Текст книги "Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist!"

Автор книги: Kay Marie

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

 

I've never been to the hospital. Well, I guess except when I was born. But that doesn't really count, right? I've never had any broken bones or emergencies or anything. Or, at least I hadn’t. Because, well, crap—there goes my perfect record.

 

 

When I say falling, I mean literally, falling.

But my mind is so caught up with the Jell-O shots and that other more figurative falling, that the ground catches me before I catch myself. And by catches me, I mean rams into me like a freight train at full speed.

As soon as I can breathe again, I scream, and I mean scream, at the top of my lungs, in one long extended sound, a word I haven't said in years. Because it's vulgar, and I don't like it, and because too many yearly viewings of A Christmas Story have drilled the lesson home after so long. But I can't help it, it just pops out—a foghorn cutting through the party, reverberating around the walls of the yacht, echoing in my ears again and again.

"Fuck!"

And screw it, I mean it.

But then I stop.

Pause.

My mind catches up to the pain, and I realize I just fell in front of the entire party. And not like a graceful tumble, but a full-on faceplant, a total wipeout. And I'm still lying on the ground in a heap of confused limbs. My butt is definitely straight up in the air.

Crap.

Nobody saw that, right?

I close my eyes, and all I hear is silence. No music. No conversation. Heck, no laughter even. There's only crickets and the slap of the wind against the side of the boat. Well, the crickets might be in my head, but they may as well be real. Slowly, I turn my head to the side, wincing as my forehead scratches against the wooden floor of the boat.

Eyes.

A hundred eyes all on me. At this point there aren’t even bodies connected to them, they're just enormous bulbous pupils staring at me, judging me, illuminated with contained laughter and a shade of pity.

I scramble to sit up.

"Ow. Ow. Ow," I murmur over and over, clutching my wrist to my chest, smiling and cringing at the same time, trying to play it cool. My entire body screams at me to stay still, but the embarrassment burning my chest is stronger, and it's all I can do not to run from the room. The crowd divides, letting me pass easily, and somewhere in the middle, I finally find familiar faces.

"Are you okay?" Bridget whispers, stepping next to me, wrapping an arm around my waist.

"Mentally? No… Physically? Yeah, still no." I sigh.

Patrick appears out of nowhere, putting a hand on my arm. "Skylar, are you hurt? That was, uh, quite the fall."

We finally make it to one of the smaller living areas on the yacht, a place that is gloriously empty. I collapse on the couch, still cradling my limp wrist. "My hand is on fire."

Patrick looks down, wincing. "Do you think you broke it? It's starting to swell."

"Oh, good god," I murmur, letting my head fall against the back of the seat. Only I could break my wrist during karaoke. Let me just repeat that for emphasis…karaoke! I mean, karaoke night is my grandmother's favorite event at her nursing home—she even ditches her wheelchair to perform and has a dance routine. I've seen it! But I can't get through one measly song. What is wrong with me?

A high-pitched snicker makes its way to my ear.

I drop my head to the side, meeting Bridget's eyes. Her mirthful eyes. Great. She's laughing at me. My best friend is laughing at my shame. Then again, if the roles were reversed, I'd probably already be rolling around the floor, so I can't really judge.

"I'm sorry, Skye," she says, and then stops because now that she opened her mouth, a stream of uncontrollable giggles has filtered through.

I glance at Patrick, and Bridge has set him off too.

And now they're both cracking.

I turn my gaze back up to the ceiling, rolling my eyes. "Really, guys? I'm in serious pain here."

Patrick stands, shaking his head and sighing. "I'll go find you some ice and see how far away from port we are."

As soon as he's gone, I turn back to Bridge. "How bad was it?"

She bites her bottom lip, raising her eyebrows.

Crap. That bad?

"I'm a hazard to myself," I murmur.

"No," she says and then drops her head on my shoulder. "You had some drinks, you're on a boat, and you slipped. Grace has never been one of your strong points."

