The Failing Hours

I eyeball her skeptically. “Aren’t you going to take off your shoes and shit and bounce? Let’s go, chop chop.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

She’s fiddling with the front of her jacket, nimble fingers tugging on the silver zipper pull, gently wrenching up.

I sigh. “Yes or no, Violet.”

“I…” She stops to take a deep breath and I know it’s because she’s determined not to stutter. “I don’t think I’m planning on it.”

“This was your idea. I’m not trampolining by myself with those cretins. Have you seen some of the little psychopaths they let loose out there?” She glances around me at the kids already jumping—a dozen little humans all riding that sugar high. “No fucking way are you abandoning me.”

“Would you please, please watch your mouth in front of the kids?” she all but hisses.

I glance around to pinpoint the exact location of Summer and Kyle; they’re a safe distance away, on the ground, untying their shoes and placing them in cubbies. Verdict: they’re in no danger of any profanity that might come flying out of my mouth.

“Are you trying to change the subject?”

“No, Zeke, if I was trying to change the subject, I-I’d ask you to help me with my zipper. It’s stuck.” Her mouth tips down into a frown. “I’m stuck.”

My eyes shoot from her pouty pink lips to her pink jacket, down to the slender fingers with those purple nails pinching the silver pull and tugging to no avail.

“Stop yanking on it, you’ll make it worse,” I demand, stepping the four paces into her personal space and closing my large fingers around hers, brushing them aside so I can access her zipper.

I bend my head to get a closer look at it, kneel in front of her to get a better look. A long strand of thread from the interior lining of her coat is caught in the track. It doesn’t look like it’s coming out any time soon, not without some actual time put into it; I’d need a scissors, better lighting, and about twenty minutes to fix it.

I hear an intake of breath above me, against the top of my head. Is she sniffing me? She must be—the hairs on the back of my neck are prickling.

Bizarre.

“Did you just sniff me?”

“No!” She gasps, horrified.

I snort, shaking off a shiver. “Yeah right. Don’t lie.”

Violet scoffs. “Not every girl wants to date you, you know. You’re not that irresistible.”

The way she says it makes me think I just might be—to her. Otherwise, why would she bring it up?

“Who said anything about dating?” I give a rueful laugh, fingers working the pink metal teeth on her jacket. “No girls want to date me.”

I give the zipper another gentle tug as she laughs, warm breath tickling my ear as she leans to watch my progress.

I lift my head to meet her eyes. They’re curious and close to my face, annoyingly…naïve.

“There’s a big difference between a groupie wanting to fuck because I’m an athlete and someone who’s seriously interested in dating, Violet. Only one of them ever happens to me.”

I am right up in her face, still down on my knees, so damn close I can feel and smell her minty breath; my nostrils flare, involuntarily inhaling more of her.

I notice the distinctive colors in her eyes as she gazes down at me quizzically. Black mascara sets off soft hues of brown, gold, and blue. A stark onyx circle surrounds her vibrant irises. Her eyes are fucking magnificent.

There isn’t a single freckle or blemish on her skin, and I curse myself for never noticing.

I’m definitely noticing now.

Dropping my hands from her coat, I rise to my full height, shoving them into the pockets of my jeans. “It’s not coming open. Sorry.”

“W-What do I do?”

“Clearly you have two options: jump with your jacket on, or pull the damn thing off over your head.”

“I’m not jumping in my jacket; I’ll die of heat stroke.”

I smugly grin. “So you are going to jump with us.”

Violet’s wide eyes are directed at my grinning lips.

“Why are you staring at my mouth like that?”

Her teeth drag across her lower lip. “You just smiled.”

“So? I smile.”

Occasionally.

Fine. Rarely.

“It’s…” She gives her head a shake. “Never mind.”

“Tell me what you were going to say.”

Her unblemished skin reddens. “It was nice. You should do it more.”

“I’m not an asshole all the time you know; I do know how to smile.” To prove it, I clamp down on my teeth and give her a toothy grin.

“You look like a hyena about to pounce on a gazelle.”

“Uh, what the hell kind of metaphor is that?”

“Cheshire Cat?”

“Ha ha.” Not funny.

“Crocodile?”

I snap my teeth together a few times, chomping down and advancing on her. She shoves at me with the palm of her hand, reaching for the hem of her jacket and pulling upward.

“It’s just…you smile so rarely, it’s like a Bigfoot sighting,” she teases, yanking her coat. Lifts it up higher. “And you should—smile more, I mean.”

Her hands grapple with the bottom of her jacket and she gives another tug—tug—inadvertently tugging her shirt along with it, baring her abs. The smooth pale expanse of her stomach and perky little bellybutton become exposed; my eyes are fastened to that indentation on her stomach and the cherry-colored birthmark slashing across her flesh.