The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(17)

To be fair, I’ve never been on the receiving end of a dick pic, which in itself is rather insulting.

Am I not dick pic worthy?

How rude. At least send me one so I can act disgusted, tell all my friends, and then delete it.

Dick pic FOMO, Bethany once called it.

“I am pretty excited.”

“Where are you going for this Wednesday date of yours?”

God, I don’t even want to tell her. She’s going to judge JB for his choice, and then she’s going to judge me for agreeing to it.

“I don’t want to say,” I admit.

Her brows go up and her mouth falls open. “Why?”

“You’re going to get judgy.”

“Oh honey, I’m judging you anyway. Because I’m your friend and that’s what friends do.”

I laugh, pointing out the obvious. “Actually, that’s the opposite of what friends do.”

“You know what I mean.”

I do. Hannah is the least judgmental person I know, and one of the sweetest. If I asked her to come along on this date, she would. If I asked her to hide in the bushes wearing camouflage, she would do it.

If I asked her never to utter another syllable about this date again—well, she’d never do that, so it would be pointless to ask.

“He wants to meet at McGuillicudy’s.”

“McGuillicudy’s?” She asks like she heard me incorrectly, her inflection indicating disbelief. “The bar.”

“Yeah.”

“The burger joint right next to campus, where they have wild parties and dye the beer green, where some guy went down on Tamara Stewart in the hall by the bathrooms freshman year?”

Tamara was in Hannah’s sorority before she transferred schools. “The very same.”

“McGuillicudy’s. The bar.”

“Is there an echo in here?”

“You can’t be serious. Does this guy have any class?”

Apparently not. “You said you weren’t going to judge me.”

“No I didn’t—I said I was going to, and I am. Because he’s taking you to a dive bar.”

“In his defense—”

Hannah flops her ice cream spoon in my direction, almost bopping me on the nose with the end of it. “No. You and I both know that’s a shitty place to take a first date.”

“Maybe so,” I admit reluctantly. “But we both also know the whole thing could end up going south, and why go to a decent place and waste time if we hate each other?”

“You get two points for making a semi-decent point. However!” Her spoon rises. “How. Ever. There are way better places than an Irish pub. Literally any other place, Skylar.” My roommate takes a lick of her spoon. “So he either plans to ditch you halfway through the date, has friends planning on crashing the date, or he’s just a fucking idiot—which one do you think it is?”

“I don’t think he’s an idiot. I think he’s a guy.”

“Let’s not be blaming his lack of dating aptitude on his gender. He’s probably been on forty LoveU dates, and he’s taken them all to that stupid bar.”

“JB isn’t like that.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I’m getting to know him! I’m trying! You’re the one who made me download the freaking app, Hannah!”

“I’m not the one who told you to agree to McGuillicudy’s! The place is a cheap knockoff of the liquor brand! And not even a decent one! The owner asked Jessica on a date once—do you know how old that dude is? Forty-three! He’s ancient! God, gag me.”

Could she be any more dramatic? “Forty-three is not ancient.”

“Puh-leaze. My dad is in his forties, Skylar.”

“Your dad is fifty-one, Hannah. I was there for his birthday.”

Her bubble bursts. “Oh.”

“In any case, I feel like I would know if JB was a slime ball. I would have picked up on the vibe. We’ve been chatting for almost an entire week—don’t you think I would have picked up on it by now?”

“Probably. But still—McGuillicudy’s? That place is so awful.” She makes her body shiver. “I was going to say we should talk about what you’re going to wear on your date, but it’s…in a seedy bar. Technically you could wear that.”

Hannah points at my pajama bottoms with the tip of her spoon.

“All right, stop being so dramatic—the place isn’t that bad.”

“No. But you could legit wear that on your date and no one would bat an eye.”

She makes a very valid point. “Maybe just jeans then, and a flirty top?”

“Ratty t-shirt? I don’t want you to ruin anything—do you know how many airborne STDs are probably floating through the air in that place? Allll the herpes, yo, straight to your vajajay.”

My roommate is certifiable.

I can’t even argue with her—she’ll only keep going on and on, because if there is one thing she loves to do, it’s shock people.

I pretend she’s not talking. “What about that blue shirt that’s cut a little lower? It’s not too revealing, kind of perfect?”

She ponders my suggestion. “Yeah, that’s cute…what about wearing something red? You look so good in that color, and you can do red lips.”