"Gee, thanks," I say wryly.

Bridget just raises her eyebrows even higher.

"Okay, okay, you're right. How's that little thing called empathy working for you?" But I'm grinning too.

"Great," she chimes.

Patrick strolls back in bearing gifts—a bag of ice and some chocolates. Have I told you he's prince charming yet? I've mentioned it, right? Because I don't think he's ever looked so good, Halloween costume and all.

I greedily steal the candy, and then remember I only have the use of one hand. Bridge unwraps a piece of chocolate and hands it to me.

"See, empathy," she whispers.

I snatch the candy.

"Good news," Patrick says and gently lays the bag of ice over my wrist. For a moment, it stings, but then the freeze feels good, numbing some of the pain, cooling the fire beneath my skin. "Apparently, the party was about to end anyway. We're five minutes away from docking. So as soon as we get off, we can take you to the hospital to get your hand checked out."

"You don't need to do that," I say, turning to him. "Bridget can take me, I don't want to ruin your whole night."

But he doesn’t respond, he just leans forward and kisses me instead. I'll take that reply anytime! Suddenly, the pain doesn’t seem too bad anymore. His lips are the perfect distraction.

"I'm going to go find Ollie," Bridget murmurs, easing off the couch.

Normally, I'd feel bad forcing her from the room, but I'm too wrapped up as Patrick slips into her spot, hardly breaking the kiss as his arm lands across my shoulder, gently tugging me closer without jostling my wrist.

But then he pulls back, eyes focused on mine.

"So, you and that guy?"

"Huh?" I whisper, in a daze, completely confused by the shift. "What guy?" And then I remember the song, the duet, Ollie and I on stage but in a world all our own. I bite my lip, widening my eyes and trying to look shocked. "You mean Ollie?"

"Is something going on?" he asks with a hint of vulnerability in his tone, one I'm not at all used to from him.

I place my uninjured palm against his cheek, locking our gazes so he knows I'm telling the truth. "No. There's nothing going on. Ollie is practically my brother. I've known him for my entire life."

And I think for the first time, I actually really want to mean those words. They're not an afterthought or an excuse, they're more like a prayer, a hope that one day they'll honestly be true.

"Good." Patrick lifts one corner of his lips, cockiness back full force. But I prefer it that way—on him, it looks good. And then he kisses me again. But it ends far too soon when a cough in the corner of the room pulls both of our attentions away just a moment later.

And of course, it's Ollie.

How long has he been there?

"Hey, sis," he says.

Wonderful. I guess that answers my question.

"Bro!" Bridge slaps him on the arm as she walks past, pushing him out of the doorway, before taking a seat. "We're pulling in. Ready to make our grand exit?"

"I'm not so sure I'm ready for a grand anything," I mumble.

"I heard your stage exit was pretty grand," Ollie drawls, grinning. "I'm heartbroken I missed it."

"Where did you run off to so quickly?" I ask.

But before he can answer, the boat shudders, coming to a somewhat jerky stop. And a second later, partygoers stream in, searching for coats and purses, taking one last drink, and then trickling out, asking each other where to go next.

Anyone up for the emergency room?

No? No takers?

I ease off the couch, using Patrick's hand as an anchor as he helps pull me up.

"I have your purse," Bridge says, coming to my other side. Ollie and Aubrey follow silently behind. And then all five of us join the masses and walk slowly down the steps, across a ramp, and back onto solid ground.

Poof.

Just like that, the magic of the night is over.

"Shoes?" Patrick asks, looking at the footwear lined up along the edge of the dock. Most of it is picked over, and he finds his boat shoes easily. Bridget eases into her heels. Ollie finds his boots. Aubrey slips into a pair of sneakers. And me? I stare at the red pumps Bridget forced me to don for the evening, wondering if I can put enough hatred into one glance to set them on fire. Or maybe telekinesis. I would happily send them tumbling over the edge and into the river if I could.

