The Lying Hours (How to Date a Douchebag #5)(6)

Me: Not much, what are you up to?

Luke: Nothing

I wait and wait for more words from Luke, but none come. Rack my brain for something new and original to say. I mean, if he doesn’t want to talk, why did he message me?

I stare, wondering if Luke is familiar with the standard flow of a conversation, how it’s his turn to ask a question to keep the chat going. Swiping my thumb over his photo, I open his profile and scan it. Pretty basic, not much detail, nothing really to go on, and apparently, he has no desire to talk. Name, age, and one line: Don’t bore me.

I delete Luke and find six more connections when I swipe myself back to the home page. Drag my finger over a kid named Eric, 21. He’s a finance major with a handsome face and dimples. His first photograph is a selfie from the gym; he’s wearing a ball cap, leaning into the camera. Half-smile. Stubble.

I know he’s online because the tiny green dot is lit up next to his name, so I’m not at all shocked when he sends me a quick note. Rather, I’m pleased to not have to make the first move.

I hate the feeling that I’m chatting a guy up.

Eric: You feeling blue?

Me: Haha, no. I’m doing homework. What are you up to?

Eric: Not homework! I’m sitting on a weight bench at the gym.

Me: You mention the gym in your bio—do you live there?

Eric: I could probably bench press you.

Assuming I wanted him to.

Which I don’t.

Me: Where do you hang out when you’re not working out?

Eric: The bar, my house, the frat house. What about you?

Me: I like the movies, hanging out at home, and spending time with my friends.

Eric: What about parties?

Me: Meh, depends on my friends. We like going out in groups, it’s more fun.

Eric: Are any of your friends hot?

Um. Okay. Bye, Eric. He and I aren’t ever going to be a thing. Who the hell asks a question like that? What an idiot.

I delete Eric. Sigh before grabbing the remote, flipping through the channels to find my favorite show. Toss the controller on the far side of the bed—far enough that I don’t land on it, but still within reach—and flop down on the bed, phone in my hand, head propped on a pillow.

I manage to occupy myself with bad reality television for more than two hours.

Check my phone to see the little yellow and black icon lit up.

Skeptical—because after ten more wildly mismatched matches, this app seems to be a bust—I swipe it open to unlock my new potential partner.

Hmm.

Okay. This one doesn’t seem so terrible.

I give his small photograph a good, hard look. Actually cock my head to the side as I study it.

Not bad. Not bad at all…

He’s easy on the eyes, and my gaze lingers on his first photo. Drifts down to his name and lands on his profile.

JB, 22

Hopeless romantic looking for long-term; where have all the nice girls gone? Fit, tall, college athlete. ISO: someone to take home to Mom. Long conversations, dates to the park, movies, and dinner. You: fit, girl next door, likes to laugh and smile.

Well, well, well—hello JB.

He sure is a looker, and as a bonus, he’s actually filled out a biography, which is more than most guys have done.

I get excited.

Not going to lie—this one has potential. And wow, he’s pretty darn cute—so attractive I feel that familiar flutter deep in my belly. Shoulders give a tiny shudder as I bite down on my bottom lip with a grin.

JB wants to chat.

My index finger hovers over his profile—over that green dot he wants me to press down on so we can talk—and a sound carries up my throat.

“Guh!” I squeak out as I tap, sealing my fate. Connecting with JB, opening the door to opportunity.

It takes no time at all before he’s replying, sending me a cool, Hey Blue. Quick—tell me what you ate for breakfast.

That’s an easy one.

Me: As soon as I wake up, I’m starving. This morning I made myself an omelet [Please note: the pan is still sitting on the stove]

I think for a second then shoot him back another message: Quick—what’s your strangest habit?

I don’t think I have one. But, in the spirit of the conversation, I pull something out of my ass, knowing it’s inevitably going to come up in this conversation.

It takes JB much longer to reply than it took me, and I impatiently wonder what’s taking him so long.

JB: I’d have to say my strangest habit is…I put ketchup on everything? Is that weird?

Me: Not at all, try again. Get really weird.

JB: All right, but you can’t repeat this to anyone and you can’t make fun of me for it.

Me: Go. Your secret is safe with me—I don’t even know you.

JB: Here goes nothing then—I have a troll doll in my gym bag and rub it for good luck.

I can hardly not laugh at that. Seriously. I’ve heard athletes are superstitious, but don’t they usually just wear the same socks to practice and jump up and down five times in the same spot? Maybe utter the same curse word before walking onto the field? Slap their bro on the ass?

I have no clue—but a troll doll?

Me: What color is its hair?

JB: Yellow.

Me: School colors?

JB: Exactly.

Me: That makes sense I guess. I don’t have any strange habits—not like that one. Sometimes when I’m pissed at my mom, I step on cracks in the sidewalk ;) But that’s not a habit, that’s just me being spiteful. **angel emoji**