The Failing Hours

“The bracelet isn’t a big deal,” he whispers.

My eyes flutter open; his are squeezed closed, long lashes fanned flat against his skin, and I realize he’s not talking to me; he’s murmuring these things to himself.

“Violet.” He sighs.

He sighs.

Zeke is… He’s sighing my name.

I want so badly to kiss his handsome, broody face all over. Kiss his deep frown lines away. Run my smooth cheek against his coarse, stubbly one. I want so badly for him to remove his hands from my face and put one between my legs, slip them between my inner thighs to the aching wet spot that’s making me want to moan.

But he doesn’t.

His hands stay properly above my waist, above my shoulders. Our mouths still welded together, Zeke’s hands move from my hair to cradle my jawline.

Gray irises lower to meet hazel, foreheads pressed together, thumb pads slowly stroking the corner of my mouth.

No, not stroking. Memorizing. My mouth.

My lips.

The spell is broken when a light gets flipped on from the inside of my house.

The bathroom.

Which means at least one of my two roommates is awake.

Of course, he’s the first to pull back. Pull away. Broad shoulders hitting the black leather driver’s seat with a weighty thud. The massive palms that were just on my body are running up and over his face, first down, then up, and he tugs at his raven black hair ’til it’s tousled.

Stares out the windshield.

And then, “The bracelet wasn’t a big deal Violet.”

Why does he keep saying that? Why isn’t he looking at me? Not three minutes ago he was whispering my name…

I’m so confused.

“I-It isn’t?” My voice is so small, so small and disappointed. I finger the new bangle circling my pale wrist.

“No.”

No. No. He’s always saying no, isn’t he?

I slump in my seat, grasping for the forgotten jewelry box that’s fallen onto the floor. Root around with my fingers to retrieve it from the mats, gather my purse.

“I-I guess I should go inside.”

The yard is dark. With no streetlights, the neighborhood looks shady. My house is dark, save for that one glowing bulb on the east side of the tiny, ramshackle house.

It’s apparent he’s not going to walk me to my door. Our night is over and won’t be repeated. I’m as certain of it as I’m sure of my own name.

My face is aflame from mortification, though I know I have nothing to be embarrassed about.

Deep breath, Vi. Deep. Breath.

“Thank you for the lovely evening and for the bracelet.”

He nods in the dark.

Feeling slightly dejected, I clear my throat. “Good night, Zeke.”

“Melinda, you up?”

I come through the back door, remove my dress coat, and hang it on the hook my roommate Melinda hammered into the wall herself.

“No, it’s me. Mel’s with Derek.”

I’m not three feet inside the house when my roommate Winnie pounces, releasing the hold she has on the gauzy living room curtains, stepping away from the window.

The sneaky spy follows me down the dark, narrow hallway to my bedroom.

“Who on earth was that?” She doesn’t hesitate to make herself at home, propping herself on the foot of my bed, fluffing a pillow to get comfortable. “Seriously, who was that guy?”

“His name is Zeke Daniels. We were at a fundraiser benefitting—”

“Bzzz! Time out.” She makes a buzzer sound, holding her hands in the universal sign for ‘time out’ and tapping obnoxiously.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Vi, not so damn fast,” she interrupts, her wide eyes enormous. “Zeke Daniels?” Her throat gives a little hum as she taps her chin. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

I raise a shoulder, not committed to answering. “He’s an athlete. Wrestler. I’ve tutored him a few times, and he needed a favor, so I went with him to the—”

“Bzzz. Back up,” she interrupts again. “You tutored him? When was this?” Suddenly, her phone is out and she’s furiously tapping on the screen. “Z-E-K-E…ah, here it is.” Long pause. “HOLY SHIT BALLS!”

She flips the phone and thrusts it in my direction. “This is the guy you were just kissing in that truck? This guy? Holy crap.” Winnie shoves the phone directly in my face, displays a picture of Zeke in an Iowa wrestling one-piece, hands on his hips and scowl on his face. His name in the top left-hand corner, stats below. Weight, height. Record. Hometown.

Before she can yank the phone away, I catch a glimpse of wide shoulders, bulging biceps, and five o’clock shadow; he hadn’t bothered to shave for the team picture.

I put myself in Winnie’s shoes, see Zeke through her lenses. The handsome, frowning face, the black slashes above his dispassionate eyes.

“Wow. He’s hot. Like, super hot. Just…wow. I’m speechless. Wow.” She’s looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. “That is so unlike you, Vi.”

My face is flaming hot because she’s right; I don’t go around kissing anyone, let alone guys that look like Zeke Daniels.

Winnie continues tap tapping on her phone, googling and Instagramming him, I’m sure. She’s always doing that—scavenging for information.

“Oh wow,” she says hesitantly. “Don’t freak, but I found him on Campus Girl.”

Campus Girl is a website run by college-aged women for women on college campuses around the world. You can search for your school, read articles—some of them helpful, some of them gossip—and submit information. Chat. Rate things like the cafeteria food, activities, student clubs.