Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"

Автор книги: Kay Marie

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Then he steps.

I step.

He falls.

I fall.

We land in a tumble on his bed, a mess of limbs, but nothing pauses. Ollie rolls, tucking my body beneath him, and then sinks down with utter control, pinning me against the mattress. His hand travels down my side while his lips still dizzy my brain, sending my nerves haywire. But as his fingers dip just barely below my waistband, tickling my untouched skin, I break away, sobered.

"Ollie?" I murmur, breathing heavily.

He stops.

Everything.

"Ollie?" I whisper again.

In one motion, he jumps from the bed, walking to the other side of the room, turning his gaze away from me, staring at the wall instead. And I understand. The spell is broken. I broke it.

"You should leave," he says, voice dark, tone dead. I've never heard him like this before.

"Ollie? What just happened? Why?"

"You should go."

I stand, pulling the sheet with me, suddenly shy. I reach out to touch his back, golden in the soft midnight light, but he turns before I do. I snatch my fingers to my chest, hugging the sheet, and meet his empty expression. There's no hurt. No confusion. No anger. Nothing. He's blank. Emotionless.

"Go."

But I can't. I won't. He felt it too. Feels it too. Or he wouldn't have kissed me. I shake my head. I love him. "Ollie, why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" he asks, tugging his shirt back over his head, sitting on the bed, casual.

"Why did you kiss me? Why did you—why?" And my voice sounds weak, trembling, on the brink of tears—which must be the burning sensation around my eyes.

"Because I wanted to see if I felt something, and I don't. So it's better for both of us to forget this ever happened and move on. Friends, like we've always been."

I lift my foot to step closer, but I can’t move. My head swivels back and forth, frantic with denial. "I don't believe you. There's no way you felt nothing just now. You can't kiss someone like you just kissed me and feel nothing."

He sighs, teal eyes colder than I've ever seen them. "You’re just a kid, Skye. You have no idea what guys can or can't do."

"I know you," I whisper, desperate to cling to something.

"Do you?"

"Yes." I step forward, still wrapped in his sheets, clutching them to me like a life raft. "And I know that if you felt nothing, you would have said that in the first place. You wouldn’t hurt me like this. You wouldn’t be so cruel."

He pauses.

Doesn't respond.

And then he rolls over and turns his back to me, settling in against his pillow and reaching for the light. "Go to bed, Skye. You're drunk. You'll barely remember this in the morning."

Darkness floods the room, surrounds me. I blink through the black, trying to see past the mortification burning my eyes—to see past the fact that I'm half naked, standing in the middle of Ollie's room, utterly heartbroken. Even in the dark, I hold the sheet over my chest as I feel for my shirt on the floor. My throat clogs, stopped by a painful lump beginning to form. Tears drop soundlessly to the ground. I try not to sniffle, not to give him a clue, but I know some sighs leak out, loud in the silence.

Ollie doesn't say a word.

He's a statue in his bed. Made of stone.

My fingers brush the soft cotton of my shirt and I pull it over my head, forgetting about my bra as I rush for the door. I don't look back as I leave.

 

The next morning, I waited in Bridget's bed until I heard the front door open. I crept to the window, watching Ollie leave for the airport with his mother, waiting for him to look back and find my face in the window, to show me he was sorry. He never did. And I told myself I was done. That I never wanted to see him again. That I never wanted to hear his apology. Then I walked downstairs with a grin on my face, hiding the heartbreak inside, and moved on. At least, I thought I did.

 

 

I have that panicky feeling again. Why does this keep happening to me? My hands tremble in my lap, matching the bounce of the taxi as it races over the city streets. No matter how fast the cab moves, my heart surges faster, a constant pounding in my chest.

"Skye?" Bridge asks beside me. "Are you okay? You've been really silent all day. You barely spoke on the train."

I swallow, finding my voice. "I'm fine. I think I'm still working off my stuffing hangover, too many carbs. It makes me sleepy." Which would have been a great excuse if it were Friday, but it's not. It’s Sunday afternoon and the leftovers ran out yesterday morning.

