The Lying Hours

by Ney, Sara

  “Shut up.”

  “Look at JB over there, strutting around in his singlet. Shit, I wish I had boy-noculars so I could check out his package.” She squints in his general direction. “It’s so hard to see it from here. I hope they put it on the jumbotron.”

  “They’re not going to put his dick on the big screen.”

  “They might.”

  “They won’t.”

  She nudges me. “You’re the one who made me come—can you at least be optimistic? Stop being a Debbie Downer and let me have some fun.”

  I’m trying. “Sorry, I’m so nervous.”

  “Why? It’s not like he’s going to come charging over here at you through the stands. I doubt you’ll get the chance to even talk to him afterward. There are a billion people here.”

  More like a few thousand.

  “I am surprised he spotted you, though,” Hannah admits through the ridiculous amount of popcorn in her mouth. “He must have been looking pretty damn hard.”

  “I’m surprised too, but he did tell me where to sit so he kind of knew where to look.”

  “True. He must have an eagle eye, because what are the odds he’d actually see you? Everyone looks the same—except those assholes in blue.”

  The players—I mean, wrestlers—all shuck their warm-up attire, an assistant coming around to collect the discarded pants and jackets as the guys continue to stretch in place when the lights in the stadium dim. Above us, the jumbotron comes to life, the arena filling with loud music as an announcer’s voice booms through the speakers. Video clips of previous wrestling meets play on the massively large screens, the winningest wrestlers from each team flashing overhead one by one with their statistics.

  My heart stalls when the headshot of Abraham Davis’ handsome face stops front and center. Name. Age. Year. Weight. Height. Wins. Pins; I have no idea what the terminology is because I haven’t googled a thing about the sport.

  Does that make me a bad girlfriend? A terrible sports fan with no school spirit?

  Or just lazy?

  Either way, I vow to do a bit of research at some point so I don’t sound completely naïve if Abe brings it up. Or asks a question, because how embarrassing would it be if he did, and I had no idea what a Macho Man Randy Savage is or who sings “Let’s Get Ready to Rumble”.

  Wait. Is that even the same sort of wrestling?

  Hannah bumps me with her free arm. “This is so exciting. Now I do wish I’d boned JB—he’s hot.”

  “It’s the dim lights. Makes him look like less of a douche.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” She gives me a side glance, offering me her bucket of popcorn. “Want some?”

  “No thanks.”

  “You sure? You didn’t eat before we left.”

  Is she keeping tabs on me now? “I would choke and die.”

  Hannah rolls her eyes. “I haven’t been to any sporting events in forever. I feel like a failure. Look.” She points. “Just look at all those skanks over there, hoping to get laid by one of these guys later.”

  “I think they’re called jock chasers.”

  “Jersey chasers,” she adds knowingly. “Yup. Wantin’ that M-R-S degree.”

  “I don’t think these guys can go pro. It’s not like football—I mean, what is there after this?”

  “The Olympics,” Hannah says with authority, and I wonder how the hell she knows all this.

  Music plays. Lights flash. Little by little, the house lights come back on, a spotlight on the center mat, signaling the first match of the day.

  It’s not Abe. It’s not JB. It’s some kid named Bryan Vanderwahl and I can barely watch as he flips and flops like a fish out water, gasping for breath and losing the good fight. Poor guy, and in front of all these people, too.

  “No girl is going to want to bang that one later,” Hannah announces, loud enough for anyone to hear.

  “Would you shut up? What if that lady over there is his mother?”

  She clamps a hand over her loose lips. “Shit, sorry.”

  One more guy.

  Then another, and another, and another until…

  Abe.

  Tall, strong, beautiful Abe.

  I can’t watch. What if he loses? I’ll die. What if he’s the kind of athlete who’s inconsolable after a loss? What if he’s angry and wants to be left alone? Do guys cry when they don’t win?

  What will I say?

