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

Our friend Jessica nods. “You love Aaron.”

We all do.

I really like her boyfriend. Aaron is awesome, even though he’s not remotely my type. And therein lies the problem; I’m beginning to think my type doesn’t exist in the real world. He only lives on paper and in my imagination, neither of which are convenient.

So what is my type? Believe me, I’ve given this matter hour upon hour of consideration, mostly after my friends tell me I’m being too picky. Or too judgy.

My type is tall. Not crazy, Big Foot tall, but at least six feet—minimum—would be amazing. An Adonis. Someone who will make me feel petite and small, and feminine. Dark hair—God I love dark hair—and I wouldn’t mind if some of it was on his chest, either. No facial hair—that’s gross, and makes me think of my father, who has a beard and always has food stuck in it.

My boyfriend will be strong. Thoughtful. The kind of guy who thinks before he speaks, so when he does it means something.

Handsome, but not pretty. He needn’t be perfect, or in great shape. Lord knows I’m certainly not.

Nice hands. Big hands.

Maybe he likes to read in his free time, like I do? That would be nice.

A dimple would make me melt, but it’s hardly required.

I prop my chin in my hands and lean on the table when I’m done zoning out, suddenly realizing all three of my friends are staring at me.

“What?”

“Are you even listening?” Bethany gives me a nudge under the table with the toe of her boot.

“Uh, no. Sorry.”

“I was asking what you have against the dating app. It’s just for fun. You wouldn’t actually have to meet any of these guys in person, but what’s the harm in looking?”

“Focus, Sky. You’re the one who said you wanted to put yourself out there. Well, this would be you putting yourself out there.”

“We’ll help you.”

I laugh and pop another fry into my mouth. “No thanks. If I’m going to do this, I’m doing it without the three of you.”

Hannah’s smirk is smug. “So you’re going to do it?”

Shit. They just trapped me into it. Damn them.

“I’ll think about it.”

“It’s freeeee,” Jessica sing-songs, knowing I’m a cheapskate who pinches every penny. I get an allowance from my parents occasionally but try not to spend it on booze, parties, or frivolities.

Like dating apps.

So many of them cost money.

“I said I would think about it—don’t push.”

“Yeah yeah, you’re gonna do it. Stop denying it.” Jessica digs in her backpack for a notebook and pen. “Can we at least help you write the bio?”

“Could you not?” Lord knows what it would say. “And I haven’t even created a profile yet, so cool your jets.”

She stuffs her notebook back into her bag. “Fine. Promise us you’ll at least let us see it before you post it.”

We’ll see.



BlueAsTheSky, 21.

I stare at the fake name I created, not wild about using my real one, and smile. I like it. It’s playful and gives a little hint about who the real me is.

If I actually start chatting with a guy, he can learn my name. Until then, he’s stuck only knowing the nickname.

Let’s see, what else can I tell people about myself…what else, what else…

I stare at my tiny phone screen, at the three photos I uploaded. None of them are full face shots; my face is half cut off in every single one. God forbid some dude recognizes me on campus and tries to hit on me in real life.

Or announces to everyone that he’s seen me on LoveU.

I would die.

I run through a bio that goes something like this:

My friends said I need to put myself out there, so here I am, putting myself out there. Hey there. I’m only outgoing once I get to know someone. Slender. Love going to the movies, esp. chick flicks. You are: tall and funny. Not sarcastic funny, but the haha kind of funny. I can’t promise to laugh at you, but you can try to amuse me.



Shit. That’s not good—I sound kind of bitchy. Plus, I’m almost out of characters and need to shorten it up.

It takes me another half an hour to get it the way I want it, another few minutes to edit and finalize the photos, and no time at all to press publish.

I am live on LoveU.

My stomach does a somersault, butterflies balancing on the uneven bars, wings fluttering in the breeze.

I want to vomit.

The first ten guys who swipe on my profile aren’t keepers; I delete them immediately without reading their information. Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m judging them based on appearances.

So I want to be sexually attracted to my partner—sue me! I want to take one look at him and know. Or at least kind of know. I want to feel the butterflies dance when I meet him for the first time, and I won’t want to meet him at all if my girl parts don’t tingle at least a little when I see his profile picture.

Is that so wrong?

My phone pings with a notification from LoveU with another match. He sends me a message almost immediately, and I groan, already sensing this isn’t going to be a match. Knew it the second I swiped on him but curious enough to give him a chance.

Luke: Sup