The Lying Hours - Sara Ney Page 0,4

either in a relationship or happily single.

I’m neither.

I like to complain about my single status because I’ve been actively searching for love—in all the wrong places, apparently.

Bethany smirks. “You know what they say—all the good ones are either gay or taken.”

“Or in the library, so forget that—those guys are never going to hit on you, and you’re never going to meet a future doctor because you never go to the library.” Thanks Hannah.

“You know where the building with books is, don’t you? At the end of campus next to the science department…?” Bethany teases with a nudge.

I chuckle. “Ha ha, very funny.”

It’s funny because it’s true, but I’m not about to admit that out loud. I haven’t been in the university’s library since my sophomore year—and that was because I had to sign in for a special project. I don’t even know where the study rooms are on campus, which might explain my less than stellar grade point average…

Whatever.

“Right.” My best friend Hannah dangles a carrot from her fingertips and points it in my direction. “And if they’re studying to become doctors and engineers, they’re not going to the bars on the weekend. Girl, they’re busy gettin’ that degree! Which…” Her brows go up, the unfinished sentence dangling in the air like her uneaten carrot.

…which is what you should be doing.

She doesn’t say the words, but I’ve heard them from Hannah a dozen times. It’s almost like she’s in cahoots with my mother, being the mother-hen type herself. She loves doling out advice, Hannah with near perfect grades.

Perfect hair. Perfect boobs.

And she’s almost always right.

I ignore her implication. “I love you, Hannah, but now isn’t the time to bring up my shitty grades. Midterms haven’t been released, so let me enjoy my ignorant bliss. Right this second I want to talk about my love life—or lack thereof.”

Her shoulders shrug. “I’m just sayin’.”

She’s always just sayin’.

Hannah rolls her pretty brown eyes and bites down on the end of her carrot, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re constantly complaining like you have no options.”

“Oh. And what are those?”

“You can let one of us set you up on a blind date.”

“We tried that once, remember? Cliff’s fraternity brother? Didn’t talk the entire time then called me for a second date incessantly? That guy?”

“I asked you to forget about that.”

“Can’t. He ordered chicken tenders for dinner.” What guy does that?

“I said I was sorry.”

I harumph and catch Bethany’s eye roll.

“What about the university’s new dating app?”

“Uhhh,” I groan. “How about not.”

Nope. I’m not doing a dating app. The only guys online are desperate or want an easy hook-up, and I’m not looking for either of those things.

I want a long-term relationship. Something real. I’m not going to find that swiping my finger on stupid profiles.

“Why are you so quick to shoot it down? Jessica met her boyfriend on LoveU.”

Our friend Jessica nods. “You love Aaron.”

We all do.

I really like her boyfriend. Aaron is awesome, even though he’s not remotely my type. And therein lies the problem; I’m beginning to think my type doesn’t exist in the real world. He only lives on paper and in my imagination, neither of which are convenient.

So what is my type? Believe me, I’ve given this matter hour upon hour of consideration, mostly after my friends tell me I’m being too picky. Or too judgy.

My type is tall. Not crazy, Big Foot tall, but at least six feet—minimum—would be amazing. An Adonis. Someone who will make me feel petite and small, and feminine. Dark hair—God I love dark hair—and I wouldn’t mind if some of it was on his chest, either. No facial hair—that’s gross, and makes me think of my father, who has a beard and always has food stuck in it.

My boyfriend will be strong. Thoughtful. The kind of guy who thinks before he speaks, so when he does it means something.

Handsome, but not pretty. He needn’t be perfect, or in great shape. Lord knows I’m certainly not.

Nice hands. Big hands.

Maybe he likes to read in his free time, like I do? That would be nice.

A dimple would make me melt, but it’s hardly required.

I prop my chin in my hands and lean on the table when I’m done zoning out, suddenly realizing all three of my friends are staring at me.

“What?”

“Are you even listening?” Bethany gives me a nudge under the table with the toe of her boot.

“Uh, no. Sorry.”

“I was asking what you have against the dating app. It’s just for fun. You wouldn’t actually have to meet