Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"

Автор книги: Kay Marie

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Denial.

Denial was the correct approach. Because now, hanging unsaid in the air between us, is the question of what number Ollie was. I never said that it didn’t happen. I just said that it didn’t happen first. And that's a huge difference.

Crap.

"I mean, what are you even talking about?" I continue, mumbling, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as shaky as my fingers. "We've never kissed ever." The words sound lame even to me.

But Ollie takes it in stride, leaning back with a wide smile. "Of course we have, I'm heartbroken you don't remember. Fifth grade, Valentine's Day…"

I release the tension in my body, breathing normally again—of course he's talking about that and not the other thing. Of course. Ollie likes to tease, but he's not mean spirited about it. I smile as the memory trickles to the forefront of my thoughts. "I was in second grade and you were in fifth grade, and in the middle of recess, Bridge and I snuck onto the big kid playground to give you our valentines."

"And," he says, taking over the story, "Bridge gave me a big kiss on the cheek when she gave me her valentine, so when you gave me yours you leaned in for the same, copying her, but you missed and hit my lips instead."

"I think you're forgetting the ending to that story…" I trail off, waiting.

But Ollie looks at me with a blank expression. He doesn’t remember! I bite down my grin at having one over on him. "And as soon as I leaned back, giggling, you shoved me and yelled, 'Ew! Girls have cooties!' And then ran away."

"I did not," he says, sitting up.

"You did too," I challenge, "and I fell on the pavement and scraped my knee and had to go to the nurse's office for a Band-Aid."

His jaw drops. "I don't remember that at all."

Aubrey chimes in, "You know, they say when little boys do that it's because they secretly have a crush on a girl."

Seeing Ollie's mounting embarrassment, Patrick leans in. "Speaking as someone who may have pushed a few girls and called them mean names when I was a kid, that saying is completely accurate."

And I can't help it. Witnessing his desperation is like a drug—I'm always on the receiving end of this. And for once, it's fun to give him a taste of his own medicine. I ask, in a jokingly sing-song voice, "Are you guys saying Ollie loved me?"

"Okay." He falls back, exasperated. "Now you guys are just being ridiculous. Have you ever seen Skye as a little girl? She was a freckle-faced pipsqueak!"

"Hey!" I lean forward, pointing at him. "You're one to talk, four-eyes."

"You wear glasses?" Aubrey asks, turning with surprise.

"I used to," he grumbles. By my side, Patrick is grinning wider than I can ever recall seeing.

"Oh, now he hides behind contacts. But for all of elementary school and all of middle school, Ollie didn't just wear glasses. He wore black, wide-rimmed glasses that were larger than his face. And they always started slipping, so he had to push them up his nose all the time."

Ollie crosses his arms, glaring at me. I raise my eyebrows as if to say, what? I mean, hey, I tried to take embarrassing stories off the table. He's the one who wanted to use them against me. Well, not this time buddy. Not this time.

"Okay, so I wore glasses," he says, "but then I became the quarterback and the captain of the football team, and I started wearing contacts. Did I mention I played in college for a year? Before dropping out to go to culinary school?"

Oh, I see what he's doing. Trying to change the subject to something cool—football, culinary school. Nice try. Not going to happen.

"You know, Aubrey," I say, dismissing Ollie's previous words, "I have an interesting tidbit for you, in the efforts of getting to know one another of course. Ollie used to be a dancer."

His teal eyes practically turn red with the heat of his glare.

Aubrey grins, slapping his arm. "You didn't tell me that."

"It’s nothing really," he murmurs, and then says louder, "Who's up? Patrick?"

But Patrick shrugs. "I can wait, I want to hear this. Skylar?"

I pause, letting the suspense build, looking around, taking in the moment—more especially, taking in the subtle shake of Ollie's head, the silent plea to stop. Yeah. Right. "Well, I don't know if you know this, but Ollie and his family are 100 percent Irish and very proud of it, so when they were little, Ollie and his sister learned Riverdance. They used to perform in all of our school talent shows, up until what, Ollie? Eighth grade? Oh, I mean when I was in eighth grade, so that was actually eleventh grade for you, right?"

