The Failing Hours

While she studies the picture—a blue piece of construction paper covered in crayon and yellow, furry balls—I study her. Young, with frazzled brown hair, her black mascara is smudged under her eyes. Tired. Drained.

Kyle’s mom extends a hand toward me, and I take it, pumping it up and down. “Hi, I’m Krystal, Kyle’s mom.”

Normally, when I shake anyone’s hand, I squeeze it, but Krystal’s fingers feel frail and weak. Cold as ice. The bones brittle as a bird’s.

Exhausted.

She ruffles her son’s mop of unkempt hair with hands that know a hard day’s work. “Sorry I’m a little late, pal. I had to wait on Donna to take over my shift.”

“Are you a nurse Mrs. Fowler?” I wonder out loud.

“It’s Jones. Ms. I was never married.” She frowns. “And no, I’m not a nurse. I’m a waitress at the truck stop off Old 90 and just worked a double. You must be the new Big.” Krystal looks me up and down critically. “What did you say your name was?”

“Zeke Daniels.”

She purses her lips my direction, checking me out again from head to toe. Krystal’s shrewd brown eyes take in the sweat-stained hoodie I wore running, black puffy vest, mesh track pants that haven’t been washed in over a week, and the two-hundred-dollar tennis shoes I’m wearing without socks.

Her penciled-on eyebrows rise before she glances down expectantly at her son, giving him a nudge with her elbow. “Well? How was it?”

“It was okay,” I drone at the same time Kyle gushes, “It was so great, Mom! Zeke and I are already best friends.” My brows shoot up into my hairline. “He’s the best Big I’ve ever had!”

I scowl down at the little shit. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

Kyle shrugs and his mom’s disapproving gaze shoots back and forth between us; she knows one of us is bullshitting about the truth, but can’t decide who.

Still, she says, “All right, so you’re going to be his once-weekly.” Krystal digs in her purse, producing her car keys. “I work every day, sometimes doubles, so I’m always running late.”

Great.

“His dad isn’t in the picture, so if you want to have him more than once a week, make sure you give me plenty of advanced notice. I know it’s against the center’s policies, but it would really help me out if you could take him more than a few hours, especially on Thursdays.”

She is completely out of her fucking mind if she thinks that will ever happen.

“My number is…” she starts.

I stand with my arms crossed, leaning against the front counter.

“My number is…” Krystal repeats.

A pointy elbow jams me in the ribcage. “Zeke, get your phone out.”

Fuck. My. Life.

“Hey Daniels. I heard you’re a babysitter now,” one of my teammates calls out in the weight room just as I’m lifting a solid three hundred pounds above my head.

“That poor kid,” someone else laughs.

I grunt, puffing out a breath of air, perspiration coating my upper lip, chest, back, and forehead. A bead of sweat slides down my temple as I build a wall, mentally blocking out the sound of Rex Gunderson’s irritating voice.

“Does the kid have a hot mom?”

What the fuck?

I try raising my head, despite the amount of weight I’m currently bench pressing.

“Shake it off man, you’re almost done. Six more.” Sebastian Osborne—my teammate and roommate—glances down at me, mouth set in a hard line. “Shut the fuck up, Rex, he’s in the middle of a set.” Then to me he adds, “Five more.”

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The metal bar hits the rack with a clatter at the same time the air leaves my body, a long, loud breath expelled from the exertion. I lay motionless, breathing in and out to catch lungfuls of air.

Flex my pec muscles. Raise my torso up, straddling the seat of the weight bench.

“I hear you’re doing more than babysitting.”

“Oh yeah?” I snap. “Where did you hear that?”

“My RA volunteers at the tourist information center next to some park. She saw you yesterday with some kids and a blonde chick.”

“Well isn’t she just a wealth of information.”

“I see you’re not denying it.”

“Why would I? Your resident assistant already gave you the juicy details. I was at a park yesterday. Riveting.”

Gunderson laughs. “You babysitting for free, Daniels? I might have a job for you. My kid brother is eight.”

“Don’t you have anything to do Rex? Fill the water bottles? Fetch us some fresh towels?” Oz walks away from my spot on the bench and struts to the free weights. He stands in front of the racks, deliberating, before selecting two thirty-pound dumbbells and beginning reps of curls.

Violet clears her throat. “So, I-I know this is going to come out sounding awkward, but I told them I’d at least ask you.”

“I thought I came to the library for peace and quiet so I can get this done, not chitchat.”

She’s here helping me again, but instead of getting down to business, she chooses today to be chatty. My bio paper is due in two weeks; desperation and determination to get the damn thing done are the only reasons I scheduled time to have her sitting across from me.

My pen hovers above the notebook open on the tabletop.