The Failing Hours(2)

He waits for my answer, and when I don’t immediately respond, he presses. “Think you can handle that? Say, Yes, Coach.”

I nod tersely. “Yes, Coach.”

“Good.” Satisfied, he grabs a yellow No. 2 pencil and tosses it at me. “Fill that sheet out and take it with you. You meet your Little Brother tomorrow at their downtown office. Address is on the form.”

Reluctantly, I snatch the pencil and paper off the desk but don’t look at it.

“Don’t be late. Don’t fuck this up. Tomorrow afternoon you’re going to see how the other half lives, got it son?” I nod. “Good. Now get the fuck out of my office.”

I glower down at him.

His raspy chuckle hits my back when I turn toward the door. “And Mr. Daniels?”

I stop in my tracks but refuse to face him.

“I know it will be hard, but try not to be total prick to the kid.”





Coach is a total asshole.

Not that I give a shit, because I’m an asshole, too. There isn’t much I care about these days, so why would he think I’d care about some fucking kid? Especially one being forced on me?

My friends call me merciless; they claim cold blood runs through my veins, that I’m impossible to get close to.

But I like it that way; I like creating distance. No one needs me, and I need them even less. Happiness is a myth. Who needs it? This anger brewing inside me is more tangible than any happiness I’ve forgotten how to feel, never having been anything but alone.

It’s suited me fine for fifteen years.

I’m still fuming when I waltz into the grocery store, grab a cart from the corral, and push it up and down each aisle with purpose, tossing food in without slowing my stride.

Steel-cut oats. Agave nectar. Walnuts.

I saunter to the nutrition and organics section, hands automatically reaching for the protein powder, gripping the black plastic container in one hand, and lobbing it in among the deli meat, bread, and bottles of water.

Turning the aisle and pushing the cart on the right side of the aisle, I skid to a halt, almost plowing into a little girl on her tiptoes, reaching toward a shelf. Her black curly hair is pulled tightly into two pigtails, her string-bean arms straining toward a box she’ll never reach.

Even on the balls of her feet.

Plus, she’s in my way.

“Dammit kid, I almost hit you,” I growl. “You might want to pay more attention.”

She ignores my warning.

“Can you get that down for me?” Her grubby little fingers wiggle toward a red box of sugar cones, forefinger pointing toward the top shelf. I note that her tiny digits are painted glittery blue, and there are bits of dirt encrusted under her nail beds.

“Should you be talking to strangers?” I scold down at her but pluck the box off the shelf anyway, gruffly shoving it toward her grasping hands. Glance around. Notice for the first time that she’s unsupervised. “Jesus Christ kid, where are your parents?”

“At school.”

“At school?”

“My dad works and my mom is in college.”

“Who the hell are you with?”

The little squirt ignores me, tilting her head, narrowing her unblinking beady brown eyes at me. “You’re saying bad words.”

I’m not in the mood to play nice, so I narrow mine back. “I’m an adult. I can say whatever the hell I want.”

“I’m telling.” Her little mouth puckers disapprovingly and I can feel her silently judging me; I bet she’s a real joy to have in class.

“Yeah, okay kid—you do that.”

“Summer?” calls a loud feminine voice from somewhere around a corner. In a flurry of gray and white, the owner of that voice comes skidding around the corner, gasping for breath when she sees us.

“Oh my god, there you are!”

She falls to her knees.

Pulls the scrawny kid to her body in an embrace. “Oh my g-god,” the woman repeats, stuttering. “Sweetie, you cannot just walk off like that! You scared me half to d-death. Didn’t you hear me calling your name?”

The kid—Summer, apparently—holds her ground, trying to wiggle free. “I was getting ice cream cones and sprinkles.”

“Summer.” The woman pulls the little girl into an embrace. Takes a shaky breath. “Summer, when I-I couldn’t find you, I thought someone had kidnapped you. I thought I was going to have a h-heart attack.”

“I was right here, Vi,” the kid squeaks out into the woman’s jacket, fighting to breathe through the struggle cuddle. “This boy was getting my cones.”

This boy?

I put my hands up. “Whoa kid, do not drag me down into the gutter with you.”

