The Failing Hours

Then my mouth is open, but no sound comes out. Stars shine behind my eyelids, and—my own name? Violet who?

“Violet, Violet…” he chants, remembering it for me, all attempts at silent sex long forgotten as Zeke comes, entire body jerking. Grips my hips with his fingers, releasing inside me with tiny spasms.

Shudders.

I can feel it—every bit of it—warm and hot.

Perfect.

Zeke

“I feel like a circus freak. Everyone’s staring like I’m a sideshow.”

Violet pats my hand. “They’re not staring at you; they’re staring at us.”

“No, babe. They’re definitely staring at me.”

We’re at the movies.

On—get this—a group date.

My personal hell has officially frozen over with rapid-fire speed.

This group date shit is just so fucking weird. Strange.

But I’m doing it for Violet, and at least it’s not one of those hideous canvas-and-wine parties I’ve heard about from other guys, which Jameson originally planned for this date night. “Unfortunately” the place was booked solid.

Dodged a bullet with that one.

In front of us, a two-story projection screen runs a reel of movie trivia while the audience waits for the movie to start—trivia questions Oz and Jameson keep obnoxiously shouting out the answers to.

Fortunately, there are people sandwiched between us, so I don’t have to sit next to my irritating roommate. It’s me, Violet, Rex Gunderson, his date (some chick named Megan? Teagan?), Oz, Jameson, and then Elliot, odd numbering out the cluster to make it even more of a fuck.

I glance down the row—because I’m a sadist—to find Oz watching me. He wiggles his fingers in a cheeky wave then winks. Tips his head back on the seat when I scowl, laughing.

James kisses his neck, his lips before settling back in her seat, tossing a kernel of popcorn into the air and catching it with her mouth. She catches me watching and smiles, holding the tub forward in the universal sign of an offering: You want some?

I glower in her direction.

Turn to find Violet staring at me.

Even in the dim theater, I feel my face get red, embarrassed at having been caught shooting unfriendly faces at my roommate’s girlfriend by my…by kindhearted Violet.

I reluctantly raise my hand toward Jameson in a friendlier gesture. Mouth No thanks, and want to fucking disappear into the plush movie recliner beneath my ass.

I pull the black ball cap lower over my eyes.

Lift the center console between Violet and me, satisfied when she inches closer. I slide my open palm over her thighs, my palm so big it covers most of her lap, resting it on her dark denim jeans. Squeeze.

Leaning into me, Violet slides her hand over mine, her thumb stroking back and forth across my rough skin, and I stare at it. Stare at how right our hands look together.

“Oh my god,” I hear Oz say in a staged whisper. “Look how cute the kids are; they’re holding hands.”

From Jameson, “Stop teasing Sebastian, you’re going to make him mad.”

Oz snorts. “He’s always mad.”

Rex, peering down the row, “He can hear you, you know.”

Oz, stuffing a handful of popcorn down his gullet, “Yeah, I figured, but he deserves it. Just like he deserves a swift kick to the ball sack.”

Rex’s date, WhatsHerFace, “Shhh.”

Oz, to Rex’s date, “Who even are you?”

Rex’s date, “My name is Monica.”

Oz, using air quotes, “Okay, Monica, whom I have never met before tonight, I’ll shhh.”

Monica, “You know, I heard you were a jerk.”

Oz, “Douchebag.”

Jameson, laughing, “Okay guys, knock it off.”

Rex, “Yeah, knock it off, the movie’s starting.”

And on and on and on.

Violet chuckles beside me. I squeeze her thigh. Manage to steal a few covert kisses in the dark. The entire movie flies by in less than two painless hours.

All in all, not the best night out I’ve ever had with my friends.

But it’s a start.

“Dammit! I knew she was here to stay the minute I met her.”

My body jerks when the voice arises out of semidarkness, shrouded and scaring the living shit right out of me.

“Jesus Christ James—do you have to keep doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Scaring the shit out of me in the dark.”

“Sorry?”

She’s in my kitchen, with only the microwave light on, scooping ice cream out of the container like it’s the middle of a heat wave in July. Leaning against the counter, not a care in the world, Jameson’s pajamas are an asexual two-piece flannel set that look like they’re for men, but come in patterns for women.

Hers are pink with yellow rubber ducks—not even remotely sexy—and I briefly contemplate how Oz manages to maintain a stiffy while his girlfriend wears fuck-a-duck pajamas.

Then I picture Violet in them, maybe lying on my bed in just the button-down shirt…something cute printed on them, like hearts or flowers or some shit. I could easily unbutton and slide my hands into them…

Maybe I should buy her a pair.

“Hello?” James says to get my attention.

I quit gawking at her ducking pajamas long enough to shake the vision of Violet from my head, pad barefoot to a cabinet for a glass, and fill it with water.

Chug the entire ten ounces.

Set it on the counter near the sink.