Bridge raises her eyebrows. "You're not sleepy. You're fidgety."

And as she says it, I notice my thigh is bumping up and down on the seat, nervously ticking.

I stop.

"If you don't want to tell me what's bothering you, it's okay," she says, though I can hear the soft disappointment in her tone. "But I'm here if you need me."

I scan my brain for something to say, something to lift her downcast eyes, to prove to my best friend there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t tell her—except, you know, the truth. That I'm terrified to see her brother. That a wound I thought I had sealed shut four years ago ripped back open and it burns, a fresh sort of sting.

"My dad," I finally say, remembering something else that threw me for a loop this weekend. "My dad wants me to go to his house for Christmas, to celebrate with his wife and her son."

"Really?" Bridge lets out a slow breath, nodding. "What did you say?"

I roll my eyes. "No, obviously. I would never abandon my mom to survive Christmas alone. So then he asked if we could maybe all take a trip together this summer."

"Wow, he's laying it on thick."

"Yeah," I growl, shaking my head. "For years, all he did was send cards for my birthday and over the holidays, maybe a visit once a year. And now he wants me to go on a family vacation with them? I should have known this was coming."

The cab rolls to a stop outside our apartment building and a spike pierces my chest. We're here. Distraction over. My palms clam up on the handle of my suitcase as I roll it over the sidewalk, through the doors and to the elevator. Bridge doesn't comment on my silence. She leaves it alone.

And then we're at the apartment door.

And then it's opening.

And then he's there. Grinning. Shouting hello. Reaching in for a hug.

I'm numb, stuck in the doorway.

Ollie leans in, hesitating just a moment, barely enough to notice, but I do. I see the hitch in his movement, normally smooth. But a second later, his arms wrap around me, pulling me close.

I forget to breathe.

In a flash, my mind imagines another time when we were this close. Skin to skin. No clothing between us. No tension.

But now I'm stiff as a board.

"Hey, Skye, welcome back," he whispers into my ear. And then he pulls back, eyes the color of a stormy sea as they squint at me, confused.

My grip on my bag tightens. A lifeline.

"Hey, Ollie," I murmur.

Breathe.

Walk past him and breathe.

I do, beelining to my room, gulping in air as soon as the door closes behind me.

Get a grip, Skye.

I shake my head, pulling my hair tight as I run my fingers through it. Just ignore him. Ignore that feeling. I've done it before and I can do it again. I have to. Still whispering a pep talk, I change into sweatpants and then straighten my shoulders, feigning confidence as I march back into the living room.

"Everything okay?" Ollie asks, eyes finding me before I've even stepped fully through the doorway, as though he was watching and waiting for me.

"Yeah," I sigh, energizing my tone. "I was just telling Bridge about some news with my dad, no big deal."

His eyes brighten. Relief flashes over his irises, lightning to break up the clouds. At least, I think it was relief because his entire body slackens, tension unraveling, and he tosses a heart-wrenching grin in my direction, lifting just one corner of his lips.

My gaze stays on his mouth, feeling the ghostly touch of those lips pressed against mine, trailing a line across my skin, making me shiver. But then I remember something else, the words that fell out, the few sentences that managed to break my heart more thoroughly than any other words I can remember.

I drop my eyes to the floor.

"Skye?" Ollie asks, stepping closer, voice full of concern.

I snap up, smiling. "What?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head. "Nothing."

"We need a Christmas tree," Bridge announces as she steps into the room, decked out in red snowflake pajamas and reindeer slippers. I step back from Ollie, needing space.

"That's a great look on you, sis," he mutters, shifting his expression to a more humorous one.

"Skye has the matching set," Bridge says, shrugging.

I nod, regretfully. "I do. We bought them for a party in college."

"Put them on," Bridge urges. "I have a surprise."

"A surprise that requires me to wear reindeer slippers?" I mutter. Bridge glares at me. I sigh, rolling my eyes, and return to my room, happy for the moment away from Ollie to breathe, to bring my body speed back to normal. When I emerge in my matching set—can I just say I forgot how ridiculously comfortable these slippers are—Ollie is standing in the middle of the room wearing a Santa hat and a pained expression.

