The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(16)

“Why would his ears be all jacked up?”

“They wear those head things that squish their ears, that’s why. You would think their moms put them on when they’re born—that’s how funky their ears look. No way can those ear guards jack their shit up that much after only a few years of wearing them. I bet it’s from not wearing them that makes their ears all funkadelic.”

The way her brain works…

She scares me sometimes.

“I saw a few of his pictures, but I didn’t notice if his ears were wonky or not.”

“Bet they are.”

“Guess we’ll see,” I intone cryptically.

“So you’re going out with him?”

“Yes.”

“What!” she shouts. “When?”

“Wednesday.”

That nose of hers wrinkles again. “Wednesday? Why not Friday? Why not Saturday?”

“I don’t know, Hannah. He said Wednesday! And I didn’t have anything going on, so I said yes—why are you being hysterical about it?”

“Dating rule number two: guys who want to see you during the week are trying to keep their weekend wide open for something better. Everyone knows that.”

“Would you stop saying that?”

“It’s a fact.”

“Where are you getting these ‘facts’?”

“When it comes to dating, I’m like Yoda—I just know stuff.” Her shoulders bob up and down in a shrug. “And now you know for next time. No more midweek dates. You are a weekend date kind of girl.”

My lips twitch.

“Right. I’ll keep that in mind.” I shoot her a look that says I won’t be keeping that in mind, but thanks anyway for the advice. “Am I allowed to continue talking?”

“Yeah, tell me more. What does he look like?”

I want to show her pictures, but I also don’t need her going online and stalking him before I’ve had the chance to do it myself.

So I just tell her, “He’s gorgeous.”

Really gorgeous, as a matter of fact. Handsome in a rugged kind of way, if his photos aren’t lying.

“Be more specific.” Hannah pronounces the word specific like pacific, which drives me cuckoo. But I won’t get into that right now.

“Dark blond hair—”

She interrupts with a drawn-out, “Hmmm…”

“Now what?”

A diminutive shrug. “It’s just that I’ve never met a dude with blond hair I thought was attractive.”

“JB is an attractive blond.”

“Blowjob is an attractive blond, you mean?” She chuckles like the troll she is. “I’ll have to take your word for it since you’re obviously not going to show me his pictures.”

“If I show you his picture, you’re going to stalk him on every social media site you can find him on.”

“True, but it’s not like I can’t find him without your help. You’ve already told me his name and given me his hair color, and you told me he wrestles. It will take me three seconds to find him.”

“Well wait until you’re alone in your bedroom, would ya?”

“Fine. I’ll wait to stalk him.”

“And don’t give me shit about it, because I haven’t gone out with him and the date could totally suck, and I’ll never hear the end of it.” There’s still time for him to cancel on me, too.

“The date isn’t going to suck.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re glowing, and you never glow.”

Am I glowing? “Gee, thanks.”

“I can’t lie to you, Sky. You only glow when you’re wearing tons of blush, which is a look we try to avoid. Ruddy doesn’t look good on anyone, least of all you.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“My point is, you practically skipped out of your bedroom, so that must mean something, yeah?”

She’s right.

She knows I spend most of my time daydreaming about my future, one where I have it all. A partner and a career and—maybe someday—a child or two?

Daydreaming is food for the soul, my grandmother used to tell me. Don’t be stingy with your dreams, Skylar. Close your eyes and imagine…

Closing my eyes and imagining myself somewhere else has never been the problem for me; keeping my feet planted firmly on the ground has. Staying focused instead of getting distracted has.

When I was younger, on family road trips, I’d sit in the back seat of my parents’ car and lean my head against the window. Close my eyes and think. Write stories in my head, plot out romances—if I were to write one. I would never read—I’d get too carsick for that—so instead, I daydreamed the days away while my dad drove. Hours and hours I would sit, thinking—never sleeping.

Daydreaming.

Writing in journals. Notebooks.

Notes and phrases and stories. A diary of sorts, fiction woven between the pages and in the words.

It’s probably not a good thing, because…well, here we are.

Mediocre grades.

Mediocre love life.

Hopeless romantic in a world where guys don’t call anymore. They’d rather slide into your inbox. Or send you a picture of their dick.