The Failing Hours(10)

She busies herself again, returning to the task of removing books from the returns cart. One tidy stack after the next is placed on the counter, and for a few moments I watch her. Her pale fingers with those lavender nails that remind me of Easter. And flowers.

“Violet, quit ignoring me. It’s fucking annoying.”

She ignores me, but I know she’s listening.

“Goddammit. You’re not seriously going to make me go alone are you?”

She pauses to speak but keeps her back turned. “Alone? I suspect you’ll be in a room full of people.”

“You’re supposed to be the sympathetic one here. You don’t feel the least bit sorry for me, do you?”

“I-I don’t think there’s a single soul that feels sorry for you, Zeke Daniels.” I catch the sly little smile stealing its way across her lips as she gives me a view of her profile; she knows she’s got me by the balls.

Which is obviously horseshit.

“Fine. You win.” I hastily blurt the words out in a panicked rush when she disappears into the office behind the circulation desk. “Three play dates.”

Violet sticks her head out, blonde hair framing her face, interest lighting up her features. The extortionist is biting down on her lower lip, fighting a giant smile.

“Three.” She nods. “Summer is going to be thrilled.”

Awesome.

“We can start this Thursday I guess,” I grumble.

She pauses, turns, then walks the short distance slowly back to stand in front of me, pale brows raised a fraction in surprise, the corner of her pink lips tipped just so.

“We can?”

“Don’t act so fucking shocked, it’s not a big deal.”

That’s a lie—it is a big deal, and Violet knows it.

I know it.

Something about her big, gentle eyes lighting up with satisfaction and delighted joy does something strange to the pit of my stomach.

For once, someone isn’t pissed at me.

She’s pleased.

It’s a weird feeling. Foreign.

Violet walks to the circulation desk, plucks up a sheet of paper from the counter, scribbles on it, and returns with a handwritten line of numbers.

“What’s this?”

“My cell.” She hands the strip of paper over, hand extended. “So you can text me.”

“Can’t you just fucking put it in my phone like a normal person? What are we, twelve?”

The light in her eyes shines at the same time her upturned lips turn down. The small scrap of paper suspends between us, between her fingers, until the awkward tension in the air stifles me.

She’s not going to lower her arm until I take it.

I snatch it out of her hand.





The small scrap of paper with her phone number sits on my desk, folded into thirds, in a neat little square.

It’s been there for four days. Untouched.

Rising from my desk, I pluck it up, unfold it. The crumbly paper makes a crinkling sound and I smooth out the wrinkles on the edge of my desk before spreading it flat.

I stare down at Violet’s neat, tidy handwriting. The loop on the V in her first name. The blue, fine-tipped marker lines, bold and crisp. I palm my phone, unlocking the screen, and scroll with my thumb over the green messenger icon. Click. Hit compose with a scowl.



Zeke: We should talk about this Thursday. Figure out this play date crap.



Her reply comes almost immediately.



Violet: All right.



I roll my eyes and huff at her unenthusiastic reply before tapping out mine.



Zeke: Where do you think we should take the kids

Violet: Where would you like to take them?

Zeke: This wasn’t my brilliant ducking idea so this is all on you.

Violet: LOL

Zeke: What’s so funny?

Violet: You when you’re trying to be badass but your phone autocorrects to ducking.

Zeke: Shit, I didn’t even notice.

Violet: Okay, so, play date…how about bowling?

Zeke: God no.

Violet: What about painting pottery at one of those fun studios—the kids would LOVE THAT.

Zeke: Are you fucking serious?

Violet: I’m trying to be helpful!

Zeke: It’s a no.

Zeke: I said I’d play date; I never said I’d play nice.

Violet: Okay, how about the zoo?

Zeke: I would literally rather have my balls sliced off with a dull knife.



It takes her four minutes to respond to that, and I smirk, imagining her face is bright red to the roots of that light blonde hair.



Violet: It’s warm enough outside for the zoo—we should try to take advantage while we can.

Zeke: No to the zoo. Next.

Violet: Um…

Zeke: Try again, you’re doing great so far.

Violet: They have dollar movies and dollar popcorn at the Cineplex on Tuesdays and Thursdays when they show old movies.

Zeke: Which theater does that?

