The Lying Hours - Sara Ney Page 0,22
menu in front of me that’s been lying on the table gets pushed aside.
I clearly won’t be needing it since I won’t be staying.
JB is an asshole who clearly has no idea who I am.
Which means:
1. He’s obviously talking to so many girls at the moment he can’t keep any of them straight.
2. He’s out for numbers, not something meaningful.
3. I am not the girl for him, and probably not even his type.
“Sorry, it’s been a long day,” he muses.
“Oh? How so?”
And he tells me. Every. Single. Detail about his day. How he had to wake up at the “ass crack of dawn and jog three fucking miles in the damn dark” then locked himself out of his house and had to go to class with no books while wearing a sweaty t-shirt and track pants.
“Jesus Christ, I was so hungry by the time I made it home this afternoon—after practice, of course. Totally brutal today.” He shoots me a pointed look. “We have qualifiers for the WIAA championship coming up, so…yeah.”
I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but judging by his tone and his raised brow, JB is expecting me to be impressed.
I’m not.
I’m irritated.
He keeps talking, droning on above the music screaming out of the subwoofers, never once taking a breath so I can interject, ask a question, or participate in the conversation.
“You know, I don’t know what I’ll do when I graduate, but I have clear goals. I’m getting a business degree but I think I’ll end up working for my dad. Why not, right? I can make six figures straight out of college doing nothing but pushing pencils, and my dad knows a guy at this huge network so I can always try broadcasting. Nepotism at its finest, right? But who gives a shit if I don’t have to work at getting a gig. Am I right or am I right?”
It sounds like a speech he has memorized and has given dozens of times.
Gross.
“Only a fool would pass up an opportunity like that,” is the only thing I can think to say.
Other phrases that come to mind that I don’t have the lady balls to say: Where is the real JB and what have you done with him? and You are a freaking idiot and Why are you still talking?
Better yet, why am I still sitting here listening?
I’m the moron, not him.
What I should do is haul my ass up out of this booth, put on my damn jacket, and walk out.
So that’s what I do.
I press my palms against the wooden table, the pads of my fingers landing in something unidentifiable and sticky, and push myself up to stand.
“Know what, Jack, I really think I need to get going.”
He flips his phone over and checks the time. “Already? It’s been like ten minutes.”
I check the time on my phone.
Eight.
It’s been eight excruciating minutes.
“It might have been longer if you’d shown up on time.” I can’t help mentioning it since he never did.
“Are you seriously pissed because I was late?”
“No. I don’t even know you—and in hindsight, you actually did me a favor.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
I slide one arm into my puffy coat sleeve and then the other, bending to zip it. “If you’d been on time, I probably would have sat here longer trying to find something we might have in common when it’s clear that there’s nothing, which would have wasted more of my time.”
“So? It’s not like you had better shit to do tonight.”
I pause. “That was a really rude thing to say.”
“Hey, look—I’m just hungry. I know you like food, so let’s order something. Don’t you love tacos?”
No. I don’t even like tacos.
“I don’t think I’ll be staying. Sorry.”
“Really? You’re going to leave?”
“Yeah, JB, I really am going to leave.”
“How can I change your mind? Want to go back to my place?”
That gives me pause. “And do what?”
The nerve of this guy!
“We can have drinks there.”
“Oh, is that what you call sex? Having drinks?” I use air-quotes around the last two words and roll my eyes, pulling my gloves from my pockets. “Thanks but no thanks.”
“Don’t stand there and tell me you’re not thirsty.”
Thirsty.
There’s a word no man on this earth has ever called me before.
Definition of thirsty: eager to get something, desperate, desperate for attention.
I ignore the hard knot forming in my stomach and the urge to lean over and smack the stupid smile off his dumb mouth. I ignore the desire to begin verbally sparring with him, knowing