Bridge follows my line of sight. "Oh…right."

"Yup." I sigh. Bring on the pain. But a moment later, I'm airborne. "Wha…?"

I look up into Patrick's smiling face, nice and cozy in his strong arms. Which really—the boy's got muscles. He doesn't look strained at all. Let me just say, John tried lifting me multiple times while we were dating and I'm lucky to still be alive. But Patrick…well, he can whisk me off my feet any time he wants.

"You already broke one wrist this evening, I think we should cut our losses," he says. I just shrug, happily kicking my bare feet, and wrap my one available arm around his neck. And though I feel Ollie's eyes boring a hole into my side, I don't give into temptation to turn around and look.

He has Aubrey.

I have Patrick.

Everything is exactly how it should be…until we hail a cab.

"I'm coming," Ollie growls as Bridget pushes him away from the door.

"Just take Aubrey home, or go out and have a good time. Either way, we're fine. Skye has me and she has Patrick, really you don't have to come."

I sigh from my spot in the cab, watching the meter begin to tick, and am half tempted to close the door and leave all four of them behind.

Ollie scoffs in Patrick's direction. "She's known him for, what? Three weeks? I don't trust this guy. I'm coming."

"Back off, man," Patrick growls.

Bridget just rolls her eyes. "Stop being so overprotective. We're fine."

Ollie ignores her, stepping closer to Patrick—a little too close, challengingly close. "Look, I've known Skye since she was five, and I've never let anything happen to her." Well, that's not exactly true, I silently charge—he knows exactly what he's let happen to me. We both do. But Ollie doesn’t even pause, he just barrels on. "If anyone is going to help take her to the hospital to make sure she's okay, it's going to be me."

"Well, Patrick is her boyfriend, so I think he can handle it," Bridget says, tugging on Ollie's arm.

And then everyone pauses.

I start silently choking in the backseat.

What did I say before, about the boyfriend conversation only happening in awkward sober conversations or totally drunken slips? Yeah…crap.

"Bridge!" I hiss. She looks at me with a broken expression, clearly aware the situation is getting away from her.

"Since when are you her boyfriend?" Ollie spits.

"Since now," Patrick replies.

Wait, what?

I grin.

"Oh, give me a break." Ollie crosses his arms. I can’t help but notice Aubrey is shrinking in the corner, looking at me with some concern.

Okay, time for me to step in.

"People!" I shout, a little louder than I intended, but the ice has almost completely melted and the pain in my hand has turned to a throbbing pulse. "Remember me, the one who needs to go to the hospital?"

They all jolt, shocked, turning to look at me. And I realize—yes, they did completely forget about me. Wonderful. What better saviors could a girl ask for?

"Okay, Patrick, get in the car," Bridget says, giving him a shove and then blocking the doorway. "Don’t leave, just give me two minutes to talk to Ollie." And then she slams the door on his face. Well, almost.

"I do not like that guy," Patrick mutters. And I mean, I can't say I blame him.

"He just…" I trail off with a sigh. How do I finish this? He just what? Truthfully, I have no clue what could possibly have gotten into him. Ollie was the most popular guy in high school. The captain of the football team. That guy every girl was in love with and every guy wanted to hang out with. He didn’t get in fights. Ever. Well, except with some of Bridget's boyfriends, but that was like a macho big brother thing…

Wait?

Is that what's happening? Does Ollie really think of me like a little sister? I mean really? After everything…

I shake my head.

Doesn't matter. For now, it's as good an excuse as anything.

"He's just really protective of Bridget and me. Like he said, he's known me since I was five. And I mean, Bridget and I were best friends from the start, playdates every day, doing all the same clubs, and Ollie was with us most of that time. He's always been super overprotective about any guys Bridget or I see, and," I pause, biting my lip, unsure of how much to say. But the words just tumble out anyway. "And Ollie was there when my parents got divorced, there to cheer me up when I snuck through Bridget's bedroom window at two in the morning because my mom and dad were fighting again. He saw me cry, a lot, and I think he just doesn’t want to see me get hurt like that again."

