The Failing Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #2)(83)

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.

I might be a douchebag, but I’m not a quitter.



Yours

Sincerely

Fuck

Talk soon,



Zeke.





Violet



On Friday night, I’ve sequestered myself in my bedroom. Mel and Winnie are both getting ready to hit the bars since it’s the weekend, but I’ve been in no mood to socialize.

With them, or anyone else.

My door is ajar, so I can hear them both laughing, and occasionally they stick their heads in to make sure I haven’t changed my mind about going out. Getting dressed up. Getting drunk.

Or, Zeke Wasted as Winnie so eloquently put it.

I know waiting around for a guy to text you is a dumb thing to do—sadistic, really, and a little pathetic—but unlike a lot of guys, he isn’t playing games. He said he’s going to text me and I believe him.

I think.

I showed his letter to my roommates—a huge mistake, because obviously they’re both outraged on my behalf, having found me crying in the living room the night I blindly walked myself home from the library, too upset and blinded by tears and mascara to drive.

The letter sits on my desk.

I’ve read it at least fifty times, fingers running over the hurried lines. The messy, hurried scrawl. Black ink. Black mood.

For him to write that?

My stomach flutters thinking about it, thinking about those words. All the words, spewed onto that abused sheet of paper, ineloquent and unplanned.

The least I can do is be present when he texts, and I can’t do that unless I’m home.

I want to be home when he texts.

So I lie in my room on a Friday night, googling televised college wrestling. Find the schedule for Iowa. Find the network. Sprawled across my bed, remote in hand, flip through the TV menu until I find what I’m looking for.

Iowa versus Purdue.

I study the screen, transfixed. Study the sidelines and wrestlers as the camera pans the stadium.

I’ve never seen wrestling before, not in person and not on TV. Didn’t realize it was even a big deal until coming to Iowa, where wrestling reigns and the boys here are bred for it.

The stadium is massive; I don’t know what I was expecting, probably something comparable to a high school gym. This? Whole different level. The arena is massive.

The blue mats are huge.

There are wrestlers on my screen who are fast on their feet, stalking each other in the center of the mat, grappling for the upper hand. The guy in black suddenly has his opponent in a headlock, and I realize with a gasp that I recognize him.

Sebastian Osborne, Zeke’s roommate. It takes him two rounds to win his match.

The next Iowa wrestler is Patrick Pitwell; he wins as well.

Followed by Jonathon Powell, who takes three rounds.

Sophomore Diego Rodriguez takes just one—and loses.

Zeke Daniels walks onto the screen, his stats displayed on the bottom of the screen. He begins stretching his thick quads on the sidelines, removes his pants, sliding them down over his muscular thighs.

I feel my cheeks turn bright red, furiously blushing crimson despite being in the house alone. Those thighs in his wrestling uniform are firm and hard.

His very visible bulge lies flat against his lower stomach.

I know what both feel like between my legs; that spot gets hot and wet and blushes, too.

Overheated, I whip off my bedspread, flipping onto my back, staring at the ceiling. Catching my breath. Salvaging what’s left of my composure when it comes to this boy. Trying to get my temperature to drop and get a grip on the reality of what’s happening with us here.

Trying to focus on my screen.

I’ve never paid attention to wrestling, have no idea what those leotards they’re wearing are called. Leotards? No, that can’t be right.

I grab my laptop, flip it open, and search wrestling one-piece.

Wrestling singlet, noun. The uniform is tight-fitting so as not to get grasped by one’s opponent, allowing referees to see each wrestler’s body clearly when awarding points. Underneath the singlet, wrestlers can choose to wear nothing.

I get it now; I get why the girls on campus go crazy for these guys. Even jerks like Zeke Daniels.