The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(44)

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.