And I know what I'm saying is true. But when I think of the top three worst times of my life, there's no question what they are—my parents' divorce, when my grandfather passed away, and how I felt after everything went down with Ollie over four years ago. Which is funny really, because I dated John for more than three years before I found out he cheated, and what Ollie did was still worse—far, far worse to my heart.

And now he's here. Pretending like a few weeks of living together has erased all of the history, has given him back the right to be overprotective of me, when it hasn’t. Not by a long shot.

"Okay," Bridget says as she opens the door, shocking me from the dark direction of my thoughts, pulling me back to the real world. "So, Ollie and Aubrey just left. And to top it all off, I think I thought of a great way to solve this whole mix up."

Patrick and I look at each other, both slightly confused.

"What mix up?" I ask.

"Well, I mean," she says with a shrug, "isn't it obvious? The whole Patrick, Ollie mix up. Clearly the two of you haven’t gotten off to a great start, which trust me, my brother can be an ass sometimes so I totally understand. But if you and Skye are going to keep dating, then you and Ollie need to be friends. Well, not even friends, just civil with each other."

"Bridge…" I growl. "What did you do?"

"Nothing, I just set you all up on a double date for next weekend. That way all four of you can get some quality time. Though, between you and me, I don't really think Aubrey is going to last." She rolls her eyes, frowning as though to say typical.

But I'm still caught on her last words. "You set us up on a what?"

"A double date, the four of you. Ollie has an early shift at the restaurant on Saturday, so I thought dinner or something that night would be perfect. I mean, if you can make it, Patrick."

I glance at Patrick, whose jaw has also fallen slack. His eyes find mine, widening with some alarm.

"You set me, Patrick, Ollie, and Aubrey up on a date?" I repeat.

"Did you hit your head during the fall?" Bridget asks, eyebrows rising higher by the second. "A double date. Yes. You, Patrick, Ollie, and Aubrey."

"And Ollie agreed to this?" I question.

"Actually, he came up with the idea."

I lean back against my seat, deflated. Why am I not surprised? More importantly, what the heck is he planning?

"Saturday night you said?" Patrick asks, turning to Bridget. She nods. "I can do Saturday night."

And there's just a little bit too much joy in those words. My questioning changes—just what in the heck is Patrick planning?

"Skylar, does Saturday work for you?" he asks. I narrow my eyes, trying to read his expression. But I can't. He might apparently be my boyfriend, but I still haven't known him long enough to decipher what meaning hides behind the green flames in his eyes, sparkling with some sort of mischief.

Every fiber of my being urges me to say no. No! Just say it, come on. Nip it in the bud. But of course, this pops out instead, "Um, sure."

I really am a glutton for punishment.

Ugh.

A few minutes later we arrive at the emergency room, which really looks more like rejected circus performers anonymous with all of the bright colors and costumes. Patrick, Bridget, and I settle in between Dracula and Medusa, waiting our turn to see a doctor. And all I think as I ease into my chair, is holy crap, it's going to be a long night. And I'm not sure if I'm talking about this one, or the double date I just barricaded myself into.

I repeat. Ugh.

 

There is one benefit to knowing someone for your entire life. Sure, Ollie has dirt on me. And well, a lot of it, because as you know, I have issues. But I also have dirt on him. Oh you know, just little things like he used to let Bridge and I braid his hair—butterfly clips, fake pink hair strands, glittery ties, the whole shebang. And, yes, before you ask, I have the photos to prove it. Dirt!

 

 

"Do we need to lay some ground rules for the evening?" I ask Ollie as we step onto the elevator. My nerves are totally shot. I've been worrying about tonight for the past two days, ever since I last saw Patrick on Thursday. Which makes it even more infuriating that Ollie seems completely at ease by my side—lazy smile, lazy gait, suspiciously good-natured attitude.