He peers at me suspiciously, because of course, that's not really the embarrassing part. We used to love it. He and Bridge are actually really talented dancers. No…I haven't gotten to the embarrassing part yet.

"Wow, that's amazing," Aubrey says, and I can see the admiration mounting in her eyes. I wonder if all of these stories are just making her like him more. Eh, doesn't matter. The expression on his face is worth it.

"Actually, Skye," he says, still unsure of where I'm headed, "it's not called Riverdance, that was just a famous show. It’s just called Irish Step Dance."

"Right, sorry," I apologize, and then press forward. "But my favorite part is that Bridge said Ollie wasn't flexible enough and used to get really mad at him for not being able to do the high kicks—"

"Skye…" he interrupts, tone drenched with warning.

But I'm not afraid of him. What's that saying? Payback's a… Well, you get the idea. "So Bridge and his mom forced him to go to ballet class with us when we were little. You should have seen him in his black spandex tights!"

Silence.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

There we go—the image of Ollie in glasses and tights has fully sunk in. The chicken legs. The thick rims. The awkwardly long limbs. Let's take this a little further and picture him working the ballet bar, glaring at his younger sister as he dips into a graceless plié, maybe bringing his free arm over his head, channeling the beautiful swan he was supposed to become. You know, the good old days, when Ollie was just Ollie. Just Bridge's brother. Just my friend. Back before he turned into the disarmingly handsome high school guy I couldn't get my mind off of. Or, well, the annoyingly handsome man I—on second thought, let's not go there.

I spare a glance at him now, noting the dark gleam to his normally bright turquoise eyes, and can't help but smile a bit smugly. Finally, after so many of my attempts, I think he might understand what it means to be on the short end of the stick—at least, if his sour expression is anything to go by.

Shaking his head with a happy sigh, Patrick stands to take his turn bowling. A spare. Not equal to Ollie's strike, but that doesn’t matter anymore. For some reason, the competitive knot has left my gut, replaced only by mischievous anticipation.

Aubrey bowls a nine.

And then I'm up again. But this time, my nerves are gone. I'm barely thinking about the game as I step up to the lane, position myself, and throw the ball—actually knocking a few pins down!

My mind is somewhere else, sifting through my memories for what story to tell next. There's the time Ollie got stranded naked in a field during football hazing. Bridge and I snuck into the back of her dad's car when he went to pick him up, trying our best to keep the giggle fits quiet. Ooh, or how Ollie used to play pretend with us—his Luke Skywalker action figure always ended up married to my Little Mermaid Barbie. Oh yeah, tonight is going to be fun. Much more fun than I ever thought possible.

 

Have you ever found yourself playing a game you're not sure you want to win? I mean, I'm relatively competitive I guess. I like winning. But sometimes, it's like, everything's over and you're just left in this limbo—did I win? Did I lose? What was I even fighting for in the first place? I mean. Ugh, never mind. I don't know what I'm talking about…

 

 

I'm sipping on a glass of champagne, casting furtive glances around the room trying to find a familiar face in the crowd. Where'd Bridge go? And when is Patrick going to get here? And isn't Ollie coming?

Oh crap. Eye contact with a total stranger.

Whoops!

I smile meekly and flick my head in the opposite direction, sending what I hope is a clear message—don't come talk to me! Really, I'm not sure what I would even say to these people. I'm hunched in the middle of the art gallery where Bridge works, trying to enjoy the opening night celebration she's helped coordinate for the past month. The artist on display is a modernist painter—pretty much blobs on a canvas as far as I can tell, but that just proves how little I know about this stuff.

I mean, I can just picture it now. Someone steps over making polite conversation, saying, isn't this piece wonderful? I look at the splatters and the plops, a mush of colors spaced between blank spaces of white, and nod confusedly, biting my tongue as I wonder if I could have done better. Or, you know, if a fifth grader could have…

"Hey," a low whisper filters into my ear.

