The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(45)

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.

A few stadium personnel are already in the process of unloading our bags by the time I hop off the last step, dragging the black hood of my sweatshirt up over my head. Spot my duffle immediately. Swipe it off the ground and head toward my truck without a shower, head down, thumb brushing over Violet’s text.

A few things occur to me then: I don’t think she’s ever been the one to text me first. It isn’t much of a shock, since she’s generally more reserved, the least pushy girl I’ve ever met.

I wonder what she’s been up to since the fundraiser—since she kissed me in her driveway. That kiss kept me awake longer than it should have and had me watching Tumblr porn when I should have been sleeping, not jerking off my rod.

I wonder if this means I’ve actually missed having her around?

Or just that I like jerking it to porn gifs?

Or both?

Regardless, Violet is the only person that’s texted me since we left for Ohio State; the team’s been gone for thirty-six hours.

My thumbs tap out a reply.



Zeke: The team just got back into town from an away meet in Ohio. Literally just pulled into the stadium, which is where we park our cars during away meets. What are you doing right now?



I briefly wonder if she’s drunk.



Violet: What am I doing right now? Nothing because its wild and crazy Friday nigh, juts me myself and I.



I yank the ball cap out of my backpack, sliding it on under my hoodie, twisting it left, then right, then squeezing the bill so it’s tighter. My fingers work fast.



Zeke: Violet, is everything

Hit send. Oops.



Zeke: Vi, is everything okay?



Long pause.



Violet: Do you want me to be honest?

Violet: No, it’s not. Everythng i not okay.



Movements in my peripheral catch my eye and I glance up, propping one foot on the running board of my truck. Oz is approaching with all his shit, duffle bags slung over his broad shoulders.

He raises his arms. “What the hell man? You couldn’t wait five minutes?” His blue eyes narrow into suspicious slits. “You weren’t gonna leave me here, were you?”

“Nah, just had a few texts messages that couldn’t wait.”

“Oh really—what kind of messages?”

My gray eyes flicker over him. “Dude, aren’t you going to shower?”

“Aren’t you?”

“I was going to hit it at home.”

He pulls open the passenger side door, hefts his shit inside, and climbs in behind it. “Let me guess: you’re texting Violet and don’t want to waste another second fucking around inside the building. Aww, aren’t you just the sweetest.” He leans over the center console toward my door, bellowing, “Zekey has a girlfriend, Zekey has a girlfriend,” like a fucking moron.

Jesus, why does he have to be so goddamn obnoxious?

I ignore him, but it’s hard with the incessant shouting.

Not to mention, now he’s grasping for my cell, wiggling his fingers. “Come on man, put the phone down and let’s go. I told Jameson we’d—”

I throw up the middle finger. “Would you shut the fuck up for like, five more seconds? Thanks.”

His back plops against the seat and he starts buckling his seat belt like a good boy scout.



Zeke: What’s wrong Violet?

Zeke: Are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need me to come get you or something?

Violet: No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just, god—I’m so embarrassed I texted you. It’s going to sound so dumb, but both my roommates are gone and I’m alone and I’m crying and can’t see the keys on my phone

Well that explains the shitty typemanship.



Zeke: You can tell me what’s wrong.

Violet: Today was the anniversary of parents’ death, and I hate being here alone. There’s this movie on and for some reason it just…made me want to talk to a human and not sit here wallowing in front of the TV. And I feel so…