Violet: The little one on Main. I think Fantastic Beasts is playing?

Zeke: Then afterward, you can go ahead and shoot me?



Her next text takes an entire eight minutes.



Violet: I’m going to be honest with you, even if it makes me uncomfortable talking about it—I think you should know these kids come from really low-income families and they get to go to the movies almost NEVER

Zeke: I’m not sitting through a flipping cartoon.

Violet: It’s not a cartoon. It’s kind of like Harry Potter.

Zeke: …which I have not seen.

Violet: I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.

Zeke: Well have you seen the complete Star Wars trilogy?

Violet: Uh. NO.

Violet: Okay, what about a trampoline park?

Zeke: No offense Violet, but your ideas suck.

Violet: Really? I thought FOR SURE you were going to bite on that one…

Zeke: Wait. Did you say trampoline park?

Violet: One just opened in the industrial park off McDermott.

Zeke: Fine.



Her texts stop again. I wait a few minutes.



Violet: Was that a YES to the trampoline park?

Zeke: If there are actual tramps there, then it was a yes.

Violet: Haha, very funny.

Zeke: I thought so.

Violet: That is EXCELLENT! They’re going to be so excited!

Zeke: I too am thrilled beyond my wildest dreams, but not shouty caps thrilled.

Violet: Oh hey, Zeke?

Zeke: What.

Violet: Just a gentle reminder, don’t forget to get permission from Kyle’s mom.

Zeke: Peachy. I’ll get right on that.





Zeke





In the end, I didn’t forget to message Kyle’s mom. In fact, it was the one thing I didn’t fuck up this week, and Krystal Jones was ecstatic that I was taking Kyle to do something he rarely gets to do.

Be a kid.

Have fun.

Play somewhere she normally can’t afford to take him.

The conversation was awkward. Made me feel…like an over-privileged asshole…which I’ll admit to being, through no fault of my own. I didn’t choose to have wealthy parents, just like Kyle didn’t choose to have a deadbeat, piece-of-shit absentee father. His mom works her ass off and they still have no money.

But whatever.

Not my problem.

Not really.

Instead of dwelling on it, I shift my focus to Violet, who’s standing next to a tall blue trampoline, still wearing her fall coat.

I eyeball her skeptically. “Aren’t you going to take off your shoes and shit and bounce? Let’s go, chop chop.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?”

She’s fiddling with the front of her jacket, nimble fingers tugging on the silver zipper pull, gently wrenching up.

I sigh. “Yes or no, Violet.”

“I…” She stops to take a deep breath and I know it’s because she’s determined not to stutter. “I don’t think I’m planning on it.”

“This was your idea. I’m not trampolining by myself with those cretins. Have you seen some of the little psychopaths they let loose out there?” She glances around me at the kids already jumping—a dozen little humans all riding that sugar high. “No fucking way are you abandoning me.”

“Would you please, please watch your mouth in front of the kids?” she all but hisses.

I glance around to pinpoint the exact location of Summer and Kyle; they’re a safe distance away, on the ground, untying their shoes and placing them in cubbies. Verdict: they’re in no danger of any profanity that might come flying out of my mouth.

“Are you trying to change the subject?”

“No, Zeke, if I was trying to change the subject, I-I’d ask you to help me with my zipper. It’s stuck.” Her mouth tips down into a frown. “I’m stuck.”

My eyes shoot from her pouty pink lips to her pink jacket, down to the slender fingers with those purple nails pinching the silver pull and tugging to no avail.

“Stop yanking on it, you’ll make it worse,” I demand, stepping the four paces into her personal space and closing my large fingers around hers, brushing them aside so I can access her zipper.

I bend my head to get a closer look at it, kneel in front of her to get a better look. A long strand of thread from the interior lining of her coat is caught in the track. It doesn’t look like it’s coming out any time soon, not without some actual time put into it; I’d need a scissors, better lighting, and about twenty minutes to fix it.

I hear an intake of breath above me, against the top of my head. Is she sniffing me? She must be—the hairs on the back of my neck are prickling.

Bizarre.

“Did you just sniff me?”

“No!” She gasps, horrified.

I snort, shaking off a shiver. “Yeah right. Don’t lie.”