  “Uncover your eyes, you chicken. You’re missing it.” Hannah removes the arm I’m using as a shield to block out the match now in progress down on the mats and forces my hand back into my lap. “You’re the worst girlfriend ever.”

  But Abe isn’t losing.

  He’s…got the Penn State kid hoisted in his arms, about to lay him out on his back, and the crowd is going wild—so loud I wish they’d all just shut the fuck up so I can concentrate harder, because whoa.

  “He could totally lift me up if he wanted to,” I say breathlessly, spellbound.

  An affirmative nod from my roommate. “Damn right he could.”

  “Like, he could lift me over his head. As if I weighed nothing.”

  “You’re not in the circus—calm down with the acrobatics, Greatest Showman.”

  Irritated, I give her a poke. “Whatever. I’m going to ask him to lift me above his head. I have to know what it’s like.”

  “Blah blah blah, I’m Skylar and my boyfriend is stronger than Hercules.”

  Abe

  I win my match, thank Christ, because Skylar is watching and I’d feel like a pussy if I lost. Overall, our team won, though just barely and by the skin of our thin, nylon singlets.

  It felt good.

  I feel great.

  I loiter on the mats once the meet is officially over, shooting the shit with a few dudes from Penn, one eye on the stands and Skylar’s black t-shirt clad body. I want to catch her before she leaves, but it doesn’t look like she’s going to hang back, as much as it appears Hannah is trying to make it happen.

  The pair stand, waiting patiently as parents and fans file out, making their way toward the stairs leading to the lobby of the stadium.

  Casually, I glance over my shoulder, counting members of my team who’re also straggling and give a shout-out to the big man upstairs that JB has gone to the locker room.

  I war with myself; wait until I can text Skylar or walk over and say hello in person?

  “Don’t be such a pussy,” a voice calls out from behind me.

  I will not turn around and acknowledge Zeke Daniels.

  “The coast is clear. Get over there before my nut sac shrivels up, which it does every time I watch you romance a woman.”

  I will not turn around and acknowledge Zeke Daniels.

  “If you don’t go over there, I will.”

  This time I do turn, because he’s loud and projecting, and, “Would you shut the fuck up already? I’m going!”

  “You didn’t say please.”

  I fucking hate this guy.

  Still.

  My feet propel me forward, hands jammed into the lining of my black and yellow warm-up jacket, pasting a smile on my face when all I want to do is vomit on my black shoes.

  Fifty feet from Skylar—too far for her to hear me when I call out her name.

  Thirty feet and I try again.

  Twenty.

  Ten.

  It’s Hannah who hears me, giving her best friend a shove and tripping her up in the process. Skylar whips around, agitation etched on her face until Hannah points down.

  Skylar follows her finger.

  To me.

  I raise a hand in greeting. Hey.

  “Hold on one second,” she mouths while she waits on the swarm of people in front of her, waiting so she can use the stairs to go against the tide—toward me.

  I meet her against the cold metal railing, resting my hands on the bar, leaning in to kiss her mouth.

  “You taste salty.”

  “It’s sweat, sorry.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t mind.” She blushes. “I like it—it’s sexy.”

  My sweat is sexy.

  “What’d you think?”

  “Abe, you’re amazing.” She’s out of breath, chest heaving like she’s the one who just held Blake Cartwright down for three seconds. It doesn’t sound like much, but when the dude is two hundred pounds, fifteen percent body fat, and fighting like hell to get out of the hold, it’s a sonofabitch to accomplish.

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. I’ve never seen a wrestling game in person before.”

  I could kiss her face. “It’s called a wrestling meet.” But I forgive her.

  “Gosh, I knew that—I’m just nervous, sorry.”

  Out of habit, I shoot a glance over my shoulder at the mats and the dwindling numbers. If I don’t get into the locker room soon, someone is going to notice.

  “JB is going to a party tonight—want to come over?”

  “Are the girls next door having a party?”

  “No, this one is at a frat house. His cousin or something is a Lambda.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “We could hang out and watch a movie? Or go out—but I figured since I have the place to myself for a change, you might want to come over?”

