How to Date a Douchebag: The Studying Hours

by Sara Ney

  I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “And I suppose Elliot won’t.”

  She gives her head a sad little shake. “Elliot won’t.”

  And that’s the pisser of it all, right there. Elliot won’t, because Elliot is a great fucking guy who actually deserves a girl like Jameson Clark; I guess that makes me the asshole with no time, a shit ton of debt, the busted up body, and the crude temperament. The guy who sleeps with too many women, who gets sloppy drunk and receives blowjobs from strangers.

  Fucking Elliot and his goddamn golden halo.

  I’m going to beat the shit out of him. First, I’m going to grab him by his saggy balls. Then, I’m going to sucker punch him right in his fucking face. Then—

  I shove off the wall and paste on a fake smile. “Fine. I’ll just leave you to it then. Have funsies.”

  She looks devastated, shoulders falling. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

  I walk away, toward my bedroom at the end of the hallway, pausing when I reach my door. “Hey James?”

  She’s still standing where I left her, rooted to the spot. Her chin quivers. “Yes?”

  “I want you gone by morning.”

  I don’t have to wait that long.

  Fifteen minutes after our confrontation in the hall, I hear Elliot’s bedroom door open, the sound of muffled voices, and footfalls outside my door. They hesitate before moving down the corridor toward the entryway.

  The front door opens and clicks closed. I numbly listen to every sound, still trying to figure out what the hell just happened here.

  What in the actual shit happened?

  Hands behind my head, bedside lamp still glowing, I stare up at the ceiling fan and—call me a sadist—do my absolute best to recount every detail of what I walked in on: Jameson moaning. Elliot’s white farmer’s-tanned ass pumping into her. Jameson’s half-hooded eyes as she comes. Her mouth forming the shape of my name as she gets banged by another dude.

  I try a dozen times to piece it all together—then a dozen more, failing miserably time and again.

  Jameson having sex because she wants to feel good. Having sex with someone else, because it feels good, with someone who isn’t me. Cause she wanted an orgasm and pleasure. Naked in the room next to mine, in a bed that’s not mine, in my house.

  Did I mention naked?

  Jameson getting railed by my roommate. In my house.

  Jameson.

  Elliot.

  Jameson and Elliot.

  Elliot finally getting laid, by Jameson, whose pants I’ve been trying to get into for weeks. Elliot, my friend, who deserves a girl like Jameson, who banged him because she wanted to feel good.

  I wonder if life is going outside to have a smoke right now, because it just got done fucking me.

  Fucking me hard.

  Logically, none of this makes sense.

  Yes, I might have come on a little strong with Jameson, but she doesn’t even know Elliot. How do you jump into bed with someone you’ve met at a party once and flirt with in a few freaking texts? Who does that!

  Fine. I do.

  I toss and turn, pounding my pillow into a useless lump, aware of my own hypocrisy. And yes, I might be a hypocrite, but at least I’m not exhibiting uncharacteristic behavior. Not like she is. Sleeping with strangers is what I do, what I’ve always done. It’s easy, fast, and doesn’t involve any effort.

  No follow-through or emotions required.

  Jameson might not be a virgin, but I can goddamn guarantee she’s doesn’t sleep around. She can’t.

  Not the way I do.

  Did.

  Do.

  Shit, shit, shit, my mind is a mess.

  I can’t even form my thoughts straight, thoughts that have me sitting up and climbing out of bed and storming down the hallway to Elliot’s room. I bust through his door, not bothering to knock.

  “Why did you do it?”

  He’s seated on the bed in nothing but his boxers, flipping through Netflix, and the sight of his hairless bare chest pisses me off.

  “Do what?”

  “Don’t be obtuse,” I spit out. “You had sex with Jameson.”

  “So?” Elliot’s sandy brown hair sticks up around his ears and he swipes the unkempt locks from his brow. “Since when is it a crime to have sex with a hot, willing female?”

  The words ‘hot’ and ‘willing’ have the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. My fists clench at my sides, wanting to strike.

