The Lying Hours - Sara Ney Page 0,3

out my window, out into the dark, at the house next door, every window in the two-story glowing. The bathroom sits directly across from mine, its interior obscured by two billowing white drapes hanging there. They’re sheer, just opaque enough that I’m unable to see through them—not that I’ve tried.

It’s a houseful of girls, none of whom I’ve ever spoken to.

The few times I’ve stepped outside at the same time as them (they always seem to travel in clumps), I’ve immediately put my feet to the pavement, head down to avoid them and dodge direct eye contact.

Pretty. Outgoing, most of them. Friendly, if their waves and polite greetings are enough to go by. Tons of makeup and loud laughing. Their place always has the music blasting, and I’m almost positive one or two of them are football cheerleaders. One is a dancer. Another few are in a sorority.

Why do I avoid them? They’re not my type; they’re Jack’s—not that I discriminate based on extracurricular activities. That would make me an asshole, and I’m not one of those, either.

I like to think I have a good head on my shoulders, not one in the clouds.

The shadow of a figure appears in front of the bathroom window, her outline a silhouette behind the curtain. My fingers pause over the textbook page I’ve been reading and, with a guilty stare, I study the shape of her body. I can tell she’s removing a shirt, dragging it up over her head slowly as if she knows I’m sitting here watching. She dips, probably removing her bottoms and Christ, I feel like such a fucking creeper.

I swear I’m not doing it on purpose. The bathroom window is right fucking there in front of me, front and center, and this is the first time I’ve ever really noticed anyone in that room taking their clothes off. Honest to God, I barely pay attention.

Ashamed, my eyes cast downward, trained on my textbook, mind spinning. Sex on the brain.

Do not touch your dick while you’re watching, Abe. Do not touch your fucking dick.

I don’t touch my dick.

I’ll wait and do it later when I’m in bed, when the cloudy image of a nameless, faceless girl with giant boobs removing her clothes is erased from my brain by the biology literature in front of me.

Line after line, word after word filters through my mind, not one bit of it being retained.

I cannot concentrate.

Zero focus.

My broad chest heaves, frustrated, and I run a hand through my thick, dark hair.

My eyes stray to the cell phone I have flipped upside down so it doesn’t distract me from studying, and I snatch it up, thumb gliding over the smooth surface.

I hesitate a few moments before deciding which app to open. Check my Snapchat and add to my story, send a short video to my younger brother, another to my younger sister.

My thumb lingers on that damn dating app, and as much as I protest and pretend to hate the freaking thing, parts of me resent the fact that Jack has the balls to use it. Well, not himself, but at least he’s putting himself out there by going on dates.

I’m hiding behind his persona, pretending to be him for fuck’s sake, too damn busy and scared to date someone myself.

No loss there. So few of the girls on LoveU have caught my interest. Most of them come off as way too fake, and don’t get me started on all the cutesy animal filters most of them use. How the hell is a dude supposed to know what a girl looks like when she has a CGI dog tongue hanging out of her mouth?

So fucking weird.

Let’s not forget to mention the fake eyelashes. Spray tans. Fake tits and push-up bras. Drawn-on eyebrows.

Jesus, I’d be afraid to run my fingers through my date’s long hair—what if I accidentally pulled a clump of it out?

I’m looking for someone real.

Just haven’t found her yet.

Not even after scrolling through hundreds of profiles.

I tap on the app, pretending to be bored by the entire process. The truth is that I am interested in finding a girlfriend myself.

But I sure as shit am not going to find her on some stupid app.

Skylar

“Honestly. Where have all the nice guys gone?” I grab a few fries from my tray, dip them in mayonnaise—then ketchup—popping all four of them into my mouth at the same time, gesturing around my table of friends. “Where. Where’d they go?”

My friends stare back, all of them