Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"

Автор книги: Kay Marie

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

 

Patrick and I don't speak about his parents again. I mean, radio silence. As the Christmas season passes, we get sugar-high on hot chocolate, ice skate, go shopping, see a holiday show, have a wicked snowball fight, but we don’t speak a word about that night. And I have no idea what that means.

 

 

I haven't been alone with Ollie since the mistletoe incident—as that moment will henceforth be known. Sure, I've seen him—I mean, we live together. There's no way around that. But if he's in the kitchen, I'm in the living room. If Bridget's not home, I'm safe behind the closed door of my bedroom. And right now, stepping through the front door of the McDonough home for Christmas Eve dinner, I don’t ever want to leave my mother's side.

"Look at your hand!" Bridge calls as soon as we step through the door.

I hold my wrist up, grinning. "No more cast, no more splint! My mom and I went to the doctor this morning."

She runs a finger over my wilted skin. "It looks…"

"I know." I shake my head, flexing my stiff muscles. The skin around my wrist is pasty white, like sickly, and the entire area is noticeably smaller than my other wrist. "It looks disgusting."

"No." She shakes her head, grabbing my other hand to pull me inside. "It looks like a Christmas miracle."

I lift an eyebrow, asking, "Did you get started on the eggnog a little early?"

Bridge pauses. "Maybe…"

But we've entered the kitchen before I can respond, and I'm immediately pulled into two enthusiastic embraces.

"Hi, Mr. and Mrs. McDonough. Merry Christmas," I murmur into the sweaters my face has been pressed into. Ollie remains on the other side of the room, idly stirring a pot on the stovetop. He glances in my direction, but I think he knows I don't want him to come any closer.

"It's so nice to have everyone together." Bridge's mom sighs, looking around with a goofy smiled plastered across her lips. "I don't think all six of us have been in a room together in years."

Four and a half years, if we're being exact. But who's counting?

My eyes drop away from Ollie and I lean into my mom's shoulder. The conversation turns to the multitude of Christmas cards taped to the fridge, half of which my mom designed for locals—McDonough family included. I listen politely, smiling, just taking comfort in my mom's presence. Or well, I was, until my eyes veered to the right and ran into Bridge's wide, imploring expression.

"What?" I mouth at her.

But Bridge doesn't say anything. She just opens her eyes wider. I sigh, stealing away from the nice warm spot on my mom's shoulder, and cross the kitchen to the kid's side. I settle into a spot next to Bridge, a little too close to Ollie, who seems suspiciously unaware of our presence.

"What?" I ask again.

"You're not the only one with news," she says, and then stops, eyes dancing. My lips twitch with anticipation. Bridge leans in, whispering, "I got a date for the New Year's Eve party."

"Who?"

"You know that guy I was telling you about from my gym?"

I raise my brows. "You mean the guy who can do one handed pull-ups and caught you drooling last week?"

"I was not drooling," she says, slapping my arm lightly. "That was a bead of sweat that just happened to start at the corner of my lips and make a painstakingly slow trip to the floor."

"Mm-hmm, sure it was."

"Anyway…" Bridge draws the last syllable out like it deserves its own sentence. "The gallery was closed this morning, but I decided to wait until Ollie got off work so I could come home with him. So, I had a few hours to spare and decided to test my luck at the gym. Low and behold, Mr. Hottie was there and right next to him was an open treadmill. So—"

"Let me guess, you did some stretching first?" I interject, trying to hide my grin.

Bridge bites her lip. "Light stretching, maybe."

"Did you wear that spaghetti strap shirt you claim is for working out but is really for showing an ample amount of cleavage?"

"Potentially…"

I can’t help it, a little snicker squeaks out. "That's like the third date that shirt has landed for you."

"What?" She huffs. "Name the first two times."

I roll my eyes. "Bridge, come on. Freshman year, you found out when the lacrosse team had weight lifting training and went in booty shorts and that shirt."

She chews on her lip for a moment, and then grins. "Okay, but he was gorgeous. And an athlete. And we got into a lot of parties because of that little fling. What's the second time?"

"Do you really want me to say?"

"Please don't," Ollie mutters as he opens the oven, checking on the beef. Aha! So he is listening in. Sneak.

Bridge ignores him, waiting for my response. Oh well, she asked for it.

"Junior year, yoga on the quad?"

Immediately, a giggle fit bursts from her lips. "I totally forgot about that. I asked you to do yoga with me, and you showed up in gym shorts and a T-shirt, and then accidentally flashed the entire quad during downward facing dog. Classic."