  “Watch it,” I threaten as Elliot looks toward me like I’ve lost my damn mind—and maybe I have. “You watch the way you’re talking about her.”

  His brows rise. “I can’t call her hot?”

  “No.”

  He gets up off the bed and makes his way to the closet, pulling out a sweatshirt. “Look, I don’t know what your fucking problem is, but spit it out already. It’s late and I’m spent.”

  Spent?

  Spent?

  “I want to beat the shit out of you so fucking bad,” I growl, still rooted to my spot by the door, watching him pull the sweatshirt over his head. “Please give me a reason to beat you senseless.”

  He pulls the hem down and his hands go up in surrender. “Whoa dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about—are… Shit, man. Are you dating Jameson? Is that what this is about? Did—holy shit—is she cheating on you? With me?”

  His eyes widen in horror as the idea takes root in his brain. “Holy shit, she is, isn’t she? She’s cheating on you. Holy shit. Oh my god. Don’t hurt me.”

  Elliot looks like he’s about to hyperventilate or piss himself—or both—so I take pity on him.

  “No, she didn’t cheat on me with you! Jesus Christ, we’re not even dating.”

  His shoulders sag and he breathes out a long sigh of relief. “Thank fucking god!” Confused brown eyes meet mine. “Wait, then why are you so mad?”

  “I…”

  I don’t know.

  “I…have no idea.”

  Elliot’s head tilts as he studies me, takes measure of my stance and expression. “Hold up. Oz, do you… Are you in love with her?”

  “Love?” I scoff a little too loudly. “No. Hell no.” But I find myself hesitating on my next words just the same. “She’s just my friend.”

  My friend.

  Just my friend? The words make me ill and suddenly I want to vomit.

  “Dude. You should see yourself right now; I can’t freaking believe this.”

  “What?”

  “You do like her. Like her, like her.”

  “Shut up Elliot, this isn’t fifth grade.”

  “Don’t let your lobster get away, man.”

  My lobster? What the hell is he talking about? “Please don’t ever say shit like that in my presence again or I will have to punch you.”

  “Wow, I can’t believe this; Oz Osborne, Iowa’s prodigal wrestling legend, actually has a heart.”

  “I said shut up, asshole.”

  But he doesn’t shut his hole. Not even close. “You have actual feelings for someone. You don’t just want to bang her.”

  “Didn’t I just tell you to shut up?”

  “Look man, I really don’t even know what to say. I’m sorry. Shit. If I’d known, I never would have…”

  He never would have slept with her; I know that now.

  How do I know?

  One, because he’s loyal and isn’t ruled by his dick—unlike the rest of us. Elliot is ruled more by emotion. So if he slept with Jameson, it’s because he genuinely likes her. Two, because he knows if he fucks me over, I’ll beat the fucking shit out of him.

  So the simple fact remains…it sucks more knowing she chose to sleep with him.

  I just don’t get it; I’m awesome—how can she not see that? Where the hell did I go wrong with her? Was I too pushy? Did I scare her off? Don’t hate me, I hear her pleading. See her tears. Jameson is weeping, wet drops dampening her beautiful face. My eyes water, too, and I reach for her, grasping as tears stream down
my cheeks, but there’s nothing there to hold. I didn’t know it would hurt you, she sobs. I didn’t know... Please Sebastian, I’m falling for you.

  “Then how could you fucking do this to me!” I cry. “I’m falling in love with you and you ruined it. You ruined everything.”

  Sebastian, I love you. Sebastian, I love you.

  Sebastian. Oz, can you hear me?

  Oz.

  Oz.

  “Oz, dude wake up.”

  I gasp out in a sob, jerking myself awake. “Holy shit!”

  A large, meaty palm is clamped down on my shoulder, squeezing hard and, startled, I jolt, the back of my head hitting the cold window of the bus, my temple cracking against the hard glass. Sonofabitch that hurt!

  “Oz, is everything okay man?’

