The Failing Hours

There’s a hastily scribbled note stuck to the computer monitor in the back room that shouts:

VIOLET!!!!! ZEKE DANIELS WILL BE BACK TONIGHT. PLEASE DO NOT MISS THIS APPOINTMENT!! ANY PROBLEMS PLEASE TELL TRUDY ASAP!!!!

The shouty note is written in all caps in thick black marker.

Okay, messaged received: do not miss this appointment.

Got it.

I pluck the note from the desk to study the name almost illegibly scrawled there; it’s the first time I’ve seen his nickname in writing.

Zeke.

“Zeke,” I say. Roll it around in my mouth a few more times, testing out the Z on my tongue. Practicing so I don’t trip on it. “Zeke or Ezekiel…I can’t decide which is worse,” I mutter to the empty room.

I’m nervous to see him again, afraid of what he’ll say when he sees me and finds out I’m the tutor who stood him up, then pretended not to know who he was at the grocery store.

With anyone else, I’d be honest. With anyone else, the truth would be easy.

But everyone else? They’re usually nice.

The truth is, Zeke Daniels intimidates me. The truth is, I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate while I’m working next to him, side by side. I’ll be too worried about what he’s thinking, what’s going on behind that angry set of eyes. Worried about what sharp, biting comments are going to come out of his snarl.

Tick.

Tock.

Twenty minutes with nowhere to hide.

The clock on the wall counts the seconds, steady as the rhythm of my beating heart, which thumps wildly within my chest until the glass door to the library opens, propelled by a gust of wind.

Some new fallen leaves flutter in, the heavy doors slamming from the draft.

Along with them? Zeke Daniels.

He shuffles in, dark gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips, black Iowa Wrestling hoodie pulled up over his head, the university’s bright yellow mascot screen-printed across the chest. Backpack slung over one shoulder, black athletic flip-flops, and a pair of black sunglasses perched on the bridge of his strong nose complete the overall ensemble.

He is utterly…ridiculous.

Unapproachable.

Daunting.

His arrogance knows no bounds; I can see it in his loose gait, the exaggerated swagger, and the too-casual way he’s dragging his flip-flops across the cold, marble tile floor. It’s noisy, irritating, and completely uncalled for.

In the moment, my mind drifts to his personal life, and I theorize that he listens to heavy metal music to sooth his foul temperament, drinks his coffee black—as black as his soul—and his liquor straight up. I imagine once he’s had sex with someone, they’re never invited back. I go one step further and theorize that they’re never invited to spend the night at his place, either.

Zeke Daniels makes his way to a table at the far end of the room, near the periodicals, one out of the way with plenty of privacy.

Sets his bag down in one of the four wooden chairs. Flicks on the small study lamp. Plugs his laptop cord into the base and stands.

Turns.

Our eyes would have met then were it not for those ludicrous sunglasses. I choose the exact moment he lifts his gaze to look down at the ground. Busy myself with shuffling papers on the counter. Count to ten instead of chanting, Please don’t come over, please don’t come over, please don’t come over…

But luck isn’t on my side because he most decidedly does.

Makes his way over like a predator at a pace so deliberate, I’m convinced he’s doing it on purpose. As if he suspects I’m watching from under my long lashes, dreading his imminent arrival.

He basks in my discomfort.

The distance between us closes, his strides purposeful.

Twenty feet.

Fifteen.

Ten.

Eight.

Three.

His large hand reaches up, pushing down the hood of his sweatshirt, his fingertips pinching the earpiece of his sunglasses and pulling them off his face. My eyes follow the movements as he folds them closed, hanging them on the neckline of his hoodie.

His gaze lingers—those clear gray eyes famous around campus—and finds the shiny silver bellhop bell perched on the counter with the sign next to it that reads, Ring for help.

Ding.

The tip of his forefinger presses down on the small bell.

Ding.

He hits it again, despite me standing not three feet in front of him.

What an ass.

I conjure up a pleasant smile because it’s my job, and what else is there to say but, “C-Can I help you?”

“Shitty Nanny,” he deadpans by way of greeting, voice low and controlled. Humorless. “I’m here for a tutoring session with…shit. What was her name?” He pretends to think about it, tipping his head toward the ceiling.

Snaps his meaty fingers.

“Violet.”

No salutation. No polite small talk. No direct mention of our run-in at the grocery store, although he does allude it with the lovely nickname he bestowed upon me.

I swallow, take a deep breath, and say, “I’m Violet.”

The slashes above his eyes get severe. “You’re Violet?”

“Yes.”

Disbelief takes over his entire face before he schools his features. “You’re my tutor?”

I stand a tad straighter behind the counter, bracing my hands on the Formica countertop, grateful for the support. My knees weaken. “Yes.”

“You can’t be.”

“I can’t?”

“Noooo,” he drawls out. “Because I’ve seen you, what—how many times already?”