"Yeah," I mutter, "and somehow you're still the one who ended up with a date."

Ollie snorts.

Bridge shrugs.

I roll my eyes.

All pretty standard reactions. And for a moment, I actually think maybe things can return to normal, someday at least. Maybe—

"Hey, Bridge," Ollie asks, looking over his shoulder while he stirs a pot of boiling potatoes, testing how soft they are. "Can you do me a favor and find the oven mitts? Mom bought new ones and left them in some shopping bag in the garage. I want to see the temperature on the meat. And I need to put the popovers in."

"Sure," she chirps, shooting me an apologetic look before she walks off.

And then I realize the one thing I didn’t want to happen is happening.

I'm alone with Ollie.

I mean, not really because our parents are fifteen feet away and Bridge is fluttering around. But there's no one else in earshot. And I'm more afraid of his words than anything else.

"Um, I'll help," I quickly add, slipping from the stool I had propped myself onto.

"Wait, Skye," Ollie says, forgetting the stovetop to give me his full attention. "Come here for a second."

But I don't move.

He shakes his head. "Would you just get over here? I'm not going to bite."

"That's not what I'm worried about," I whisper, and then wince. Stupid.

Ollie's expression softens. "I'm not going to do that either."

"Good," I respond, even as my heart sinks just a little. Barely even anything. Except I notice it, and I don't really want to think about what it means. So I step next to him, leaning over the food, arm an inch away from his. And even with the heat of the steam and the food, I can pick out that special prickle of awareness, that little spark telling me Ollie is near.

"What's going on?" I ask, eyes stuck to the potatoes floating in the water, the vegetables steaming, the gravy brewing.

"Well, I told Bridge on the train ride here, and I just wanted to tell you myself rather than have you hear it from her."

At that, I do look up.

His shaggy black-brown hair is in disarray, curled from the steaming kitchen, tumbling over his forehead as he keeps his gaze concentrated on the food—concentrated down. I wonder if he doesn’t want to look at me, or if it's that he can't. But I can look at him, and I do. I stare. His skin glistens from the moisture, making the contours of his face stand out even more than usual. Especially the rugged lines of his jaw, flexed and tense. I watch his hands, the authority with which they move, flipping and stirring, in complete command. And I know from experience that cooking isn't all those hands know how to do.

"What, Ollie?" I prod.

"It's nothing serious." He shrugs, still not meeting my eyes. "It's just—I'm moving out."

"What?" The word blurts out. I blink once, twice, in total shock.

He's moving out?

"I'm moving out," he repeats, almost as though he can read my thoughts.

And then he looks up.

Damn those eyes. Those perfect, entrancing blue eyes.

I lose myself in them. And this time, my heart doesn't just sink a little. It plummets. Crashes to the ground.

"I just figured since it's almost the new year, I should let you and Bridge live with one of your friends and find my own place. I told her I would wait until you have someone new lined up. I don't want you two to get bogged down by the rent. But she said she has a friend she might be able to ask, so I just wanted you to be informed this time. I wouldn't want someone else to surprise you in the middle of a rant—I'm sure once was more than enough."

One corner of his lip lifts, a small grin, a secret one meant only for me.

But I can't process it. My mind is moving in slow motion. Surprise me in a rant? And then I remember, the virgin sex columnist confession—the first time I saw him in four years. He's just joking.

But my tongue feels heavy, unable to respond. My nerves are frozen. And it can only mean one thing. In my heart, I really don't want him to go. Because I know something scary—forgetting Oliver McDonough is impossible, but avoiding him is frighteningly easy. Before he surprised me in our kitchen, I hadn’t seen him in four years. Even living together, I was able to barely speak to him for the past three weeks. If he moves out, there's a very real possibility that I won't see him again for months—that I won’t see him again period. Is that what I want?

Staring into his turquoise eyes, my chest is thumping—no, no, no.

But remembering a different night, my head is screaming yes.

"Skye?" he asks.

I swallow, blink. One instant of dark, and the connection is broken, I look away—I seal my mind shut.

"Thanks for letting me know," I answer with a voice unrecognizable to my ears. For the first time ever, my tone sounds unaffected by his presence, by his words. It's shockingly light—the complete opposite of the turmoil churning my stomach into knots. "It was only a matter of time, right? You wouldn't want to live with your little sister and her best friend forever."

Ollie leans back. "Yeah, yeah I guess you're right."

"Where are you going to move?" I ask conversationally, words completely detached, as though someone else is speaking with my lips. "Closer to the restaurant?"

