The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(48)

We take our seats and work in silence…at least for the next fifteen minutes.

Until, “So, do you want to tell me about them?”

“Who?”

“Your parents. What were they like?”

I sit back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, pausing with my paintbrush in the air, a blob of lavender dripping off the end. “From what I remember, they were fun. My dad was shy and kind of a huge book nerd, and my mom was this beautiful, fairylike…” I swallow. “She was blonde. Beautiful.”

Zeke nods, cleaning his brush in a jar of water. Blots it dry on the paper towel.

“Anyway, they were young when they had me, but really in love. They met in a law library where my dad worked, just out of college, just barely. He wanted to be a lawyer.” I resume painting my mug, focusing on the curved leaves I’m making around the handle. “My mom was still a student, but she was only taking one or two classes because they had me so soon after they got married. My aunt told me she wanted to be a teacher.”

“I’m…” Zeke starts. “I bet she would have been a good teacher, just like you.”

“I’m not going to be a teacher. I’m going to be a Social Worker.”

“I know, but you love kids. You must get that from her.”

“Yes.” I don’t know how to broach this next part, so I just blurt it out. “What about your parents Zeke? You hardly mention your family.”

His brush pauses too, but he doesn’t look up. “There’s not a lot to tell. I’ve always been more of an afterthought.”

“What does that mean?”

His cold gray eyes look into mine. “It means they don’t give a shit.”

“How can that be?” I whisper as the festive and upbeat top forty music beats through the sound system above us. It’s loud, but I know he can hear me. I know he’s considering the question.

“They’re selfish, that’s why.”

“Where are they?”

“They travel. I don’t know, Violet. They don’t tell me where they’re going.” He dabs at the mug with his brush.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Dab, dab, dab. “Nope. Just me.”

“I already told you I’m an only child. Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different if I had a sister. Or a brother, you know? To share this burden. So I wouldn’t be alone.”

God, now I sound like a one-person pity party. “Thank god I have my friends.” I’m smiling as I say it.

“Speaking of which, what’s up with your roommates?”

I look up. “What do you mean, what’s up with my roommates?”

“Are they around a lot or what?”

“Yes and no. We all work a lot. None of us really go out because—not to sound pathetic or whatever—but that costs money none of us have. Although”—I dip my brush in the water jar and tap it against the edge—“we are going out tomorrow night to the bar where Melinda’s boyfriend works since neither of them could be around tonight, and honestly, it’s been forever since we’ve done anything fun.”

“Fun?”

He says the word out loud; it’s the one word he’s picked out of my entire diatribe, his paintbrush slashing through the air toward me, tracing the small silver V on the necklace hanging at my throat.

“V.”

I raise my fingers, grasping the small silver letter dangling around my neck.

“My aunt gave it to me when I was little, for my fifth birthday, the last one I celebrated at home.” I swallow. “The V is for Violet.”

He snickers quietly, tipping his head back. “Or V for virgin.”

“That too, I guess,” I say quietly, embarrassed, even though I gave up my virginity two years ago.

“You don’t think that’s funny?”

“If I was actually a virgin I’d probably be embarrassed by it.”

“You’re right—that’s private. I shouldn’t be joking about it.”

Nope, he shouldn’t be.

My right brow rises, and I dip my chin in a nod. Smile to myself, running the brush along my mug.

“My roommate Oz is the pervert, not me.” He sighs warily. The air between us is riddled with a prickle of tense energy. “I’m sorry.”

My head dips again, but I peek up at him under my long lashes.

“I am Violet. That was fucking rude.”

“Let’s just drop it, okay?” The last thing I want to do is sit here and talk about my virgin status—or lack thereof.





Zeke



“That looks like a bumblebee.” Her words are wrapped in a delighted laugh.

I glance down at my ceramic mug, the one I’ve slapped a big I on (for Iowa), along with some crudely painted yellow and black stripes.

She’s right. It’s starting to look like a giant fucking bumblebee, and not even a skillfully painted one.

“Shut up, Violet!”

“I’m sorry! It’s so cute though! I can’t wait to see what it looks like once it’s fired and shiny from the kiln.”

“What the hell is a kiln?” And what does she mean, once it’s fired?