The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(13)

I smirk at my bedroom full of no one.

JB: So, I guess I should have asked you this last week—and sorry I didn’t message you over the weekend but I figured you were out of town, and I had that wrestling meet and I was just so fucking tired.

JB: I know it’s not the weekend, but do you wanna grab a drink or something this week? Like Wednesday?

Me: Wednesday?

My stomach actually gurgles—gurgles for God’s sake!—from nerves, a sensation way worse than any butterflies.

A date.

An actual date.

Ugh, I think I might be sick.

I want to say yes, but I’m chickenshit, no good at this dating business.

Just say no, my stomach thunders

Say yes, you idiot! my heart pounds.

Hesitate a little longer, my brain mocks.

JB: Or…not? A different day maybe?

Me: No. Wednesday works. What did you have in mind?

JB: Maybe just drinks. Keep it simple? That way…you know…

Me: If there’s no chemistry, we both have an easy out?

JB: LOL exactly.

But we’re going to have amazing chemistry, I just know it. I can feel it—look at how easy it is for us to talk. We haven’t had a single lull in the conversation, if you don’t count this weekend when he ghosted me.

I take a deep breath and go out on a limb.

Me: We’re not going to want an easy out. We won’t need it **wink**

JB: You don’t think so?

Me: No. I think we’re going to have fun. Don’t you?

JB doesn’t respond right away, and my stomach does another gurgle, this one filled with insecurity. Did I say something wrong? Was that too forward?

Did I come on too strong with the optimism? Shit, I really need to learn to be more pessimistic.

Some people hate positive people. Maybe he’s one of them, and if he is, we’re not a good match.

Finally, he messages me.

JB: What’s your drink of choice?

I have to give this one some serious thought, because I hate the taste of alcohol, and the first and last time I got drunk was my twenty-first birthday.

Me: Honestly? Iced tea? LOL

Me: What about you?

JB: Beer

Oh.

That one words leaves me oddly disappointed. For some reason I thought he’d say he wasn’t a big drinker either, but guess I was wrong.

My phone pings again.

JB: I like beer, but because of the carbs, I usually drink vodka.

Oh, great—the hard stuff. Even better.

Nothing would thrill me more than a boyfriend who probably outweighs me by a hundred pounds getting drunk at a bar on hard liquor and forcing me to figure out how to get his sloppy ass home.

No thanks.

Still. I’m putting the cart before the horse here; we haven’t gone out on a date, let alone gone out drinking.

But my grandfather was an alcoholic before he died, and it really affected my mother, who passed down her aversion of alcohol to me.

It’s just…one of those things.

One of my things.

I can’t help the fact that alcohol is a deal breaker for me, and that one word—VODKA—glowing like a headlight on my cell phone, has the hairs on the back of my neck tingling, and not in a good way.

I feel like a buzzkill when I’m the only one drinking an iced tea, or water, or something else that’s not alcoholic, though I know no one is actually judging me for it.

It’s a fact: drunk people absolutely do not give a shit if you’re drunk or not, as long as they are. They’re too busy being drunk to care.

Peer pressure (for the record) has never been my thing. When it comes to hard limits, I won’t let anyone force me into crossing them.

I’m stubborn like that.

My teeth rake across my bottom lip as I deliberate what to say to JB that isn’t snarky, or judgmental, or short. After all, he’s in college and over the age of twenty-one, so what business is it of mine if he imbibes? I just want to know if he’s one of those guys who parties too hard or someone who knows his limits.

JB: I don’t go out very often, in case you’re wondering. We’re really not allowed to.

I let out the pent-up air I was holding in my lungs, a little sigh of relief passing through my lips.

Seriously, is this guy a mind reader?

Me: I’m too busy being lazy to go out very often. My friends and I like hoofing it to the city to hang out—my roommate’s dad is an entertainment lawyer, so he gets tickets for us a lot. It’s pretty awesome.

JB: That does sound awesome. Way more awesome than going out downtown, which now sounds incredibly lame.

Me: It’s nice because I’m not a big partier, and it takes a lot of the pressure off. I mean, I go to parties SOMEtimes, but it’s rare.

JB: We all have our thing. Yours isn’t parties. Mine isn’t hanging out at home. I like to be busy.

Me: Must be easy considering you practice all the time, and have meets and stuff?

JB: Yeah, there isn’t much downtime.

Me: But doesn’t it get old?

He doesn’t respond right away, which surprises me. It’s almost like he’s taking his time and thinking about his answer.

JB: Yes. It gets old.

Me: I’m sensing some hesitation…

He hesitates again, the tiny conversation bubbles appearing then disappearing. Appearing.