He looks at me for a moment, narrows his gaze, flinches just slightly. And then I lose him. His clear eyes return to the food. "I haven’t really thought about it yet. Maybe."

"It'll probably make commuting easier."

"Yeah."

"Though midtown can be pretty expensive."

"That's true."

"Unless you're going to find another roommate."

"I probably will."

"Anyone from work?"

I wait for a short response, but it never comes. A moment of silence passes, and then he drops the wooden spoon on the stovetop, abandoning his meal, and runs his hand through his already disheveled hair. Like always, he only makes it look better, more wild, more untamable. "So you're okay with this?"

I really don't know what he expects. As always with Ollie, I have no clue what he wants from me. So I say what's safe, what's best for me. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He runs his hand through his hair again, teal eyes darkening, every bit of sparkle gone. "I don't know, Skye." He looks down, picks up the spoon, and gets back to dinner. "I really don't."

"Found it!" Bridget shouts, stomping into the kitchen with the fury of a hurricane about to hit the shore. I flinch, pulled immediately back to my surroundings. The bubble around Ollie and me bursts. "Mom, seriously, next time you go shopping and buy vital cooking supplies, you have to remember to bring the bag inside."

"The mitts!" Her mom winces, looking at the bright red oven mitts in Bridget's hand. "Is the roast okay?"

"It's fine, Mom." Ollie shrugs.

"What about the milk?" she asks.

Bridge just shakes her head, holding up a carton of milk with her other hand. "You smell it."

"I'm sure it's okay," Bridge's dad says, stepping forward to take the milk from his frustrated daughter's hand before she chucks it at him. "It's been below zero every day this week, the garage may as well be a refrigerator."

"Hey, kids, come take a look at this," my mom says, pulling our attention to the desk in the corner of the kitchen. She's holding out a frame. "Is this a new one, Claire? I don't remember seeing it last time I was here."

Mrs. McDonough nods. "I was going through the old albums last week and switched out some of the picture frames. Isn't that one just perfect? It's how I'll probably always think of the three of them."

Bridge gets there first. "Oh god," she snorts, but it's affectionate and warm. Then she hands the photo to me. I take the frame in my hands, smoothing my fingers along the wood, flipping it so it's right side up. A half sigh, half laugh escapes my lips, just a puff of nearly soundless air.

Bridge and I are dressed in princess costumes—I'm Belle obviously, book nerd with dreams of traveling the world. And she's Cinderella—the rebel who sneaks out of the house, hijacks her way into a royal ball and lands the prince in the process. Total Bridge move. And behind our oblivious smiles is Ollie with a devilish grin, using his fingers to prop bunny ears behind our heads.

"Let me see," adult Ollie says, leaning over my shoulder, breath tickling my neck. I don't move for fear I might accidently touch him. And after a moment, he steps back. "I think I remember that. I'm pretty sure I pelleted you guys with my Nerf gun afterward, and then got sent to my room cause one hit Bridge in the eye."

"You did," Mrs. McDonough says, sneaking up behind us and slapping Ollie in the side of the head.

"Ow, Mom," he complains as he rubs the spot. "That was like fifteen years ago."

"And I smacked you then too," she teases. Then she wraps her arm around my shoulder, pulling me against her side. A place I've been many, many times. A place almost as familiar as the embrace of my own mother. "And poor Skylar, always stuck in the middle of my two ornery children."

"Please," Bridge chimes, "Skye was never stuck in the middle. She's always been on my side. The right side, obviously."

Her mom squeezes me tighter, holds for a moment, and then releases. I look around at the five familiar faces and know without a doubt that this is where I belong. In this kitchen, with these people, part of this family. And I can't do anything to mess that up. With one last fleeting glance at Ollie, I smile at Bridge. She's right. The only time I wasn't on her side was four and a half years ago, and you and I both know how great that turned out for me.

"Sorry, Ollie. Two against one," I say.

He looks at me. And for a moment, I expect to see the same expression on his face as the one he has in the photograph I'm holding in my hands. Devilish. Gleaming. Challenging. Filled with the barest sparkle of hope—the hint that he hasn’t given up on me, that I haven't given up on him, or maybe that we haven't given up on each other, not yet.

I want to see it.

I'm terrified to see it.

But when I meet Ollie's turquoise eyes, the mischievous boy I used to love is gone. He's a man. Hardened. Distant. Someone I barely recognize.

Then he blinks.

The moment passes.

In a flash, the Ollie I know returns. He grins, gaze shifting to Bridge.