I want to throttle him.

"What sorts of rules?" He leans forward to press the button, just barely grazing my shoulder with his arm. I step away, out of reach.

"Hmm, I don't know, maybe that you aren't allowed to shout at Patrick or go psycho big brother on him?" I accuse, glaring at him.

"Okay." He shrugs, turquoise eyes slipping over to mine, hidden under the layer of dark hair that's fallen over his forehead. "Then rule number two is you're not allowed to gawk at Aubrey."

I step back, arching my eyebrows. "I did not gawk!"

He drops his jaw, staring at me with a vacant expression, letting his entire body go slack, drooping his head forward. And okay, I admit, it's a rather good impression of what I probably looked like on the yacht, but still.

"Stop," I murmur.

Ollie just widens his eyes, continuing to gape at me.

"Ollie…" I shift on my feet, uncomfortable with the attention.

Of course, he doesn't break character at all.

I shove him. "Ollie, stop!"

The door opens and he finally straightens, grinning, slipping past me with an air of victory. I jog to catch up, following him through the front door of our building.

"Okay, fine, whatever. Here's an actual rule, no telling embarrassing stories about me."

Ollie just shakes his head. "That's never going to happen."

"Why?" I ask, glancing up at him with pursed lips.

He meets my gaze, eyes twinkling, dimples out full force. "Because, Skye, embarrassing you is one of my favorite things to do."

I sigh, fighting the urge to shove him again. "Come on, Ollie. Patrick and I have only just started dating, and even with my broken hand, he somehow finds me attractive. Right now I think I'm in that cute place where my clumsiness is charming. I don't want the bubble to burst."

"That's insane," he mumbles.

"What is?"

"That mentality," he says, with a note of bitterness in his tone. "If you really like this guy, don't you think you should know he appreciates everything about you? Not just the parts you want him to see? You shouldn't be afraid to be yourself."

"I'm not…" Am I? I mean, I'm trying to be a little more confident and a little more suave to fit in next to Patrick, but with the accidental groping and the broken arm, I'm pretty sure the real Skye is leaking through.

I nibble my lip as we step down the entrance to the subway and swipe our cards, shuffling through the turnstile. Five minutes for the next downtown train.

"It's not that I'm afraid to be myself," I finally say, still bothered by the idea. "I just, I think it takes time for two people to get to that place where they’re close enough to be their true selves with each other. And Patrick and I are moving in that direction, but we haven't quite gotten there yet."

"Okay." Ollie shrugs, not looking at me and instead leaning over to peek down the tracks, searching for the next train.

But I'm not finished yet. For once, I want to be the one who wins the argument. "Come on, Ollie. Don't tell me it's not the same for you with girls."

"It's not," he responds, still not looking at me. "If I found someone I really liked, I'd be myself. I'm pretty charming, you know."

But I don't take the bait. I want to stay here in this more serious place. I want a real answer from him. "Have you ever really been yourself with a girl?"

And I think we're both aware that I'm included in the question.

Ollie finally turns, just as the rumble of a train shakes the ground beneath our feet, a thunderstorm barreling forward. "Once," he says, brutally honest. And I really don't know if that one time was with me. Then he mumbles something, slipping his head to the opposite direction so I can't decipher the movement of his lips.

"What?" I ask, shouting over the screech of the train brakes.

Ollie doesn't respond. He just keeps his eyes focused on the doors coming to a slow halt right before us. Silently we both board the train, shuffling forward, grabbing onto the pole in the center of the floor for balance. I don't know what to say, so I remain quiet, thinking. A few seconds later, Ollie's finger brushes mine, slipping ever so slightly down the metal, just enough that his pinky lands on my thumb.

Ignore it.

Don't look up.

Don't show him you noticed.

I hold my hand still, but every ounce of awareness in my brain is focused on the small centimeter of skin touching mine. And I can't take it. Can't take what it makes me think about. So I move, drop my hand down an inch, and suck in a deep breath, glancing out the windows and away from Ollie.