  I become aware of the sensation of damp, streaking tears staining my cheeks, and I briskly wipe them away with the back of my hand, embarrassed.

  “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

  Freaked the fuck out—but fine.

  I rub the spot where I just clocked myself, fingers grazing through my sweaty hair, and glance around at my oblivious teammates, most of them still asleep, save Cory Phillips playing on his phone and Tanner Frank reading on his Kindle under the overhead light.

  I exhale, leaning back in the seat, and swipe at another stray tear.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Jonathan Powell’s head reappears over the seat behind me. Lights from the campus parking lot come into view, illuminating the interior of the bus. “Sorry to wake you up and freak you out, but we’re pulling in.”

  “Yeah.” I massage my scalp. “I’m good. Thanks for waking me.”

  It was just a dream.

  The whole thing was just a dream. A shitty, messed up dream.

  In a trancelike state, I stumble off the bus. Go through the motions of dressing, storing my gear, and checking in with the coaching staff. Get my schedule for the upcoming week.

  Barely remember the car ride home.

  By the time I’m falling into the house, I’m exhausted. Zeke’s continued badgering the five hours it took to get us home has taken its toll, coupled with my emotionally taxing dream. Zeke criticized. He fumed. He bitched until my head lolled to the side and I popped on my Beats to drown him out with music.

  I lumber into the kitchen, glancing around cautiously.

  I’m tired.

  I’m starving.

  I’m ready for warm food and a soft bed, but being here, in this house after that wacked out dream feels way too fucking weird.

  This all feels way too real.

  Just like in my dream, it’s quiet when I drop my bags in the laundry room, still the first one back at the house. Just like in my dream, I hang my duffle and remove my jacket, make quick work of taking my shoes off and setting them aside so no one trips on them.

  Flipping on the kitchen lights, I walk to the fridge, yank it open, and bend at the waist to peer inside. Three-day-old spaghetti sauce and no noodles. A half-eaten hamburger from Malone’s. One yogurt. Ketchup. Beer.

  A half-gallon of chocolate milk (perfect to help prevent a hangover). There’s also a gallon of orange juice left, some filtered water, and an open bottle of Dr. Pepper.

  Having no appealing choices, I settle for the leftover Malone’s hamburger, the yogurt, and the gallon of milk, slapping everything onto the counter.

  Where the hell is everyone? I grab my phone and tap out a quick text to my roommates.

  Oz: Where are you?

  Zeke is the first to respond: Stopped for food.

  Okay. That’s weird as shit and kind of freaking me out.

  Oz: Grab me something would ya. Starving.

  Zeke: Yup. Back in thirty.

  This whole thing is just way too bizarre to be real.

  I lift the lid on the garbage can and dump the burger, grab my bag, and head down the hallway, wavering in front of Elliot’s door. I stop. Take a deep breath. Give it a few short raps.

  “Yeah?” his voice answers from inside.

  “You awake?” I hesitate to open the door.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Gradually, I turn the knob. Give the door a gentle push. Stick my head partially inside, like a father not wanting to walk in on his teenage daughter. “You decent?”

  “Dude, what’s your problem?” Elliot laughs. “Yeah I’m decent.” He’s sitting at his desk staring at me like I’ve sprouted two cocks and a vagina. “What’s up?” He spins in his desk chair, resting his arm on the back of it, idly waiting for me to respond.

  “Letting you know we’re back.” Obviously.

  “Okay.”

  “Everything good?” I can’t help it; I throw several shifty glances into the recesses of his bedroom, browsing for a glimpse of…

  My eyes land on the bed and stay there.

  And stare.

  Everything appears to be in order. Navy blue comforter pulled into place. Pillows at the headboard. A short stack of clean, folded clothes at the footboard.

  No black patent leather shoes. No white cardigan. No naked Jameson.

  No fucking has taken place here, I’m sure of it.

  After an awkwardly long silence, Elliot clears his throat. “You’re being really weird. Are you sure you’re okay?” He pauses. “Do you want to, uh, talk or whatever?”

  His appalled tone says it all: please say no.