"You know what, sis?" he asks. She shrugs, raising her eyebrows with obvious attitude. "That's never stopped me before."

Out of nowhere he produces a spatula, pulls it back and releases. Everyone in the kitchen watches as the glob of mashed potatoes sails across the room, arching in slow motion, only to land with a splat on the center of Bridget's forehead.

We all freeze.

The cream mass holds steady for a moment and then slides, halting on the tip of Bridget's nose, drawing a trail of white residue down the center of her face before it falls. And falls. And falls. And—

Plop.

"Ollie!" Bridge screams.

He's already running. And now she's running. And because I'm so used to it, because it's second nature, because maybe I want to forget that look I saw on his face only a few moments ago, I'm running too. And it should feel just like old times, just like when we were kids. But it doesn't.

Something's changed.

Something I don't think I'll ever be able to undo.

 

I've never gotten a proper New Year's kiss—so lame, I know. My ex John and I were always apart on Christmas break. He with his family, me with mine. So I'm especially determined to make this New Year's count. In more ways than one.

 

 

I'm in a room full of people, yet somehow I feel totally and utterly alone. Isn't that just the most bizarre thing you've ever heard? I have my boyfriend and my best friend. What else could a girl need to help ring in the New Year with a bang?

On second thought, don’t answer that.

You know too much.

"Let's dance," Bridge shouts over the music, pulling me from our safe spot in the booth Patrick reserved and dragging me into the wilds of the club.

We wiggle our way through tightly pressed bodies, only stopping when we find a small pocket of space in the crowd, just large enough for two. I move with the music, swaying my hips as best I can, lifting my arms in the air, trying to dislodge the uneasy feeling stiffening my muscles.

"Spill!" Bridge shouts, leaning close to my ear before spinning around.

I shrug. "What?"

"I've known you long enough to know when you're being silent because you have nothing to say, and when you're being silent because you're too afraid to speak." And then she squeezes her brows, face filling with concern. "Is it Patrick? Did you guys—"

"No," I interrupt before she can finish the thought.

But then her eyes widen and she latches onto my fingers, pulling me closer. Someone behind us whistles, a jerk expecting to get a show. But Bridge ignores the catcall, placing her lips almost against my ear, asking, "Is he pressuring you?"

"No!" I jerk back, shaking my head. "Not at all."

"Well, because I want you to know that if you're not ready, he can wait. And if he can't wait, he can be replaced."

I smile at the protectiveness in her tone. "Bridge, really, Patrick is great. I'm just a little tired, there's nothing going on that I can't tell you."

"Promise?" she asks, earnest, holding up her pinky finger.

I latch my pinky finger around hers, tightening the hold, binding the agreement. "Promise."

"Good," she says. And then adds, wiggling her eyebrows, "So, what do you think of my date?"

But before I can answer, the DJ's voice blasts over the music. "One minute until midnight, everyone. Let the countdown begin!" All the screens in the room flash from the view of Times Square to a blinking clock.

Sixty.

Fifty-nine.

Fifty-eight.

"Oh no!" I shout to Bridge. "Did you realize it was so close to midnight?"

"No!" she shouts back.

The booth where Patrick and gym-boy wait is all the way across the club, and it would take far more than a minute to get there.

Fifty-one.

Fifty.

"What should we do?" I ask.

Bridge is chewing on her lip looking around, shrugging. And I know what her silence means. There's nothing we can do. I've ruined yet another New Year's Eve.

Forty-four.

Forty-three.

I look around, eyes scanning the crowd. Maybe Patrick is on his way here. Maybe he'll surprise me. Maybe the night won't be ruined after I put so much hope on starting the new year the right way—as a new me.

Thirty.

Twenty-nine.

My eyes stop, narrowing, zeroing in on a boy turned away from me. His shaggy hair looks liquid black in the strobe lights. His head swivels enough to reveal cream skin illuminated blue then purple then pink. He's looking for someone, just like I am, scanning the crowd. He shifts a little farther.

His nose is familiar. His jaw is too.

Ollie?

Twenty.

Nineteen.

I take a step forward. Is that Ollie?

My heart pounds, louder to my ears than the music, thrumming with anticipation. Did he come for me? And I know the answer to that question is yes, because there's no other reason he would be here, searching the crowd. No other person he would want to find. My fingers tremble. My lips tingle. I want to kiss him at midnight.

I have a boyfriend.

I don't care.

Not when Ollie finally wants me.

Fifteen.

Fourteen.