A few seconds later, I feel him again.

Pinky to thumb.

The smallest connection, but enough to make my nerves go haywire. To make even the hairs on the back of my neck stand alert, to make my mouth go dry. My stomach fills with flutters, alive, sending thrills up and down my chest. I slip my hand down, farther this time, a few inches, only able to breathe when our contact is broken.

Then I wait, wondering if it will happen again. One time is chance. Two times, an accident maybe. But three and it starts to feel like a choice, a decision he's making, a signal he's maybe trying to send.

The train stops, more people get on, and I'm pressed into Ollie's side, feeling the warmth of his body through my coat. The air fills with an awkward tension I can't ignore, and I know one of us needs to speak, to fill the silence. But I don't know what to say.

And then his finger lands on mine again.

I lick my dry lips.

Even with the crowd and the murmur of conversation and the thrum of the train, the moment feels intimate. As though we're alone. Skin to skin. Bodies pressed tight.

I give into temptation.

I look up only to find that Ollie is already watching me. His jaw is tense, tightened, as though he's clenching his teeth to keep from speaking. His normally grinning lips are drawn thin, tight. And his eyes are shaded, heavy behind slightly closed lids, below furrowed brows. But the longer our gazes hold, the more the tension eases from his expression, melting away.

The doors behind us ding, opening. It's our stop.

We hold for another moment, neither breaking. And then one side of Ollie's lips rises, smirking. And I can't read why. The grin turns mysterious, alluring, as his bright eyes shimmer with a secret he doesn't want to let me in on—not yet.

This time I look away. I break the moment. I walk off the train, leaving him behind. Because whatever that secret is, I don't want to know it. I'm tired of being confused, of being left out. I'm tired of the games.

I want easy.

I want Patrick.

And right now, I know exactly where to find him.

Ollie eventually catches up to me when we're above ground, crossing the street, but I don't bother to say anything. One block and one quick elevator ride later, and we've arrived. Patrick and Aubrey are already here, making polite conversation, and it's all I can do not to run over and throw my arms around him. I do however plant a big one on those smiling lips when I get close enough to close the distance.

Easy. Sweet. And exactly what I need.

"I reserved a lane for an hour," Patrick tells us. Before you ask, yes we're going bowling. And yes, my arm is broken and currently wrapped in a cast. And no, it wasn't my idea. Do you think I have a death wish?

The cashier gives me an incredibly dubious look as Patrick helps me shrug off my coat, and I walk up to the counter asking for a size eight shoe.

"I'm right handed," I mumble with a shrug, holding up my broken left hand. She doesn't say anything. She just hands me the shoes with a smirk. I snatch them and walk away, following Patrick to our lane and leaving Aubrey and Ollie to follow behind.

"One hour, huh?" I ask Patrick as we sit down.

He smirks. "I figured we might sneak away after and grab some dinner on our own."

"Sounds perfect to me." And really, I couldn't appreciate him more in that moment. One hour. I can make it through one measly hour. No big deal.

"So, who wants to go first?" Ollie asks when he and Aubrey arrive.

Patrick is already working the monitor, setting up our names. "I thought you might," he says, overly generous. And I look up to see the order is Ollie, Patrick, Aubrey, and then me—last, just like I asked. I mean, really it's just prolonging the inevitable. But still…

Oh, did I not tell you I can't bowl?

Well, we'll get to that.

Ollie walks up, grabs the heaviest ball on the rack, and steps forward smoothly, releasing. Strike. Aubrey lifts her hand for a high five and the two of them smile at each other.

My stomach recoils.

"Nice shot," Patrick murmurs, standing.

Ollie raises his eyebrows, gesturing to the lane. "All you."

I'll admit, a tingle of nerves pricks my heart as Patrick steps up and a strange sense of competitiveness tightens my chest. I want to win. I want to beat Ollie. I want Patrick to be better.