"Do you know what she's doing?" he asks.

I shrug. "Nope."

But the distraction of Bridge and of the holidays is welcome, necessary to keep my mind busy, to prevent it from wandering.

A moment later, a scratching noise catches my attention. The scrape of plastic on wood. Then an exerted grunt. And then, Bridge calls from her bedroom, "Um, a little help here, guys."

"This seems like a job for an older brother," I say to Ollie with a teasing grin.

He rolls up his sleeves, flexing his muscles. I try not to stare, but I can't help it. He's gone before he's even got the chance to notice my attention, and for a moment, it feels like high school all over again. Me pining. Ollie ignorant of the attention. And I'm not sure what that means. But I don't have time to harp on it, because two seconds later, the McDonough siblings emerge with a huge plastic box.

"What the heck is that?"

"My surprise," Bridge exclaims, excitement bubbling, contagious.

I grin, suddenly recognizing where I've seen that box before. "You brought that thing all the way to New York?"

She nods gleefully.

"What?" Ollie asks.

But it's too late, Bridge and I are both reaching for the lid, ripping it off, revealing the bright white artificial pine underneath. An uncontrollable smile widens my lips and I realize I'm giggling as I dig through the contents, pulling out tinsel and garlands and strands upon strands of lights.

"What in god's name is that?" Ollie asks from over my shoulder, disgust heavy.

"Our Christmas tree!" Bridge chirps.

Ollie just shakes his head. "Christmas trees should be green. And real. No pine smell, no Christmas tree."

"Lighten up," Bridge says, rolling her eyes. "Skye and I got this two years ago. The theater kids were going to throw everything away since the university decided to cut any shows that weren't secular, so we grabbed all the Christmas gear they had."

"Yeah, Bridge was working as a set designer, so they let her take everything. And then we threw an amazing holiday party—the white tree was a hit. Everyone said we were so vintage."

"More like cheap," Ollie mutters.

Bridge and I both shake our heads, smiling to each other. And for a second, life seems to go back to normal. Three amigos just like Bridge is always saying.

"Okay, Ollie put the tree together. Skye, start unraveling the lights. I'll supply the tunes."

"Why do I have to put this atrocity together?" Ollie asks, crossing his arms. But even he can't hide the little smile pulling at his lips.

Bridge hands him the base of the tree. "Because you're a pain in my ass. Just do it."

He crouches down, separating the many individual branches by size, unfurling the wires, and shaking his head. "How old is this thing? Don't they have fold out ones now? You know, pull a crank and voila—Christmas tree."

I nudge his shoulder with my hip. "What's the fun in that?"

He meets my gaze and winks. I try to ignore the sparkler bursting to life in my chest, sending a wave of thrills down my arms.

Concentrating on the lights proves to be a welcome distraction, and I lose myself in weaving through knots, pulling wires through loops, undoing the web. Christmas music fills the apartment and soon enough the smell of sugar cookies drifts to my nose. Bridge has a weakness for cookie decorating. I shake my head as the sweet scent grows stronger—how in the world did she sneak all of this stuff in here without my realizing?

"Almost ready with the lights?" Ollie asks, catching me off guard.

I flinch, eyes lifting from my lap to find the tree perfectly constructed and ready to be decorated. It takes up about a third of our living room, but I don't care. Holiday cheer has wiggled its way into my heart, and it sort of makes everything seem okay. "Sure."

I walk over, handing Ollie the strand of lights I just neatly looped around my arm—which really, this is the first time my cast has come in handy. But that thought vanishes as our fingers graze. My heart flips, stilling my breath, as he takes the strand from my hold.

"Do you want to help?" he murmurs.

I nod.

We stand on opposite sides of the tree, and for the next few minutes, only the soft strain of caroling fills the room. Ollie and I pass the lights back and forth, fingers touching, igniting sparks along my skin each time. We finish one strand, add another. And then we move to the rest of the room, using clear tape to line the walls, finding one of those icicle strands for the space above the television.