It’s then that the woman senses my presence and looks up. Up. Up, into my impassive, irritated eyes.

Our eyes lock and I’m startled to realize she’s not as old as I thought; she’s a young woman, one that looks vaguely familiar.

Her eyes are a brilliant shade of hazel, widening with a flash of panic and recognition at the sight of me, probably because I’m casting an unfriendly frown down at her. I intimidate most people and take pride in it.

Her lips part but no sound comes out, nothing but a startled squeak. She recovers quickly, hugging the girl tighter and smoothing her hands down the girl’s weak little forearms.

“W-Were y-you waiting with her long?”

When I realize she’s speaking to me, a snort escapes my nose and I ignore her question, instead pointing out the obvious.

“Lady, you make a shitty nanny. She could have been kidnapped.”

Her head and shoulders dip, ashamed. “I know! B-Believe me, I know.”

The young woman’s mouth clamps shut again, chin trembling. Taking a few deep breaths to compose herself, she swallows nervously. “Thank you for helping her.”

“Helping? That’s funny. I’m no good Samaritan.” I don’t want her thanks or to prolong this litany of mind-numbing chitchat. “All I did was prevent her from toppling the display rack. She’s short as shit.”

“Well th-thank you nonetheless.” Another quick squeeze around the little kid’s shoulders and the young woman stands.

Petite, I gauge her height at around five foot five—tiny compared to my six feet. Wide hazel eyes. Thick blonde hair so pale it looks white, falling down over her shoulder in an intricate, wholesome braid. My gaze immediately falls to the neckline of her well-worn Iowa sweatshirt for an appraisal of her chest.

Flat.

Bummer, must suck.

I study her flushed face through narrowed, dubious eyes. “Do I know you?”

She swallows, glancing to the right. “I-I don’t think so?”

I can’t stand liars.

“I do know you. You live at the library.”

An errant strand of hair that’s not even in her face gets brushed aside. “I-I work at the library, yes. I also do some babysitting for enrolled students with daycare-aged ch-children and in Student Services.”

She’s fidgety as fuck and I wonder what her problem is.

Maybe she’s flustered.

Or maybe she’s on drugs.

I lean in closer to get a good look at her pupils—checking to see if they’re dilated—and catch a whiff; she smells like virgin and what I imagine baby powder would if I knew what the hell it smelled like.

Lean closer still. “You should tell the fucking tutors there to show up for their jobs.”

If it is possible for a human to turn a violent shade of pink from fingers to the roots of her blonde hair, this girl has managed it. Her hands fly to her face, palms pressed flat against her cheeks.

Takes a deep breath, clutches the little girl’s hand. “I-I’ll pass along the message.” Pause. “We should get going.”

“Yeah, you should go, because you’re totally in my way.” I give my cart a jostle, jerking it forward so they move and I can skirt around in what little room they’re not taking up. Before I round the next aisle, I stab an accusing finger their way. “For the record, Shitty Nanny, that kid shouldn’t be out in public; it should be in bed.”





I’m dumping the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter after the afternoon from hell, unceremoniously unloading the contents and tossing the brown paper bags. I rearrange the contents of a few cabinets to make room for the new shit and crack open a bottle of water while debating about dinner.

Lean chicken breast and broccoli. Vegetable stir-fry on brown rice. Choke down a bowl of oatmeal with nuts and berries.

Nothing sounds good.

Not after the piss afternoon I’ve had.

In the recesses of the hallway, I hear a door open and close, followed by silence. Moments later, the toilet flushes.

Jameson Clark, the girl my roommate Oz just started dating, saunters into the room. She’s wearing tailored jeans, a fuzzy baby blue sweater. Glasses. The satisfied grin widening her lips is quickly replaced with a startled expression when she sees me scowling at her from the sink.

She doesn’t like me.

Not that I give two shits, because I don’t like her either.

Cautiously, James makes her way to the fridge, but hesitates before pulling it open.

“Hey, how’s it going?” She tries to make small talk.

“Fine.”

She gestures toward the fridge. “Do you mind if I…”

I grunt. “Oh, by all means, please help yourself to our food and make yourself at home. You always do.”