He grabs the same ball as Ollie and lines up. Step. Step. Step. Release. His leg swooshes back in perfect form and…

Strike!

I jump up, cheering, and give him a kiss as soon as he turns around, throwing my arms around his neck. Okay, maybe a slight overreaction, but every nerve in my body snaps all at once, and there's nothing else I can think to do to release all of this pent up energy. And besides, he just looks so adorably kissable when he turns around with a look of complete triumph.

But as soon as we break away, I can't help it. A blush creeps all the way up my cheeks and embarrassment warms my skin. My eyes slip to the side, running into Ollie's furious glare. A thrill shoots up my spine, bringing a grin to my lips. But I break contact, tearing my gaze away and turn around.

Whoa—what the heck did that mean?

Did I make him jealous? Was I trying to make him jealous? Or was that just overprotective Ollie once more—older brother Ollie?

I sit back down, folding my hands in my lap, biting my lip as I stare at the floor. Patrick follows, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and easing back as Aubrey takes the floor.

She bowls a spare. I wince. Does the girl need to be stunning and talented and a good bowler? Aren’t the first two enough?

"You're up, Skye," Ollie prods, teasing. His turquoise eyes dance in the dark, fiery with anticipation.

Patrick gives my shoulder a squeeze, whispering, "You got this."

I walk up, every step a resounding thump in my chest as the rest of the room goes so silent that I can hear myself breathe.

Seven-pound ball? No. Hot pink and way too girly.

Eight-pounder…okay, never mind. Whose fingers are that small?

I grab the nine-pound ball, not really at all sure what I'm doing as I slip my thumb and two other fingers into the slots.

Be the ball.

Breathe.

Be the ball.

Okay, let's get back to what I said earlier. I have no idea how to bowl. I mean, sure I've gone before—with Ollie I might add, hence the smirk burning my back right now—but the whole one-handed throw thing has alluded me for my entire life. I'm more of the squat and use two hands sort of bowler, but the cast wrapping around my left hand has kind of made that option obsolete.

How hard can this be, really?

Just breathe.

I line up, copying everyone else's movements and hold the ball up at my chest. Okay, step. Step. Step. Swing. I throw my arm back.

Whoa!

That ball is way heavier than I anticipated and I stumble, squeezing my fingers for dear life, just barely able to keep the bowling ball from flying backward out of my palm.

Someone snickers.

I don't need to turn around to see who.

A moment later, after a few shaky steps, I try again, a little more prepared. Step. Step. Step. Swing. Release!

And I do it, the ball actually leaves my hand and lands in the center of the lane with a resounding thud. And it rolls. And it rolls.

Oh no.

It's sliding. It's slipping. It's—

Gutter.

I deflate.

"You can do this," Patrick says from behind. I close my eyes, grabbing a different ball, and wait for the light to go back on at the end of the lane. I line up again, throw…

Gutter.

This is going to be a long night.

"Good try," Patrick says, smiling as I take my seat.

"When did you start bowling one handed?" Ollie asks.

I turn to him, glaring under hooded brows. "You missed a lot while you were living in California."

"Maybe." He shrugs, easing up from his seat. "But some things never change, Skye." And then he turns his back on me, stepping onto the lane to bowl.

Strike.

Why am I not surprised?

"So, we're supposed to be getting to know each other, right?" Ollie says as he sits back down, a little smug with his scorecard. "Well here's a juicy tidbit. I was Skylar's first kiss."

I immediately jolt out of my seat. "You were not!" Is he seriously bringing this up right now? Here? "Charlie Saunders was my first kiss. Ninth grade, truth or dare, and it was horrible."

I sit back down, breathing heavily, and realize a thick silence has settled in the wake of my outburst. I glance at Ollie and his eyes are wide, shocked, a little troubled. I flick my gaze to Patrick whose eyes have narrowed to pin pricks. Aubrey is chewing her lower lip, eying me like new competition. And then I understand. Idiot!