"So, how was your Thanksgiving?" he finally asks, breaking the silence.

I shrug. "Good." But my mouth has suddenly run dry. "We ate at your house. It was really nice to see your parents. They missed you." Did I miss him too?

I push the question away.

Ollie lifts the corner of his lip somewhat sadly. "Yeah, the one downside to being a chef. Holidays are sort of the busiest time of the year for work."

"Do you think you'll be able to go home for Christmas?"

He nods. "Yeah, I hope so."

"What'd you do here? All by yourself?" And then I wince, because I didn’t mean to make that sound so pitiful, but it sort of does.

"Honestly? Sleep." He releases a soft laugh. "And think. I did a lot of thinking."

"No Aubrey?" I ask, not really sure why.

"Uh, no," he murmurs. "No, I ended things with her. There just wasn't that spark, you know?"

I don't reply.

Because of course, I know. And that's the whole problem.

I place tape over the last inch of the lights, trying to ignore the questions springing to life in the back of my thoughts. Ollie presses his fingers over mine, helping to push the tape down. The warmth from his skin radiates. Familiar. On fire.

A spark.

And I can't help it. I glance up. Maybe it's the Christmas colors blinking all around us, but his eyes have never seemed so green before, so rich.

He licks his lips.

Neither of us moves.

And I can't help but notice that the song playing in the background has shifted to Mariah Carey's Christmas classic, "All I Want For Christmas Is You". And if I wasn't entranced by the white lights flickering in Ollie's eyes, I might just roll my own with an exasperated sigh. I mean, the world is totally against me.

"You almost done in there? Cookies are about to go in the oven," Bridge calls from the kitchen.

I step back, snatching my fingers from beneath his. "Yeah!"

Bridge pokes her head through the doorway, grinning as she scans the room. "A winter wonderland!"

I try to copy her attitude, but my heart is pounding and I don't know where to look, where to go, what to do. In the end, I kneel over the box of decorations, pulling ornaments to hang on the tree, silent once more. Ollie helps. But the tension that surrounded us before Thanksgiving has returned, and I'm even more acutely aware of his every move than I was before. We're dancing around each other, afraid to get too close—two magnets working on opposite charges, with a certain amount of space constantly between us. While I'm standing by the tree, Ollie waits with the box of ornaments. When I'm done, we switch, maneuvering around the small space with self-conscious chuckles, little sighs that do nothing but hang in the air around us, making it thicker.

And then Ollie breaks the pattern.

"What's this?" he asks, walking to the tree, standing beside me. I look at his hand. My heart skips a beat.

"Mistletoe," I whisper. Because of course, he would find the mistletoe—the one single strand in a huge box of other Christmas decorations. Just my freaking luck. Then to fill the lingering silence, I add, "Bridge and I hung it over the doorway when we had that party."

He nods, runs a hand through his hair, fussing it up perfectly. And then he walks over to our door, hanging the strand above the frame. "Well?"

"Wh-what?" I stumble over the words.

He looks over his shoulder, eyes a clear turquoise once more. Piercing. "Tape?"

"Oh, right." I flinch, remembering the tape dispenser in my pocket. I rip off a piece and walk over, handing it to him.

But Ollie doesn’t take it.

He waits. Watches.

I reach up, careful to avoid touching him as I secure the mistletoe to the door, just barely able to reach the height. And then even though I know I shouldn't, I shift my eyes, gliding ever so slightly from the uncomplicated view of the door to the very complicated view of Ollie's burning expression.

He acts swiftly. I don't even have a chance to move.

We're kissing.

Before I even realize his lips are touching mine, they're gone. And I'm left with only the aftershock, the fire blazing on my skin, sizzling and tingling even though the contact lasted for less than a second and is already gone. I swallow, pulling my trembling fingers from the door, moving in slow motion. The warmth still lingers, mocking me, mocking the feelings I thought I’d gotten rid of a very long time ago.