  “I’d love to come over.”

  I get close enough to kiss her again. “I’m going to shower then I’ll be home in about an hour. We have meetings and shit afterward then I can take off.”

  “Am I crawling in through the window?”

  I laugh. “Use the front door.”

  “Are you sure? That was kind of fun, you know?”

  “I’m not making you climb in through the window, Skylar.”

  She squints one eye at me. “Isn’t it a little early for a frat party? Don’t those usually start at like, ten o’clock?”

  “Yeah, but it’s his cousin and it’s their annual whateverthefuckit’scalled mixer so they need all hands on deck early. I think JB wanted to rush but his grades suck and they wouldn’t give him a bid. Every once in a while he likes to go and pretend to be a brother.”

  “That’s kind of nice of him.”

  “I mean, he’s there to get drunk and laid, so it’s not like he’s in it for the charity.”

  My girlfriend laughs.

  Girlfriend.

  I toss the word around in my head, loving the way it sounds.

  Now she’s the one kissing me. Booping me on the tip of my nose before shooing me off. “All right. See you at your front door in an hour.”

  Skylar

  “Why am I so nervous?” I pull at my sleeve, hating the way this shirt looks on my body. It’s pink and blousy and totally inappropriate for a Saturday night at some guy’s house, hanging out in his bedroom.

  My boyfriend’s house.

  Hannah hands me a different shirt. “Because you know you’re getting fucked.”

  “Must you say it like that?”

  “I speak the truth.”

  As much as I protest, she is a hundred percent correct. I rub my thighs together, testing their sensitivity.

  Not horrible. Not great.

  I feel like I’ve done a million squats and thigh abductors at the gym and forgot to cool down and stretch afterward. Little bit tender, little bit achy.

  Definitely throbbing.

  I debate the wisdom of having sex tonight while I swap out shirts, tossing the pink blouse to my bed and pulling on the white t-shirt Hannah’s chosen. It’s basic, except for the sleeves, which are pretty badass—like ribbons at the shoulders, crisscrossing every which way.

  I tuck the tee into my jeans, step into a pair of wedges, and let my hands fall to my sides. “How do I look?”

  “Great, actually. Real cute.”

  Hmm. A suspiciously sweet thing for her to say. I raise my brows. That’s it? That’s all she’s got?

  “I’d bang you.”

  There it is.

  It’s weird approaching Abe’s door.

  I fidget, pulling at the hem of my jacket, darting looks to the side yard and house next door, paranoid JB will come walking around the corner at any second. I rack my brain for an excuse.

  “Would you like to buy some Wilderness Girl cookies?” I laugh to myself, saying the words out loud, sounding like a fool. “I was just passing by and remembered you lived here, and I happen to have a microeconomics question if you have a free minute?” Shift on the balls of my feet. “Join my cult? I have pamphlets in the car.”

  Abe saves me from myself, pulling open the blue front door before I have the chance to knock, then the screen, making room for me to pass and bending to kiss me when our bodies brush against the other.

  This just might be my favorite part of being a couple.

  The hello kiss.

  The goodbye kisses aren’t too shabby, either, but we’ve really only had one of those.

  “Hello to you, too.” I ease past, removing my jacket as I stand in the little entry, which is basically just a patch of stained linoleum flooring surrounded by carpet at the door.

  It’s evident no women live here. It’s tidy but boring and brown, decorated in secondhand chic. No offense to Abe or his roommate, but the whole living room is kind of depressing. Brown couch. One chair—a recliner. The television and some gaming equipment.

  That’s it.

  No pictures, no clock, no pillows or throw blankets.

  Not that it’s necessarily a bad thing; it’s just different than what Hannah and I have going on at our place. Area rugs. Framed art. Pictures of us on every wall. Plants. Wallpaper in the kitchen.

  Every nook of our apartment is bedecked. We move in three weeks before the semester starts every year, just to decorate. And the holidays? Ridiculous.

