The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(35)

This moment is our day one.

Or was.

He seems to be weighing his options, an internal debate flashing in his eyes about the explanation he’s going to give me.

“Whatever excuse you’re dreaming up in your head, just save it, okay? Tell me the truth.”

He has nothing to lose…except me.

“I’m going to be brutally honest with you, okay? Can you hold off on commenting until you hear me out, let me say what I need to say, and promise not to get mad?”

Promise not to get mad? Is he serious? I’m already halfway there!

“Nope.”

To add insult to injury, another notification from LoveU comes in, the glowing screen harsher than the crash of a cymbal, punctuating how awkward this situation has just become.

“Is that another girl?”

He doesn’t check the phone, but we both know it is. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t.”

The silence between us isn’t only awkward; it’s deafening.

“Would you say something?”

Something, I think sarcastically.

“I’m not the one who’s supposed to be explaining themselves. You are.”

“You think this is easy? I feel like such an idiot.”

That makes two of us.

Then, I do that thing girls do when they’re pretending not to be pissed; I passively aggressively act like I’m fine. “I have nothing to say. Everything is great. Dinner is great. I’m just waiting for you to tell me what’s going on, Abe.”

“I’ll tell you when you stop looking so pissed off.”

“Do I look pissed? That’s weird. What makes you say that?”

Abe’s big body reclines in his seat; arms crossed, he studies me from across the table. “For starters, your nostrils are flaring.”

My fingers fly to my face, feeling around the skin of my nose.

Shit, he’s right—my nostrils are flaring. That can’t be attractive.

“Your skin is bright red.”

“That’s because I’m so pale. It’s warm in here.”

“And your leg is bouncing up and down under the table.”

I rest the palm of my hand on my knee, applying pressure to make it stop. The water glasses and silverware immediately stop rattling.

“Anything else?” I can’t keep the snark out of my voice.

“No.” He’s quiet now. “You look like your feelings are hurt.”

How observant he is.

My feelings are hurt, but I’m not about to lay it all on the line for a guy I just met, on our first date. I don’t have that right.

Do I? Or would I just sound crazy and controlling?

“Will you let me explain?”

“I thought you already did.” I lower my voice to a deep baritone, mimicking a man’s voice and doing an atrocious job of it. “Skylar, it’s not what it looks like.”

Wow. When did I become so snippy?

Abe is patient, waiting me out. Waits for my cheeks to return to their natural color, my leg to stop bouncing, my nostrils to stop flaring.

I think he’s also waiting for me to stand up and walk out.

Instead, I tilt my chin up. “Okay, I’m listening.”

“You were right when you assumed it was the LoveU app. I was on it, but it’s not my account. I don’t have one of my own.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m logged in under Jack’s account.”

That makes no sense, either. “So you’re spying on him?” Or does he just want to look at girls without having his picture posted online?

“No. I’m…” He lets out a deep breath. Runs a hand over his short, cropped hair, fingers digging into the back of his neck. Rubbing. “It’s not spying. It’s more complicated than that.”

It’s complicated.

God I hate that term.

“Is this some kind of joke to the two of you? Do you sit around the locker room making fun of the girls he goes on dates with?”

“No, it’s not like that, either.”

He’s doing a horrible job explaining the situation—whatever it is—but now I’m invested in the story and need more details. I need to know what’s going on.

“Can you be more clear, Abe? All you’re doing is confusing me.”

“All right, but don’t get mad.”

He said that already. “You said that already.”

“I know—I just don’t want you to walk out on me.”

What if I don’t have a choice? What if this whole fantastic date was for nothing? What if I go home and cry the rest of the night because what he’s about to tell me is going to crush me?

What if, what if, what if…

“Then let’s hope what you’re about to say isn’t that terrible.”

Another dreadful silence.

“Abe?”

“Skylar, I really like you.”

That’s never a good sign.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and I focus on the three buttons of his polo shirt, the bright color complimenting his complexion and black hair.

“The thing with the app—it isn’t a joke, but it’s not about me. It’s about JB.”