The Failing Hours

I highly doubt Zeke meets any of them.

“Sure, sweetie.” I call out after her, “Be careful. No running!”

Sigh.

Zeke gives me a peculiar look, eyes trailing my movements, especially when I flip my French braid over my shoulder. His light eyes settle on the pink silk flower stuck in the rubber band.

He shakes his head and stares off at the boy, now sitting on the ground in the sand with Summer. They’re working together, molding a small pile into a hill and jamming sticks in the ground around it, like a castle with a wall.

Zeke’s cell phone pings, and he palms it but doesn’t check it.

“H-How is your biology paper coming?” I will my stutter to disappear, but it’s not listening today. “A-Almost done?”

“It’s coming.”

I blink, trying to decide if there’s an innuendo hidden in there somewhere.

“Do you want me to take a look at it before it’s due?” I venture. “Proof it for you?”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I’m sure it is, too, but let me know if you change your mind.”

I glance toward the young boy, who’s now gently helping Summer onto one of the swings. “We should get them over here and get Summer going. I know they’re having fun playing, but she wanted to make her mom a birthday card.”

I shout for them to rejoin us.

“We should probably just leave; he didn’t want to come here, I had to force him.”

“So why did you?”

“Because I don’t care what he wants?”

I stare, shooting him my best skeptical look. I’m trying to wade through his bullshit, assuming it’s waist deep, but don’t call him on it.

“Besides,” Zeke continues. “I don’t know where else to take the little shit.”

Ahh, now we’re getting somewhere.

“What about the batting cages?”

He raises his brows. “Do I look like I play baseball?”

“No, but I-I bet you’d be good at it.”

“Damn right I would.”

Talk about an ego.

“Are you into sports?” He must be with a body like that. I ask as casually as I can, trying not to ogle him.

“Yes I’m into sports.”

“W-Which ones?”

“Wrestling.”

“You wrestle?”

“Yeah. Ever heard of it?”

The sarcasm is palpable and changes the tone of our conversation. Tension fills the air.

“Yes. I guess I didn’t realize they had it at Iowa.”

I didn’t think it was possible for him to look shocked, but he does. “Are you being serious?”

“Yes. I guess athletics are the last thing on my mind.”

I’m spared from his reply when the kids reluctantly join us, dragging their feet along the grass.

“The park is lame,” the boy grumbles.

“Yeah!” Summer agrees, jumping on the kid’s bandwagon.

“I heard you’re not a fan of the park,” I tease with an easy laugh, setting a piece of paper, pencils, and stickers in front of Summer so she can start on her project. “But maybe we can think of some other activities for the two of you to do together. How does that sound?”

“It’s lame but he had no other place to take me.”

“There are a million places to go!” I turn toward Zeke. “Let’s discuss some more ideas.”

“No.”

Oh brother, what a grouch.

I ignore him, vowing to come up with a fun list later, and turn to the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Kyle.”

“Well Kyle, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m Violet.” I hold up a sheet of paper, offering it to him. “I know you’re older, but do you want to craft? Your new friend is Summer, and she’s making her mom a card.”

Kyle scrambles onto the bench and eagerly snatches the paper out of my hand. “Sure! I can make one for my mom, too. And Summer’s not the worst—for a girl.”

I laugh again. “I’ll consider that a compliment.”

Zeke snorts. “A backhanded one.”

Kyle looks up, confusion on his face. “What’s a backhanded one?”

“A backhanded compliment is saying something nice and being rude at the same time.”

“I wasn’t being rude!”

I step in, spreading out some more paper to give the kids a broader selection, and to inhibit the argument brewing between a twenty-one-year-old guy and an eleven-year-old child.

“Paper? Crayons?” Zeke groans. “Ugh, seriously? Jesus. How long is this going to take?”

“I-is this not okay?” I pause. “Do you have somewhere to be? If he needs to get back…”

“I don’t have to get back!” Kyle replies helpfully, already digging into the crayons.

“Fine.” The storm across Zeke’s face darkens as he crosses his bulky arms. “Make it snappy.”

Zeke

“Hey Mom.” Kyle bounds up to his mother two excruciatingly long hours later. Two painful, irritating hours spent watching him craft, color, and glue with Summer and Violet at the park.

“Hey kiddo. How was it?” She reaches for a lock of his brown hair, running her fingers through a short strand with a grin. “Is this glitter?”

“Yeah, we got into a glitter fight.” Sheepishly, the kid hands her his drawing of a lion. “Here, I made this for the fridge.”