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

by Sara Ney

  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.”

  I nod slowly. “Uh huh.” I wish he’d just spit it out already.

  “He might come off as a total…”

  “Prick?”

  “Right. We’ll go with that.” Abe laughs nervously. “He might come off as a total prick, but he’s actually insecure. And when his girlfriend broke up with a him a few months ago, he was a complete fucking mess—pardon my language.”

  A total mess.

  “Then another guy on the team told him the best way to get over a girl is to get under another one.”

  “Uh huh…” The pieces still aren’t clicking together as he struggles to place them for me.

  “Do you get what I’m trying to tell you?”

  A laugh escapes my lips. “Um, no. Not even a little.”

  “Jack has no confidence. He’s bad at grammar, hates making conversation, has no attention span.”

  “O-kay…”

  Abe is watching me, expecting an aha moment any second now, but I have news for him: there isn’t one coming. He’s gonna have to spell it out for me.

  “Abe, just tell me wha—”

  He’s finally impatient enough to interrupt. “I go on the app and pretend to be him.”

  Ohhhhh. Oh!

  “Oh.”

  I have no idea what else to say; everything finally makes sense—sort of. JB being emotionally distant on our dates (which I thought was normal, considering our age and his maturity level). JB not wanting to discuss anything personal because he knew nothing about me and probably never read back through the messages to find out what makes me tick. JB not being invested because it wasn’t him putting in those long hours of conversation with me.

  JB wasn’t the one making me laugh.

  JB wasn’t the one giving me butterflies in my stomach.

  JB wasn’t the one giving me false hope.

  JB wasn’t the one causing me to daydream through my classes.

  None of that was JB.

  It was Abe.

  Abe Davis is a liar.

  Abe

  Every heartbeat that passes is fucking torture. I wish Skylar would say something. Anything. I wouldn’t even care if she called me an asshole. Or a sonofabitch, or a jerk—anything to put me out of my misery and break this miserable silence.

  I have no idea what to do with my hands, so I take them off the table and rub my palms up and down my thighs, the denim soaking up the sweat accumulating on them with every passing moment.

  She hates me; she must.

  I can see it in her blue eyes.

  They went from warm to cold in an instant, brows bent in that instinctive way.

  She’s hurt.

  “Skylar, I didn’t mean—”

  “For any of this to happen? Could you be any more cliché right now?” She takes the napkin off her lap and sets it next to her fork and knife. “What happens next? Are you going to say you didn’t mean for any of it to happen? Save it—I’ve heard those lines before, but they were better scripted in the movies.”

  Clearly this is not the time for me to point out that she’s being a tad melodramatic.


  “That’s not what I was about to say.” Okay—maybe it was, but I’m not dumb enough to say it now. “JB and I have been doing this for months and you’re the only one I swiped on who was ever worth his time.”

  Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

  “Oh, you’ve been doing this for months, eh?” She laughs, head actually tipping back, the sound coming out of her throat an odd combination of ironic and sardonic. It’s slightly maniacal, if I’m being honest. “And I’m the only one worth his time. I’m so flattered!”

  You know those scenes in the movies where the guy finally realizes he’s in deep shit because the woman sounds like she’s lost her damn mind, repeating things back to him and saying irrational shit?

  I never thought it would happen to me, but I’m living that classic moment, except this is my fucking reality, and I’m not sure what to do about it.

  Molecular biology homework? That I can do. Swap out a car battery? Sure. Write a fake letter of recommendation for a friend? No problem.

  This?

  No clue.

  “You’re still on the app.” She states it as a fact. “You’re sitting here with me, and you’re still swiping.”

  “But none of those dates are for me.”

  Skylar isn’t impressed with my answer. “I’ve never met such a yes man.”

  Whoa.

  Wow.

  Okay. Not cool. “I’m not a yes man.”

  Skylar rolls her eyes. “Sure you’re not.”

  “I’m not.” Why am I arguing with her? She’s clearly itching for a fight—and she couldn’t be more wrong.

  She yawns, feigning boredom. “It’s one of two things: you’re a yes man, or you sincerely enjoy doing it. Which one is it? Pick one.” Her tone is hard; she expects me to answer.

  “Neither.”

  Skylar makes a buzzer sound in the back of her throat. “Wrong. Try again.”

  What the fuck…

  “Would you listen?”

  “It’s one or the other, Honest Abe. You either love swiping or you’re Jack’s bitch. What other explanation is there?” She looks satisfied with herself, like a dog that’s just eaten a whole cake before its owner entered the room. Or a girl who’s just backed a man into a corner knowing she’s won the argument.

  “I don’t enjoy it.”

  She plucks the lemon out of her water and sucks the rind. “Sure.” Her fingers plop it back in the glass.

  “I’m not his bitch—I don’t know why you’d assume I was.”

  “Okay. You’re not his bitch.” Another sarcastic roll of her blue eyes.

  “Can we please stop calling me his bitch?”

  “Yup. Whatever you say, Abe.”

  Now, I might not know jack shit about women or relationships, but I know this for a fact: it’s never a good sign when a girl starts agreeing with everything you say.

  Never.

  Basically, I’m fucked.

  The problem is, Skylar isn’t my girlfriend, or my friend. The problem is I like her—but because we’re not in a relationship yet, she’s going to walk out that front door and never speak to me again, and she has no obligation to hear me out.

  “I do nice shit for people, okay? Why is that an issue?” As the words leave my lips, I know they’re a crock of shit for the simple fact that I’ve been lying to her for weeks. About who I am and who it was talking to her, and how I feel about her. How Jack feels about her.

  Skylar’s right eyebrow raises. “Do you seriously expect me to answer that question?”

  “I’m a nice fucking guy, okay?” I wouldn’t say I’m mad, but I’m getting there. She’s not listening or hearing me out. “Since when is that a crime?”