I spit my champagne back into the glass, choking on it just a little as I turn. The picture of grace, as always. Cringing inwardly, I smile at Ollie. "Hey. You surprised me."

And then I wait for the snappy retort. He isn't one to ever let me get away with anything. Spitting up in public? Perfect fodder. But to my surprise, the joke never comes.

"So what do you think?" he asks instead. And I can't help but notice that his body is turned mostly away from me, hands in his pockets, as though he's uncomfortable. But aren't I supposed to be the one who's uncomfortable around him?

I furrow my brows. Something is definitely wrong here. "Um," I say and shrug, following his lead as I turn toward the painting on the opposite wall. It's an almost but not quite symmetrical circle of blue on a white backdrop. Mind-blowing… "It's nice."

He cracks a little, lifting the corner of his lip. And I wait for it, for the teasing. But his mouth evens back out and he nods seriously, still keeping his eyes locked on the painting. "Yeah."

And then silence descends. But not like a nice silence between friends. It's the sort of silence that expands with each passing second, that ginormous elephant in the room kind. I lick my lips, heartbeat surging a little faster as my anxiety starts to seep in. What's going on? Where is this coming from? I haven't seen Ollie since our double date, since the quick goodbye outside the bowling alley as Patrick and I went our way, and he and Aubrey went theirs. Overall, I thought the whole night went pretty well. I never learned to bowl any better, but you know, I wasn't expecting a miracle.

Maybe something happened at work? It's been about a week.

Or did he an Aubrey get into a fight? It's possible, I guess.

I lean over, needing to at least say something, hoping to cheer him up. "You know, Bridge told me some of these are worth more than I make in a year. Some might be worth more than I'll make in the next ten years."

His eyes widen disbelievingly, and then he shakes his head, releasing a tight breath. "Clearly, I went into the wrong career."

And well, I sort of agree. So I just nod, prolonging it as much as I can, but then, oh shoot, the silence is back. Only this time, I think I've been brought down to Ollie's level. I mean, really, when you think about it, that is a little absurd. I knew going into it that writing wasn't exactly a lucrative profession, but come on.

I peek sideways, taking in Ollie's profile, the clench of his jaw.

My curiosity gets the best of me.

"Ollie, are you ok—" I start, but an excited voice drowns mine out before I can finish.

"You made it!" Bridge chimes, appearing almost out of nowhere. "Are you having fun? What do you think of the party? Isn't the artist just amazing? A real genius? We were so lucky to nab him from the other galleries."

I process each question one at a time, a little lost in the whirlwind of her enthusiasm, which is about as far away from where I was thirty seconds ago as you could possibly get. But I know from the impatient bounce of her toes exactly what she wants to hear.

"Oh my gosh, he's fantastic," I gush, bringing a wide smile to my lips. "I mean, I don't even know how he comes up with these ideas, they're magnificent."

"I know," she says, speaking insanely fast. "I mean, the composition is incredible. There's a perfect balance in the imbalance. The way he plays with light and darks, with emptiness, with colors. It's so simple, but so complex. I could stare at these for hours."

I nod along, sipping my champagne because I don't really know how to respond. I mean, I took a lap around the room when I first got here and was pretty much done after that.

"You know, I think I've seen these somewhere before," Ollie chimes and for the first time tonight, there's humor coloring his words. I can't help the grin that pulls at my cheeks as I wait to hear how he's planning to end that sentence. Bridge glances at him with her eyebrows cocked. He just points toward the blue circle behind us. "Didn't you paint something like that back in kindergarten? I'm pretty sure it was on our refrigerator for months."

Bridge just rolls her eyes, exasperated. I meet Ollie's gaze, silently agreeing with him, overjoyed when I spot the twinkle in his cerulean irises, the one that was missing before. He's not complete without it. And all I want to do in this moment is make sure it stays there.

"Ollie," I start in a sort of chastising manner. "Don't be ridiculous. Bridge wasn't in kindergarten when she painted it…she was a preschool prodigy."

