The Studying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #1)(56)

“But,” Oz begins, sagging his shoulders and casually studying his fingernails. “Would it be so bad if it was?”

Would it be so bad if I was his fantasy? No, it wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be bad at all.

In fact, I bet it would be stupid good.

And that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? The goodness. Earth-shattering, life-altering sex with Sebastian would be good. Great. Phenomenal. Those pecs, those hips, those thighs. That incredible dick he has snugly tucked into his jeans.

But at what cost? Am I willing to give up a small chunk of my heart that I may never get back? I’m not a commitment-phobe by any means; I’ve never had my heart broken. I’ve never been cheated on. I’ve never been in love.

So what is my damn problem?

Fear of the unknown. The intensity I feel when I’m with him. The uncertainty of what he feels for me besides physical attraction. Falling in love with him. Him not falling in love with me. Unrequited love. Infidelity.

Embarking on something he may start but never want to finish.

I’ve never wanted to pursue more of something before.

And now maybe I do.

See there?

I just figured out my own problem.

Now what?





Jameson




Oz: On the bus to Ohio.

Jameson: Really? I didn’t realize you had games—I mean, matches—in the middle of the school week.

Oz: Yeah. Midweek, weekend. This match is against Ohio State. I can get you a printed schedule if you want one?



I stare at the phone, not sure how to respond. He’ll get me a schedule? For what? Doe he seriously want me keeping tabs on him? For me to know where he is?

Kind of like a girlfriend, and we both know he doesn’t want one of those.



Jameson: Um, okay. Sure. A schedule would be cool. For my fridge? LOL

Oz: Yeah, for your fridge. Or desk. We have a match at home next week against Indiana. You could come if you wanted. The action is slightly better than a single light bulb in the middle of a gym floor.

Jameson: That one light dangling above the mats was super creepy. It had a decidedly rapey vibe.

Oz: That wasn’t a RAPEY VIBE—that was mood lighting; I was trying to be romantic.

Jameson: YOU WERE NOT. STOP IT

Oz: Lol. So you’re saying the romance was a fail?

Jameson: I doubt that’s what you were doing, but in any case, it was a fail. LOL

Jameson: I mean, you had me by the crotch and flipped on my back onto a dirty, plastic mat.

Oz: I’ll have you know, those mats are brand new and get wiped down daily…

Jameson: throws hands in air I stand corrected



The phone sits silent for a few moments before it pings with a new notification. My heart races uncontrollably as I sit on the edge of my bed to open the new message.



Oz: Hey Jameson?



Sitting up straighter, I’m instantly on alert, because when a guy uses your full name in a text message, shit is about to get serious. Even I, who hasn’t had a date in months, know this as fact.



Me: Yes Sebastian?



In my mind, that yes is breathy and wistful, and comes out on a sigh. Too bad it doesn’t translate via text.



Oz: When I get back in three days, I think we should



The message is cut off, and nothing follows.

I think we should.

I think we should…

What!

What do you think we should do?

Dying a slow death, I wait impatiently for the second part to come through. I think we should…what? I think we should make out again? I think we should meet in the library? I think we should date?

What. What for the love of god should we do!

“Sweet Jesus, where’s the rest of the text? Where is it!” I shout to the walls of my bedroom, shaking the crap out of my cell and thanking God my roommates aren’t home to witness my incessant grumbling as I jiggle the phone back to life.

I wait, and wait—then wait some more—for him to finish that short sentence, for the little blue light in the upper left hand corner to blink.

Finally, sick of the torture, I grow a pair of lady balls and text him back: What should we do?

Two minutes pass.

Then three.

Then eighteen.

Then two hours.

Then ten.

And still, nothing. I get nothing.

It’s agony.





Sebastian




“I thought I asked you not to wear that tank top to bed, especially when I’m not allowed to touch you.” I watch Jameson from across the hotel room from the center of the bed.

She pulls the fabric away from her form, glancing down at the sheer white garment. “What is your obsession with this shirt?”

“I’m not obsessed with it. I just don’t want you wearing it.”

“That makes no sense. My boyfriend loves this shirt; when I wear it, it reminds me of him.”

“Boyfriend?” Since when does James have a boyfriend who’s not me, and why am I just finding out about it?

I watch her cross the room to stand in front of the large sliding glass door; heavy snow falls in sheets across the windows, our Utah snowboarding trip blessed with several inches of fresh powder.