The Failing Hours

“What things?”

I direct my cool gaze to her wrist and raise my brows.

“My bracelets? Are they bothering you?”

“Yes.”

“S-sorry.” She pulls them off, one by one, and sets them aside, atop her small stack of books. They shine under the table lamp.

I take another dig. “I can’t stand people who are unreliable, and that’s you. Do you realize that?”

“N-no. I promise you I’m not unreliable.”

“You stood me up for our first session. If that’s not unreliable, what do you call it?”

Violet is quiet, pensive. “I’d call it…” She clears her throat. “I’d call it intimidated. I was…afraid to help you.”

Afraid? I snort—actually snort through my nose. “Why?”

“Why?” she echoes.

“Yes, Violet, why. Christ, why would you be afraid to help me? It’s not like I was going to do anything to you.”

Her eyes widen, and she’s trying to remain professional, remain composed, but she’s nervous—I can see it in her eyes. She steels her resolve and straightens in her chair. “W-We got off on the wrong foot, and for that I…I’m sorry.”

“Fine.” I tap my phone to check the time and Snapchat notifications. “Can we make the most of this time we have left? I’m failing bio and need this paper to bring up my grade.”

A curt nod. “Yes, sorry.”

That’s another thing annoying the shit out of me. “Stop saying that.”

“Saying what?”

“Sorry. Stop apologizing for everything, Jesus.”

“Sor—” Violet bites down on her bottom lip, a nervous giggle unintentionally escaping her lips. “Shoot, I-I almost did it again, didn’t I?”

Then.

She smiles.

My eyes, goddamn them, go to those curved glossy lips and rest there as she tries not to grin at me. Brilliant white teeth wink. Big, virginal doe eyes crinkle at the corners.

She’s like a fairytale caricature. Like a pixie.

So endearing it almost makes me want to barf.

I look down at her hands, folded properly on the tabletop, fingers clutching the printer paper—my paper—her nails short and painted a light, pastel lavender. One of the nails has glitter on it. They’re long and delicate fingers, fitting for someone so small, and I have no fucking idea why I’m even looking at them to begin with.

Pale skin. Unblemished.

Unscarred.

Untattooed.

Yet, I can see that those hands are capable, too, as they set the paper down and pluck a pencil off the table. Sturdy hands. Probably really hardworking.

“Just as a warning, I’ll probably say it again,” she confesses sheepishly, as if she can’t help pointing out her flaws. “I do it a lot. I-I don’t think I’ll be able to help myself around yo—”

The pencil in her hand hovers over a sheet of paper with my name and information at the top of it. “Maybe I should get all the sorrys out before we start?”

Get all the sorrys out?

Jesus Christ, who the fuck is this chick?

“Knock yourself out,” I rumble, leaning back in the chair and balancing on the back legs, crossing my arms as Violet takes a deep breath. “Go. Get it out.”

“Sorrysorrysorrysorry,” she expels in one long breath. Then, “Phew! That felt great!”

Even I, hard ass that I am, have to admit that was pretty darn cute; I nearly crack a smile.

Almost.

“Anyway, my apologies for before. I-I’m hoping we can start over.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“All right. Okay. Now that that’s out of the way.” She clears her throat and proceeds, an air of efficiency taking over. She’s more confident. “I guess we should begin. We have”—she glances back at the clock anchored to the wall—“roughly fifty minutes, g-give or take. Unless you want to work late?”

No way in hell am I staying any longer than I have to.

My no comes out sharper than intended.

And just like that, her gusto is gone.

Violet’s lips part, and she emits a quiet, “I understand,” before pushing a lock of hair behind her ears. Her fingers push the paperwork back and forth in front of her, and she folds down the right edge, running her nail along the crease restlessly, picking at it.

“Right. So why don’t you tell me what you’re stuck on and what you need help with.”

Instead of telling her, I flip open a folder, expel my notes and project prospectus I’ve been struggling with, and push it toward her across the smooth surface of the table.

While she’s perusing that, I flip open my textbook.

My index finger trails down the page, stopping at a passage I highlighted with an orange highlighter, the same passage I’ve had to read and reread at least a dozen times because I can’t figure out how I’m supposed to write a paper based on what little information I’ve been finding.

There isn’t adequate information to write an informed paper on my topic, and my grade depends on this essay.

Violet scans the prospectus, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion. “Have you chosen your topic?”

“Yup.”

I thumb through the open folder, fish out and hand her another single sheet of notebook paper with handwritten notes. She takes it, reads it, then glances up.

“You’re doing your research paper on this?”