The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(34)

“Oh Jesus, I can see where this is headed.”

My grin is wide. “Exactly. I crawl in, and it’s dark, and he’s just getting in from being out with his idiot friends. I lie there quietly, for. ever. It takes him forever to come into his room because he lingers down in the kitchen stuffing his drunk face. Comes up, gets his pajamas on, goes to the bathroom. I’m lying there, listening to the whole thing, dying from heat stroke. I bet it took him a good twenty minutes of screwing around before he gets in bed. I’m still as a tomb, and his head is resting on me.”

I remember it like it was yesterday.

“But then it gets to be too much, and the giggles start. I can’t hold it in any longer, and I start to laugh. And he shoots off the bed yelling ‘What the fuck Skylar!’ and my parents bust in because we’re being so loud.” I’m laughing now as I recount the story. “Moral of the story: I made him wet the bed.”

“He pissed the bed?” I’ve never seen a person’s eyes go so round as I’ve told a story.

I’ve never been so proud of my prank. I preen like a peacock. “He did piss the bed.”

“Speaking of which”—Abe pulls his hand back—“I should hit the bathroom real quick. Give me a second, I’ll be right back.”

I watch as he retreats, my eyes lingering on the straining muscles in his back as he walks. The wide, defined latissimus dorsi. His spine, visible through the thin fabric of his dressy polo.

His squatter’s ass.

I think back to those images on the web, the photos of him in his wrestling singlet, which barely leaves anything to the imagination. Every corded muscle. Every thick vein. His back, shoulders, and dense thighs all on display for my wandering, prying eyes, and I wonder what I’ll do with them when I finally get the chance to put my hands on his skin in real life—not just in my imagination.

It’s been forever since I’ve touched a guy, so who knows if I’ll know what to do with myself.

Time will tell.

He’s been gone a few minutes when his phone begins to buzz. It’s facing upward so when it lights up, my eyes naturally wander to the screen…

…drawn to that familiar yellow icon in the corner of the display, the LoveU logo prominently glowing.

My face flushes, filled with surprise.

He’s still swiping and chatting with girls on the app?

My heart sinks like a stone to the bottom of a deep pool, the excited nerves turning to dread. Impulsive, my first instinct is to get up and leave; common sense tells me to stay, says he and I are not committed enough that I have a say in this.

I have no right to tell him what to do.

We are on our first date.

Still, the shock of seeing the app light up his phone is a bit too much. It’s the cold bucket of reality I needed dumped on my head; he’s too good to be true.

Smart, handsome, funny. Kind and polite.

I thought he was one of the good guys. Thought maybe he was a one woman kind of guy.

Guess I was wrong.

The proof is lighting up his phone every few minutes, and I feel dumb sitting here waiting for him to return from the bathroom, not a clue what I’ll say when he sits back down.

Another three minutes and he’s back, all smiles, returning the napkin to his lap before giving me his undivided attention. Placing his hand back on the table so I’ll take it.

My heart.

My hands remain in my lap, one clasping the other, fidgeting as I find my words, needing to speak my mind.

I’ll regret it if I don’t.

“What’s wrong?”

Add insightful to his growing list of amazing qualities.

“I’m not sure. Maybe I’m overreacting.”

“What happened while I was in the bathroom? Did something happen?” He sits up, ramrod straight, glancing around the restaurant. “Why is your face so pale?”

Is it?

My hands fly to my face and I press on my cheeks; they’re hot, not cool. My heart inside my chest palpitates.

I hate confrontation.

I lick my lips, wishing I had lip balm. “Maybe this isn’t a big deal. I don’t know—I hate that I’m bringing it up, because this is our first date and we’re having a really good time, but your phone keeps going off, and I couldn’t help but notice…”

He waits, making no move to touch his cell.

“Just look at your phone, Abe. I promise I’m not a snoop, but it kept lighting up while you were in the bathroom and I couldn’t help but notice the app that was popping up.”

His eyes bore into me before he picks the phone off the table, palms it, and taps it with his giant thumb.

Looks, sees the notifications.

Looks at me.

“Skylar.”

Just one word—my name—and I know he’s guilt-ridden. I can see it in his crestfallen expression.

“This isn’t what it looks like.”

“Really? Because it looks like you’re on a date with me and still talking to other girls online.”

“I’m not.”

“Look, it’s none of my business—I don’t care what you do.”

Lies, lies, lies.

Because if he’s going to date me, it will be my business, and I expect him to be faithful without having to discuss it time and time again. It will be an expectation from day one.