"Skye," Ollie whispers, voice softer than I've ever heard before. "I'm—"

"I have to go," I interrupt, stepping away, backing up, fleeing to my room. Because I know what he was about to say. I'm sorry. All he ever has for me are apologies that come too little too late. And I don't want to hear them.

"Skye!" he shouts, but I'm already behind the closed door, heaving in air.

"What's going on?" Bridge asks, muffled from the door. My heart sinks. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? Did I know that would happen? With Bridge only ten feet away!

"Nothing," I say back, trying to keep my voice steady. "I just forgot I told Patrick I would come see him tonight. I have to go."

"What did you do?" Bridge asks quietly, but I still hear, and I know exactly who that question is directed to. I stop midway through pulling a pair of jeans on. Ollie takes a moment to answer and I wish I could see his expression, but it's far away, on the other side of the door I felt was necessary to put between us.

"Nothing." He sighs. Denial. Good. But then he adds, "Nothing I regret, anyway."

Well, great.

What the heck does that mean?

"What are you talking about?" Bridge asks, voice as sassy as ever. And really, I want to hug her with gratitude. Go get him!

But I'm too furious to speak.

How dare he kiss me! How dare he, like nothing happened, like it's no big deal, with his sister—my best friend!—in the next room. I mean, the nerve! The sheer arrogance!

I shove my pants on, wincing a little as the zipper pinches my skin, but I'm in lightning speed mode. I need to get out of here. Away from him. Before I punch him in the face, and then Bridge will really know something is going on.

I take a deep breath, letting my hand hover over the knob, and then open the door. Bridge is glaring at Ollie. And Ollie, well he looks confused. His brows are pinched tight with concern, but a smug smile widens his lips. And that just makes the anger raging beneath my skin burn brighter. But I shove it down and smile because there is one thing more important than my fury and that's making sure Bridge remains ignorant of the situation. Because she can never, never know.

"Bridge, honestly, Ollie didn’t do anything. I just realized I'm late to see Patrick. I totally forgot." My voice is surprisingly chipper, deceptively easygoing—something I've never been able to attribute to my words before.

Ollie's eyes darken.

For the first time today, I successfully ignore him, throwing my arms around Bridge's neck and squeezing her for a tight hug. "Thanks for being the best roommate ever. Save me a cookie for when I get home tonight."

She clasps her hands behind my back, returning the embrace. "Will do. Have fun with your hunk of a man. If I had one, I'd be doing the same thing."

I roll my eyes but can't stop the little grin that sprouts, puffing my cheeks. And then I leave, walking out the door without a single look back. As soon as I make my way to the elevator and out the lobby, I can breathe again. I suck in deeply, letting the crisp winter air fill my lungs, liberating me from the stale air of the apartment a few stories above my head. My heartbeat slows to normal, and I feel free for the first time in days.

I don't really know what I want to do or where I want to go. My goal was just to escape, and I have. But I find myself wandering to the pharmacy, grabbing a few little Christmas decorations from the dollar shelf, and then boarding the subway heading uptown.

I've only been to Patrick's apartment once before—he cooked me dinner. But I think I know the way. And a little while later, his charmingly surprised face opens the door, mouth dropping before widening to a swoon-worthy grin. And I might swoon, just a little.

Before he can say anything, I plop a Santa hat on his head and hold up the gingerbread house kit I bought at the store. "Surprise?" I say and shrug.

"Best surprise I've had in a while," he murmurs, grabbing my hand, pulling me inside and against his chest. The heat from his skin is warm, comforting. Not a raging inferno, something more manageable. Something I can handle. And when his lips land on mine, I sink into the kiss instead of running away, because his touch sends a little spark down my spine. Not enough to drive me wild, not enough to make my brain stop functioning, but maybe it's better this way. He's not a storm pulling me under against my will. He's a choice I'm making for myself.

And as we fall onto the couch, lips still locked, my thoughts have a second to wander to another choice I could make. To the clothes packed in my handbag just in case I decide to spend the night. Just in case I decide I'm ready.