  Abe’s place definitely needs some touches, and I’m just the girl to do it.

  Maybe just his bedroom once we get to know each other better and he won’t consider it meddling. Listen to me, already wanting to make his room cozy without asking him—my mother would be appalled.

  “Are you hungry?” he wants to know when I’m standing in the center of his living room, still surveying the area.

  “No, I ate before I left.” Yeah, I ate: a cut-up apple on a plate with a heap of peanut butter and chocolate chips. Not what you’d call a well-balanced meal, but I couldn’t stomach anything else—nerves wouldn’t allow it.

  “Want to watch a movie?”

  I glance at the giant flat-screen television anchored to the wall.

  “Do you have a TV in your room?” I didn’t notice one in the dark the other night when we were fooling around.

  “Yeah, but it’s not as big.”

  “Honestly, I’d be more comfortable hanging out in your room tonight, just in case JB comes home.” Not that I want to hide from the guy, but I kind of want to hide from the guy.

  If Abe doesn’t want to tell him about us, there has to be a reason why. Short temper? Jealousy issues? I’d rather not poke the hornet’s nest prematurely without a well-thought-out plan.

  “We can hang out in my room.” We’re going to end up there eventually anyway, I hear him thinking.

  “Lead the way.”

  I follow him down a short hallway, sticking my head into the bathroom, letting my eyes roam as if seeing everything for the first time. Single sink. Medicine cabinet for a mirror. Toilet with the seat up. Bathtub with a basic, navy blue shower curtain. It’s drawn back and there are only three bottles on the lined insert: one giant bottle of shampoo, another of conditioner, and a colossal body wash.

  No window.

  JB’s room is directly across from Abe’s and his door is ajar, so I give that a looksee, too. His bed is a simple mattress on a steel frame, and it’s unmade. In fact, the covers are mostly on the ground, the fitted sheet loose from one side of the bed, exposing the mattress beneath it.

  His clothes are everywhere, piled haphazardly on the floor. Wooden dresser covered in cologne bottles, trophies, spare change, wrappers, papers, and a bun
ch of other unidentifiable…things.

  A condom box sits on the bedside table.

  Nice.

  Actually…

  I tap Abe on the back. “Maybe you should grab one of those?”

  “One of what?”

  He’s not as enthralled by his roommate’s room as I am.

  “Condom.”

  “You want to steal my roommate’s condoms?”

  “I wouldn’t call it stealing.”

  “Technically it is stealing because we wouldn’t be giving it back. And besides, I took care of it already—ran to the store after class yesterday.”

  Oh my god, he bought condoms? That’s weirdly sweet and I’m glad for it, glad he made the effort to keep us both not pregnant.

  I hug him from behind. “I have the best boyfriend.”

  He pats my hands at his waist. “You’re only saying that because I haven’t done anything to piss you off.”

  Yet, I silently add with a grin. He hasn’t done anything to piss me off yet. I can’t imagine him doing anything to upset me—well, other than the small detail of him lying to me at the beginning, but I was just collateral damage from his dysfunctional relationship with his roommate.

  That is not a topic I’ll be touching any time soon.

  I plop down on his bed as he closes and locks the door then joins me in the middle of it. I sit cross-legged and he mirrors my pose.

  We’re facing each other, smiling, the only two people in the world.

  “Hi,” I say foolishly, at a loss for words.

  “Hi.”

  “Are you tired?” His wrestling match looked exhausting, a well-fought and drawn-out victory.

  “Not really.”

  “Sore?”

  “Not yet.” He laughs. “But I’m sure I will be. I always am.”

  “Want me to rub your back?” I offer it up selfishly; I’m dying to get my hands on his bare skin and hard muscles.

  His grin is answer enough. “Only an idiot would turn down a back rub.”

  Abe is already reaching for the hem of his hoodie, dragging it and the t-shirt underneath over his torso. His abs are rock solid, flexing with the motion as he lifts his arms to remove his clothes.

  Thank God he can’t see my face—or the hard swallow.