  “No, I’m good.” Elliot’s shoulders drop in relief. “I just thought I saw…nothing.”

  Visibly relieved, my roommate continues to regard me curiously loitering in the doorway. “So…anything else?”

  “Huh? No. We’re good.”

  He’s not convinced but he’s not going to press. “All right, welllll.”

  And that’s my cue to leave.

  “Right. Well. G’night.”

  Stoically I trudge down to my bedroom, close the door behind me, and flop down, face first, on the bed.

  Sebastian

  Here’s where it gets really shitty: I can’t even look at her.

  Sitting across from me, Jameson glances up and nails me with that cute little smile, her top front teeth playing peekaboo beneath her pretty top lip when she bites down.

  Instead of smiling back at her like a normal human being, the image of her face when she climaxes fogs my mind and I glower.

  “Wow.” She grins. “Such a sourpuss today.”

  I fixate on the word puss, because it sounds like pussy and I can’t keep my mind out of the damn gutter—but I don’t dare tell her I’m crabby because thoughts of her kept me awake all night, because I’ve been daydreaming about her during the day, on the bus between matches, during practice—and every minute since.

  I can’t stop thinking about her.

  The smell of her gorgeous hair.

  The way her sweet, conservative sweaters cling to her fantastically round boobs.

  Her smile when she finally catches sight of me walking into the library toward our table.

  That delightful way she ignores me when she’s trying to study.

  The cute way she piles all her crap in my chair so I can’t sit in it without a hassle.

  God she’s adorable.

  Oz.

  Oz?

  “Are you listening to me? Hey. Oz, are you listening? Oz. Is everything okay?”

  I glance up and realize she’s staring at me expectantly, has been asking questions and probably expecting a coherent response.

  Say something, jackass.

  “Everything is fine.”

  But it’s not fine. Not any more. Not even close.

  She knows enough not to push, and for once, because I have no idea how to handle these feelings brewing inside me, I ignore her.

  Jameson

  Oz is acting strange.

  Again.

  Just because my head is bent and I’m seemingly concentrating on my studying doesn’t mean I don’t notice him watching me, doesn’t mean I don’t notice his labored breaths, his restless ticks, and the fact that
he’s analyzing me so closely it turns my cheeks a hot, blushing pink.

  I ignore the heat, desperately fighting the temptation to press my hands to my face. I keep my nose to the grind, feigning interest in my textbook.

  I’ve read the same sentence six times.

  Seven.

  Eight.

  And counting.

  He’s been like this for the past two days, sitting with me to study but avoiding anything resembling an actual conversation. Giving me one-word answers. Watching me under that baseball cap with dark, broody eyes. Hasn’t made a single attempt to sleep with me, flirt, or move us to a private study room.

  Like I said: strange.

  Across the table, I let him look his fill an entire ten minutes before I can’t take it any more. I raise my head slowly. Meet his intense gaze. Push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, perch them atop my head.

  Set my highlighter down and cross my hands primly in front of me on the table.

  “What.” No beating around the bush for this girl.

  “What?” he parrots, playing dumb.

  “I know you have something to say. So say it.”

  He gives his head a stubborn shake, lips pursed. “Nope. We’re good, Jimbo.”

  Liar.

  But if that’s how he wants to play it… “Fine. Never mind then.”

  He frowns, lines etched across his angry, handsome face when I unfold my hands, grab my highlighter, and resume reading.

  Pretend to anyway.

  Oz continues to gape, silently taking inventory of my movements. Sullen eyes trail the long strokes of fresh pink marker ink across my paper. Follow my hand when I slip the glasses back down onto my face. Skim over my shoulders when I brush away a strand of hair.

  He’s done this all before, gawked at me—many times in fact—but somehow this is different. His gaze is more thoughtful. More penetrating. More engrossed.

  I’m not sure why, and I’m not sure when, but something has changed. The air between us has shifted. It’s thick. Heated.

  Serious.

  I try again, eyes still locked on my textbook. “What. Out with it.”