  “You are such a nice guy.” She’s patronizing me.

  But I am. I’d give the shirt off my back to someone who needed it.

  I do so much shit for people, it’s borderline stupid. I do shit for people when I don’t have the time, or the money, or the inclination—but I do it anyway. Last semester I spent every day for an entire week straight studying with Taylor Bronson for the LSAT. Two weeks ago, I drove thirty-six miles out of town to help Lyle Decker change his flat tire because he’d never done it himself before, and he doesn’t have AAA. Yesterday I lent Peter Fletcher fifty bucks to buy a textbook. (I’ll never see that money again.)

  “Are you nice, or are you a pushover?”

  Skylar is savage when she’s pissed.

  “What the—”

  “Sorry, but that’s what it sounds like to me. You might think you’re being nice, but you’re enabling people.”

  “I’m not enabling anyone—I’m being a good friend.”

  “And what ‘nice’ things are they doing for you in return?” She uses air quotes around the word nice. “Friendships go both ways.”

  “It’s different for guys.”

  Why am I defending myself?

  Because you know she’s right. The guys on the team take advantage of me. But I’m from the Midwest, raised to be Christian and give without expecting anything in return—the true definition of selfless.

  So the fact that she’s giving me shit about helping people? It’s beginning to chap my ass.

  “Can we stick to the topic at hand here?”

  “Oh good—let’s keep talking about what a big liar you are.”

  Shit.

  I walked right into that one.

  Skylar is right, though. She’s absofuckinglutely right. “Look, I’m sorry you got caught up in this whole thing—”

  “You mean you’re sorry you got caught.”

  I have no reply to that, and Skylar goes on.

  “Abe, you and I both know I’m not dating you now that you’ve lied to me.”

  I do know that, but it’s not going to stop me from trying.

  I might be a damn liar, but I’m not a quitter.

  She just doesn’t realize that yet.

  “Is there any way I can change your mind?” I stare straight at her, unflinching, until she’s forced to break eye contact and look away. Her pretty, delicate fingers sweep a stray lock of hair away from her face, teeth biting down into her bottom lip as her head gives a little shake.

  No.

  “Do you want to keep talking about this?”

  Another shake of the head.

  No.

  “Do you want to stay and eat or should I pay the bill?”

  She pauses, thinking. “We’ll split it.”

  Fuck.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I have no choice but to concede. “If that’s the way you want it, Skylar.”

  “It is.”

  Nothing has ever felt so final, and nothing has ever felt so terrible.

  I hate myself right now, hate what I’ve done—to her and for JB.

  “For what it’s worth, I…” It sounds like I’m choking on my words, throat constricting. “I think you’re pretty fucking perfect.”

  Her lips part.

  “No one is perfect, Abe. I think you just proved that.” Though barely audible, her words are blunt, and they hit me right in their intended target: my chest.

  My heart.

  “What do you mean?”

  Her pink mouth curves, her body twisting in her seat so she can remove her purse from the chair.

  She puts down some cash then stands, pulling the long leather strap over her shoulder. “I thought you were perfect, too, until about ten minutes ago. Too bad you went and ruined it with the truth.”

  Her exit is dramatic, punctuated when she flips a sheet of long brown hair over her shoulder and stomps out, purse swinging.

  The perverted, male part of me has eyes that latch onto her tight ass, admiring it as it sashays away, one bold stride after the next, until she’s out of my peripheral.

  Seconds tick by.

  Minutes pass, and I’m getting my change from the waitress when Skylar returns, chin up, shoulders pinned back, head held high.

  Performance ruined.

  “I need a ride.”

/>   Me: Look. I know I’m the last person you want to hear from…

  Skylar: That is correct.

  Skylar: Save your apologies—I didn’t want them in the car, and I don’t want them now.

  Me: I’m not texting to apologize; I’m texting you to ask if we can start over.

  Skylar: haha.

  Skylar: No

  Me: Skylar, please. I told Jack to piss off, removed the app from my phone, and want nothing more to do with it.

  Skylar: The app isn’t the point here. The point here is that you lied. I know nothing about you, Abe. Everything you told me was about JB.

  Me: Then let me get to know you—please.

  Skylar: I said no. Don’t make me block you from my phone, too.

  Me: I’m sorry. I know I fucked up.

  Skylar: Yup.

  Me: There’s no way I can make it up to you so we can start over…none at all?

  Skylar: Hard pass.

  Me: All right, then I guess…

  Me: Goodbye?

  I stare at my phone, at the blue bubble from my last text, willing her to reply.

  She doesn’t.

  I had the last word, and it was Goodbye, and she doesn’t bother with the courtesy of a response back.

  I feel sick.

  And guilty. And like a complete, fucking douchebag.

  How did I end up as the bad guy in all this?

  I can’t concentrate on my meet, where there are thousands of wrestling fans in the stands. The auditorium is loud, thrumming with energy, none of which is coming from me.

  Instead of warming up like I’m supposed to, I’m staring off into the dark recesses of Iowa’s stadium when a giant hand clamps down on my shoulder. It’s mammoth, and it’s attached to someone even larger. Someone larger than life.

  “What the fuck are you doing just standing here?”

  Zeke Daniels is an alum, a champion himself who comes back to help the coaching staff during meets at home every now and again—and he’s glaring at me, disgusted.

  “I’m distracted.”

  “Distracted enough to get your ass handed to you in thirty minutes by a guy who wants the pin more than you do?”

  Yes. “No. No, I’m good. I’ll shake it off. I just…”

  Not one for beating around the bush, Zeke sighs impatiently, knowing instinctively I have a personal problem but not wanting to address it. He doesn’t give a shit, but he has a job to do—and that job is to fix my head and get me in the game.