Bridge glares at me and I know exactly what that look says—traitor. And even though I probably should, I don't really care.

"She was a master of the potato stamp," Ollie adds, tone dramatically serious.

I lean in, adopting the same persona. "If you ask me, finger-painting was her true art."

"It's a lost art, really," he comments sadly.

I nod. "Definitely underrated."

"Say what you want," Bridge interjects before Ollie has a chance to speak. "I'm going to find two people who aren't such smartasses to talk to."

And then she leans across the space, grabs my glass of champagne from my hand, takes a long sip, and saunters off. I mean, you have to hand it to her. The girl knows how to make an exit.

I'm left shell-shocked, holding the empty air, peering at my fingers a little sadly. That was great champagne—and more importantly, it was a great excuse to not speak. Something I'm in dire need of as the air between Ollie and me stretches to a taut tense once more. I smile at him, but the spark has already disappeared from his eyes. And I can't help but wonder if it has something to do with me.

"So," I start, trailing off. When exactly did things get so strange between us? Did I miss something? When did Ollie decide it was no longer fun to ridicule me? To tease me? Because I tried for about a decade to make him stop, and now that it's gone, I sort of miss it.

"Evening, everyone," I hear over my shoulder, just as an arm wraps around my waist. Just like that, I'm saved from the overwhelming awkwardness and confusion of the situation.

"Patrick!" And then I stretch up, kissing his cheek.

He glances around, scrunching his forehead. "Where's Aubrey? And Bridget?"

"Bridge is schmoozing the crowd," I say and then turn expectantly to Ollie.

He coughs, clearing his throat, before running a hand through his lusciously dark hair. I hate how that move always makes it look better than it did before. With my luck, if I even tried to sexily flip my hair, I'd end up getting my fingers stuck in a web of knots. But Ollie just makes it look easy, like being drool-worthy is second nature to him. Which it probably is… Wait. How did this train of thought start again? It's veering off into wildly dangerous territory.

Oh, right. Aubrey.

And Patrick!

My boyfriend, Patrick, whose hair is the only hair I should be thinking about. I lean into his side, enjoying the warmth of his body.

"Aubrey couldn't make it," is all Ollie says.

"That's a shame," Patrick says politely, clearly making small talk.

But it seems like that's the only kind of talk this conversation has any hope of having, so I just try to keep it going. Any talk is preferable to cringe-worthy silence. "Yeah, that stinks. It's your first Friday off in weeks."

Ollie just shrugs.

I want to throttle him. Work with me here!

But then his gaze sharpens and he looks at Patrick with interest. A small knot of dread churns my stomach. What's coming?

But all he does is ask, "So, what do you think of the artist?"

Patrick glances around, eyes zipping from canvas to canvas, taking the paintings in. "I'm not really into all of this stuff, but it seems pretty good to me. I think my parents might have some of his work at our beach house."

"Well, I think it's a little overhyped, to be honest," Ollie murmurs, and then his eyes flicker over to me. I try to keep my heart from leaping out of my chest. Just from nerves. Obviously. "What do you think, Skye?"

Cue penetrating bright blue stare.

I fidget under Ollie's scrutiny, looking up at Patrick instead, moving just a smidge closer to him. And even though I'm not looking at him anymore, the intensity of Ollie's gaze burns my skin. "Well, you heard Bridge, he's a genius. I don't really know much about it either."

I peek to the side, just quick enough to see a hint of disappointment line Ollie's eyes before he turns them away, out toward the window. A sinking feeling lurches in my chest, but I'm not sure why or what it means.

"Champagne?" a man asks, leaning a tray into the middle of our group.

God, yes. It's sad how little hesitation there is in my movements. But hey, I'm desperate for a distraction. Almost immediately, the glass is at my lips and I'm taking down a long sip, rummaging through my thoughts for something to say once the bubbles dissipate.

Luckily, Patrick beats me to it. He leans in, speaking more to me than Ollie. "How long are we going to stay here?"