Ollie turns. My heart stops. Sinks. There's an empty hole where it rested, a concave feeling in my chest. Hollow.

It's not Ollie.

I blink, shaking my head, taking in the face turned fully in my direction. The dark hooded eyes, the light of recognition for finding someone else in the crowd. The jaw, the nose, the lips, all nearly the same. But his eyes. His eyes are totally different.

Idiot. I step back. Of course it's not Ollie. He's never wanted me like that, not like I've wanted him.

Eleven.

And then the entire room pauses, shouting in unison, excitement palpable.

Ten.

Nine.

But I'm fading, disappearing in my own skin, shrinking away from the happiness piercing the room all around me. How could I be so stupid? After everything? Thinking Ollie would come after me—I'm delusional. And I need to get him out of my system, once and for all. I need this year to be different. I need this year to be more.

Six.

Five.

A hand grabs my fingers, twisting me around. And for a moment, I wonder if I was wrong. But it's Patrick. Smiling, wonderful, possibly in love with me, Patrick.

Four.

Three.

"You found me!" I shout.

He grins, honey eyes warm and meant only for me. "Of course."

Two.

I don't wait for midnight. I grab Patrick by the face, crashing his lips against mine, kissing him to make myself forget, to force myself to forget. The room erupts around us as the countdown ends. Noisemakers. Shouts. Fireworks echoing from the television screens overhead. And I know this is when I'm supposed to break away, to speak, to say something.

But I don't.

I wrap my hands around his neck, pressing against Patrick, deepening the kiss. Urgent. And he's the one who breaks away.

"Happy New Year," he whispers.

I breathe heavily into the silence, teetering on a precipice, not sure if I'm ready to fall. But it seems like no matter what I do, I'll be tumbling one way or another.

I meet Patrick's curious gaze with a hungry one all my own.

"Want to get out of here?" I murmur, and then I swallow the knot of panic back down.

His brows lift, surprised, but then he blinks and his whole face softens into a smile. "Yeah. Sure. Let's get out of here."

Half an hour later, he's slipping the key to his apartment into the lock and turning the knob. We don't wait until we're inside. Once the door is open, our lips are locked together.

Patrick kicks the door closed with his foot.

My jacket falls to the ground.

His coat follows.

Then his shirt.

Then my shoes.

And we're stumbling to his bedroom, leaving a trail behind. We stop against the door, him in his boxers, me in my bra and underwear. And I know once we're inside, those are the first things to go. Patrick's hands are exploring my skin. His lips leave a blazing fire down the side of my neck. Even in the heat of this moment, I close my eyes to see the vision of someone else pressing me against the wall, someone else holding me, someone else wanting me.

Turquoise eyes burn behind my lids.

I open, gazing into the hazel eyes before me in real life.

We're both breathing heavily.

We both know it's my move.

I reach back, fumbling with my fingers until they find the metal knob. I turn. The door creaks open behind me, sending a blast of cool air against my bare skin. A shiver shoots up my spine. Goose bumps rise along my arms.

Patrick still waits for my move.

I take a step back, tugging him forward. And he doesn't need any more motivation than that. He doesn't know I'm a virgin. I never felt comfortable enough to tell him. But on some level, he must know something. Because as soon as we cross the threshold, the power shifts and Patrick takes control.

We ease slowly onto his bed.

Smoothly.

There's no awkward movement. Patrick knows exactly what he's doing. Which is good, because I'm diving into unknown territory. And the closer I get to hitting the bottom, the more panicked I become. The heat beneath my skin shifts, constricting my breath. My heartbeat surges, pounding against my chest, painful. I grow dizzy, lightheaded, until I'm barely aware of what's happening around me.

But I press forward.

Every sigh that escapes my lips sounds of pleasure.

I have to do this.

I want to do this.

Patrick pauses above me, and I find his eyes. "Are you ready?" he asks.

Yes.

I want to say it.

One simple word. Yes.

Maybe if I do this, I can finally move on. It's the one thing I haven't tried. I close my eyes, Ollie's face appears. I open and it's Patrick. My eyes shift in rapid succession until the two images begin to blur.

I want to get him out of my head.

I need to.

So I open my lips, fully intending to say yes, but something else comes out instead.

"No."

Patrick recoils.

"I mean…" I shake my head, trying to recover. But my brain rebels. "No," I repeat and then I roll out from underneath him, putting my feet on the floor, grounding myself so I can try to think, can try to work this out in my head.

"What?" Patrick asks, confused. "What do you mean? What was all this tonight then?"

