The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(49)

“A kiln bakes the paint onto the ceramic. Then it will be nice and shiny when it’s done.” She continues stroking light purple onto her cup, delicately drawn on flowers and polka dots. It’s pretty fucking adorable, way sweeter than my shitty Iowa mug.

“You mean I have to wait to see what it looks like finished?”

She looks up, surprised, brush paused in the air. “Is that what you’re all worked up about? You’re excited to see it and don’t want to wait?”

“Well yeah! I want to see it!” Duh.

“Zeke Daniels, I can’t believe it! You’re excited about your mug?”

“Fuck yeah!”

We both laugh and it feels good, way fucking better than being pissed off, which takes considerably more effort.

“Hey.” I give her hand a little poke with the tip of my paintbrush, leaving a little blob of yellow on her wrist. “I just realized something.”

Those big hazel eyes gaze at me, long black lashes fluttering, the angelic blonde hair shining. Man she’s beautiful, glossy lips parting, causing me to shift restlessly in my seat.

Jesus. No.

I shake my head. Shake it again.

Clear my throat. “Do you realize you haven’t stuttered since we’ve been here?”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” I smear black paint on my mug. “Why do you think that is?”

Violet’s mouth opens, then closes, like a cute little fish gasping for air. “I don’t know? I-I…” Her pert nose wrinkles. “Shoot!”

“Dammit,” I groan. “I’m really sorry I mentioned it.”

“N-No, it’s okay. How long have we been here, an hour and a half? That’s a long time for me.” She looks proud. Beaming.

“Must be because you’re comfortable around me, huh?” I wink—actually fucking wink—teasing. “I don’t make you nervous anymore.”

“Actually, yes i-it probably means you don’t make me nervous anymore.” Her pink lips are still glossy and bent into a bashful smile.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But no one feels comfortable with me.”

“I do.”

“Why?” I stare at her like she’s bat-shit crazy. She must be.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but…mostly I think it’s your size.”

“Uh, how would I take that the wrong way?”

“I-I just figured you prefer to come off as intimidating. I was intimidated at first, but now I just find it comforting.”

“Uh, the next words out of your mouth better not be like a giant teddy bear.”

“Those are not my next words. I didn’t say snuggly, I said comforting.”

I lean forward in my chair. It creaks. “You don’t think I’m snuggly?”

Her forehead creases. “Have you ever snuggled in a cozy blanket?”

I snort. “Of course not.”

“Have you ever snuggled a cute little furry animal?”

I scoff and roll my eyes. “No.”

“Have you ever snuggled someone watching a movie, or when they were upset?”

“Uh, big fat no.”

“I rest my case.” She grins, satisfied. “Comforting, not snuggly—though for the record, you’re missing out.

“Whatever. I could be both if I wanted to be.” Deciding my mug is finished, I push it into the center of the table and shift around the small stack of containers and supplies impeding my view of hers. “C’mon, c’mon, let’s see it. Let’s see your masterpiece.”

“I’m still working on it,” she whispers.

I get the feeling she isn’t talking about her mug.

Violet finishes her project; it turns out a whole hell of a lot better than mine. Hers is neatly designed and intricately detailed, light lavender with little flowers painted all around a dark purple monogram of her initials, the letters curling and intertwining. Mine on the other hand?

Looks like a steaming pile of dog shit.

I won’t get into specifics, but a three-year-old could have done a better job.

I scowl at the damn thing.

“We never got anything to eat. You hungry?”

Violet bobs her head up and down. “I could go for something to eat, yeah.”

“We could grab something on our way back to your place?”

“Sure, sounds good.”

Together, we clean up our messes, toss our paper towels in the trash, throw our brushes in the water, wipe up the black paint surrounding my fucked up mug. When I tip the stupid thing over to write my name in pencil on the bottom, the yellow smudges and gets on the end of my sleeve.

Awesome.

But, despite that, I can’t help noticing that Violet looks cheerful. Chipper.

Chipper, Zeke? Really?

Christ, that’s something my grandpa used to say when he was alive. Whatever, Violet looks happy. A thousand times happier than she did when I arrived on her doorstep tonight.

When she’s loaded back in my truck and we’re headed back toward campus, I stop at a fast-food burger joint and buy us both hamburgers. We eat them in silence, sitting in the parking lot.

“Thanks Zeke.” She takes another bite of her sandwich and chews. Swallows. “For tonight, and for…this.” She holds the half-eaten burger up in the dark, the wrapper making crinkling sounds.