The Failing Hours

“I thought you were a wrestler.”

“I am, but I’ve always loved b-ball,” I boast. “Played in sixth grade all the way through eighth.”

I dribble again, aim at the backboard, which is just a large, square piece of plywood nailed to where the old backboard used to be—back when the park system actually put money into this shithole park.

I aim. Shoot.

And miss.

“Wow, you suck!” Kyle postures, chest puffed out confidently. “You’re on!”

I put my fist out, and he bumps it. We both make them explode.

“Bring it!”

Seven days later, I’m in the kitchen cutting up fruit when Oz and Jameson walk into the kitchen, both of them standing in the doorway. James hangs back while Ozzy strolls in, yanks open the fridge, and retrieves two water bottles.

He cracks them both open, but keeps the tops on. “Jim and I are heading to a movie. You wanna come?”

“Can’t.” I shove a piece of apple in my mouth. Swallow. Chew. “Gotta take Kyle for new shoes.”

“Who is Kyle?” Oz asks.

“My little brother.” Shit. When did I start thinking of him as my little brother? I must be losing my edge.

“You have a little brother named Kyle?” Oz asks, confused. “I thought you were an only child.”

“As if either of you know anything about me,” I scoff. Then, shifting my eyes to the ceiling, sending up a prayer for patience, I add. “For fuck’s sake, try to keep up. Kyle is the Little from the mentoring program I’m stuck doing for the rest of the semester. Remember? He was literally sleeping in this house two weeks ago.”

Oz nods slowly. “Anddd…now you’re taking him shoe shopping?”

“That’s what I said.”

“For shoes.” Pause. “Um, why?”

“He beat me at basketball.” There’s a duh inflection to my tone, and I turn my back to shove another piece of apple in my mouth. Chew. Swallow.

Oz and Jameson stare mutely, disbelief etched on both their slack-jawed faces.

“A little kid beat you at basketball?”

“Oh my god,” I grind out, annoyed. “Yes.”

I chance a look at them both; Oz is clueless, but Jameson…Jameson is studying me through narrow eyes. Suspiciously.

In two seconds, she’s going to be sniffing the air for my bullshit.

My roommate prattles on, oblivious. “I still don’t get why you’re buying him shoes. Did he swindle you?”

“No. I lost a bet.”

Oz laughs. “You bet a little kid he couldn’t beat you at basketball? What an idiot. You’re always losing bets.” He steals a piece of watermelon from the cutting board. “Jesus, Zeke, how much money do you lose every year blowing bets with people?”

Enough.

I blow enough.

But Oz isn’t done giving me crap. “Didn’t you bet Gunderson he couldn’t get that girl to go out with him? Then when he won, you had to pay him a hundred dollars, and he used it to buy a textbook he needed for his econ class.”

Jameson crosses her arms, scrutinizing me. Her wide blue eyes rake me up and down, head to toe, blue irises boring down, hard.

She is so annoying.

“And what the hell was that gimmie bet with Erik Janz? How could you have bet that moron three hundred bucks on the Louisiana game? Everyfuckingbody knew Florida was going to get their asses handed to them, but you bet him they’d win anyway.” He takes a chug of water. “Then what does he do with the money? Huh? Spends it on a new starter for his piece-of-shit car. Man are you a dope.”

When he’s done bitching at me and finally leaves the room, I look up to find Jameson still watching me, arms crossed, mouth twisted into a thoughtful expression.

“You know,” she says slowly, taking a few steps forward. Advancing on me. Taps her chin with the tip of her forefinger. “I thought I had to watch my back around you—you know, right when I started dating Sebastian and started coming around. I thought it was only a matter of time before you hid in the bushes to jump me.”

She gives an airy little laugh, pushing the black glasses perched on her nose farther up the bridge, leaning back against the counter to mimic my stance when I wish she would just leave.

“Jump you? Why the hell would you think that? I’m not a fucking psycho.”

Her brows rise. “Well yeah, I know that now—deep down inside, you’re just a big softie, aren’t you? All talk and no show.”

“Screw you, James.”

Another lilty little laugh. “Only you would tell someone to screw themselves when they were trying to be nice.”

I can’t meet her eyes.

“Oh…my…god,” she says breathily, drawing out the three words in a torturously slow preamble. “I know. I know why you do it.”

Her words are slow and deliberate. She braces a hand on the counter

I make a pfft sound, yanking the fridge open and peering inside so I don’t have to look at her face. She’s aggravating the shit out of me.

“What is it you think you know, smartass?”

She snaps her fingers.

“Remember that bet with Oz? The one where you bet him five hundred dollars to kiss me in the library? You did it because you knew he was broke and needed money.”

“You’re crazy.” I stare at the milk. “You’ve known me for all of two seconds.”