cold. A dick. Insensitive. All these words have been used to describe me by those I’ve pissed off in the past, including women I’ve slept with. Sorry, but it’s true.

  I’m wasn’t sure how to start this letter—I’ve started it at least seven times, an
d nothing about it is right. I realize that if I wasn’t such a callous dick had stepped up and been the guy said what I was feeling when you walked up to our table in the library, I wouldn’t be groveling right now.

  I’ve stared at this fucking sheet of paper for the past fifteen minutes knowing that nothing I write is going to undo the damage I’ve done to us.

  I’ve never handwritten a letter before in my entire fucking life, and here I am writing one for all the wrong fucking reasons, pardon my French.

  There is no excuse for how I behave.

  No excuse for how I acted in the library, except the truth: I spooked when you came over. I’m such a dumbass, I get that now, and my immature sophomoric response to the situation is as embarrassing for me as it was for you. It even embarrassed my friends, and that’s saying a lot, because they’re mostly imbiciles imbeciles, too.

  I am an asshole.

  I am a prick.

  I am a douchebag.

  These are not badges of honor and I’m a dick for having ever worn these labels. A total and complete dick.

  If you would have told me two months ago that I’d be hanging out with kids every week and having fun, I would have laughed in your face and called you a liar. The only person I thought about was myself, because growing up I had no one to tell me not to be a selfish prick. When you called me self-deprecating, you were right.

  I am.

  I had to google what it meant, but you were right. There are no other words for it. I don’t know what to fucking say to you right now other than I’m sorry. So fucking sorry.

  I am a soulless asshole who doesn’t deserve to have you as a friend. Jesus Christ Violet, I wasn’t thinking of you at all when you walked up and I just sat there. Fuck! I know you’re hurting and upset but I was too worried about myself to see what was right in front of me. When even YOU won’t talk to me—one of the nicest people I KNOW won’t talk to me—that’s how I know I’ve got a fucking problem. Pardon my French.

  I’ll be gone this week—we have a wrestling meet in Indiana at Purdue, and won’t be back until late on Friday—but if it’s okay, I’m going to try texting you from the bus. I miss you. I really freaking miss you.

  Even if you aren’t ready to see me, I had to try.