I purse my lips, thinking for a moment. "Well, we don't need to stay for the entire thing. Bridge will be here for hours, I think she needs to stay to help clean everything up after. Maybe another hour or so? Just so we can talk to her some more?"

He nods. "Okay. Some friends of mine are at a bar around the corner from here. Want to meet up with them after?"

I smile. Um, duh. But I have to play it cool. "Sure."

"You can come too, man, if you don't have plans," Patrick follows up, looking past me. And for the second time that night, I almost spit out my champagne as I jerk my head to the side. Freaking Ollie. I totally forgot he was here for a second. It was an easier time.

"Nah, I'm good," he murmurs with a shrug.

Thank god.

Before anyone has time to say anything else, I notice a red head barreling toward us with a wide grin.

"Patrick, you're here," Bridge calls, closing the distance. "How's my favorite investment banker?"

He throws her an amused grin. "Good. How's my favorite slightly inebriated art salesman?"

"Wonderful," she chirps. And then leans in conspiringly. "Keep the inebriated thing on the down low. I have to maintain a professional aura."

"I'll take this then," Ollie says and plucks the half-full champagne glass from her hand, downing it in one gulp.

"Hey!" she argues. But it's too late anyway.

He just smiles. "You'll thank me tomorrow, sis."

She raises one eyebrow, holding Ollie's gaze for a long moment before turning back to Patrick. "So, see anything here you like? If anyone asks, just make sure you tell them Bridget McDonough sold you on a piece."

He winks. "Will do."

"We were just talking about what we're going to do later tonight," I say, changing the tide of the conversation from Bridge trying to pawn off a multi-thousand dollar painting on my boyfriend. "When do you think you'll be able to break free of the gallery?"

She shrugs. "Not anytime soon. But let me know where you go and I'll try to meet you out later. Oh—" And then she stops, looking over my shoulder, gazing really intently at whatever is behind me. A second later, a little twinkle lights her eyes. "Excuse me. I've got to go talk to people who might actually buy something, like the lady in a fur coat who just walked in. I'll see you guys later. Enjoy the free champagne!"

I toast her as she walks away, taking my next sip in her honor.

"I think I'm going to head out too," Ollie says.

Immediately my heart jerks. "No!" And really, I have no idea why I say it—especially not so wholeheartedly. "I mean, you should stay. You never know when you'll get to see Bridge in action again."

He holds my gaze for a moment, blue eyes intense, before flicking his attention to Patrick. "No, really. I'm beat from the work week. All I want right now is my bed."

"It was good to see you again," Patrick says, reaching out for a handshake, which Ollie returns.

"See you later, Skye," he mumbles.

But I have no response.

I'm just so utterly confused. Who is that guy? Because it's not Ollie. Not the Ollie I've known for almost twenty years. He would never leave an event his sister was throwing early. Would never be so quiet, so absent. Would never be—I don't know how to describe it except to say defeated. Dejected. Everything in his person just looks so down.

"Should we take a walk around the room?" Patrick asks, placing his arm around my shoulders.

I rip my gaze away from the lone figure of Ollie walking away, trying to diffuse the cloud hanging over my mood. "Sure."

"I'll keep an eye out in case there's anything my father would want. I'm actually surprised they're not here," Patrick says, leading me around the room. "Have I ever told you about our summer house?"

I shake my head.

And as he launches into a description, my mind rebels against my better judgment and completely tunes him out. Then my body follows. Against my will, my eyes creep over to the door just in time to see it shut behind Ollie's back. I spy on him, watching as he stops, shoulders rising in what I think is a long, deep breath. And I keep looking as he steps farther into the night, across the street, disappearing around the bend. And even then, I just stare at the empty spot his body used to fill.

Something happened.

I don't know what or when or how. But I do know Ollie looked lost, not himself. And even though I don't want to admit it, the pinch of my gut tells me I'm the reason for the change. If I dug a little deeper, I'm sure I'd understand. But I don't know if I'm ready for the answer.