The bed shifts below me, and even though I don't turn around, I know he's fallen onto the mattress, energy zapped.

"I don't know," I say honestly. "I'm just not ready."

"What's the big deal?" he asks, and I can't help but release a soft puff of air, closing my eyes tight. Of course he doesn't understand. Why would he? "We've been together for weeks."

"I know," I murmur, "it's just…" But I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I'm confused about the answer myself.

It's just that I'm a virgin? He'd understand that. He might be freaked out by it, but he would understand why it meant I wasn't ready. But somehow that doesn't feel like the truth, not quite.

It's just that I can't shake this crush on my best friend's brother? Yeah, because Patrick would really be okay with that excuse. And when I think about saying it, the words taste sour on my tongue. Because even though I'm stuck on Ollie, he doesn’t feel like the real reason why I stopped, like the whole reason. There's something else, something I can't wrap my head around.

"What did your parents say about me?" I whisper instead. And I don't know where the words come from, but they sound right rolling over my lips.

"My parents?" he says, dumbfounded. "What does this have to do with my parents?"

I finally turn around, hugging the covers around myself, and fold my knees into my chest. I find his eyes, dark and tumultuous, no longer filled with sweet honey.

"Can you just answer?"

"Fine." He shrugs, exhaling an especially weighty breath before fixing his eyes up, resting on his pillow. "My dad thought you were very sweet with a good head on your shoulders."

"And your mom?" I bite my bottom lip, waiting for the inevitable.

Patrick flicks his gaze down from the ceiling. "Blythe was talking to her about your column."

I nod. I expected as much. "She doesn't approve?"

He doesn't say anything. He just lets his head fall first to one side, then the other, slowly.

"Did you tell her it's not true? That everything I write is an exaggeration?" And even though it would mean Blythe learned the truth, part of me wants him to say yes, part of me wants to hear that he fought for me, for us, that he tried to change her mind.

"No," he whispers. "I figured you had your reasons, it wasn't really my place to out you."

I lick my lips. He was respecting me. And I should be glad about that, but for some reason it just confirms a little feeling I had shoved deep down, one that's rapidly rising back to the surface.

He's prince charming.

I'm Cinderella.

And in the fairy tale, that's great. But in real life, we're from different worlds—ones that don't fit. I don't belong with his parents. I don't see myself ever calling their mansion on the Upper East Side home. Blythe will never feel like a sister to me. And as much as I like Patrick, it's not enough. Maybe if I loved him, maybe then things would be different. But I don't. And I never will.

With perfect clarity, I realize why I'm not ready. Why I said no. And maybe it has something to do with Ollie, but it's about so much more than him. It's about me. It always has been.

"I don't care what my parents think," Patrick says, sitting up, sensing the changing tide.

"I do," I murmur, and then I focus my eyes, finding his alert stare, "and you do too. It's only natural."

"So what are you saying?"

I've never done this before. My tongue feels heavy, my lips fat. I don't want to hurt him, but I can't pretend anymore. "I'm saying I don't see a future between us. And I wish I did, and I tried, but it just isn't there, and that's why I'm not ready. Why I'll never be ready." I pause, taking a deep breath. "I'm saying we're over."

I wait for his protest.

I wait for him to say something mean, to get back at me.

I wait for any sort of reaction.

But his silence speaks louder than any words could. It tells me that he's always known there was no future between us, that he's always seen the expiration date, that we were always just a temporary distraction to him.

The realization hurts more than I thought it would.

"I should go," I whisper. And then I ease off the bed, backtracking, picking up my discarded garments and tugging them back on as I follow the trail back to the door. I shrug into my coat, and then let my hand hover over the doorknob.

But I can't open it.

And I realize I'm waiting.

He needs to say something. Anything.

"Skylar?" Patrick calls and I drop my arm back down, chest constricting and opening at the same time.

I turn.

He leans against the wall, chest bare, elastic shorts hugging his hips, hands settled into his pockets. And part of me wants to take it all back, because he looks good and for a while he was mine. But there's no going back. And a bigger part of me needs to move forward.

I wonder what he'll say. Goodbye? It was fun while it lasted? Or maybe he'll curse at me, spill my secrets to the world, seek revenge. I'm used to messy endings. John and I broke up in a screaming battle—me blinking through tears as I shouted at him to get out, to go to his other girls, to leave me alone. And Ollie broke me in another way, not loud, but through an earth-shattering silence.

Yet Patrick's eyes are soft when he opens his mouth to speak. "I hope you find what you're looking for."