And that's just one of the reasons why I love her.
The best boyfriend I've ever had was a fictional character. After all, the only one I've really had was John, and after almost four years, that ended with him cheating and me ruing the day he was born. So, yeah, I'll stick with my books.
The past few weeks have passed in a blur of failed romantic attempts and columns chronicling my ineptitude in the dating world.
Leaving my number with the cute barista? Now I need to walk an extra five minutes out of the way each morning to buy a coffee. Well that, or face him again and ignore the fact that he never called me—even though he put a heart next to my name three mornings in a row! I thought we had something, nameless barista boy, I really thought we did. And it would have made such a cute story too.
Visiting the local sports bar during Monday Night Football? A twenty-dollar dry cleaning bill to wash out the beer stains on the jersey Bridget's work friend let me borrow. Well, that and the number of a man who's old enough to be my father—because he thought it was adorable that I called a touchdown a goal. Sorry, my time at high school football games involved drooling over the quarterback—yes, it was Ollie—staring at his butt in those tight pants—come on, we've all done it—and gossiping with Bridget.
Or how about the time Bridget thought going to the gym would be a great idea? After half an hour on the treadmill, I was red-faced, oozing sweat, and in absolutely no place to attract anyone.
Of course, we've gone to about a million clubs and even more bars, but I'm pretty sure I don’t have the right pheromones to attract a guy in that situation—not drunk enough, not sexual enough, or if I'm telling the truth, too worried that every guy who approaches me is a sociopath. Okay, I'll admit I have an overactive imagination. Pair that with my addiction to crime shows and you might see where I'm coming from.
But after weeks of dead ends and fruitless attempts to get a boy's attention, you'll understand why I'm miserable when I come home and announce, "Victoria says I need to find a boyfriend."
Then I proceed to collapse on the couch, wallowing in a cocoon of my own despair. I sink further when Ollie walks out of his bedroom, grinning like a buffoon.
"Aren't you supposed to be at work?" I ask, too exhausted to move.
"Lucky you, it's my day off."
Bridget just rolls her eyes at the two of us, scooting over to give Ollie room on the couch—a couch that wasn't really made to fit three people despite our three bedroom apartment.
"So, what happened?" Bridget asks after tossing and turning for a few seconds. In the end, she leans against her brother and puts her feet on my lap so all three of us fit together in a discombobulated puzzle pieces sort of way.
I leave my head dropped against the back of the couch and stare at the ceiling while I recount my morning at the office. "Victoria called me in for a meeting to check in about the status of the column and how it's working out. She said the content is resonating well according to early research, and the online postings are getting a good amount of social media interaction."
"But?" Bridget asks.
"But." I sigh. "She's worried the content is becoming too stale and thinks we need an ongoing storyline to really pull people in—a Mr. Big to my totally unworthy Carrie. So, I need to get a boyfriend. By next week. Or at least go on a real date." I finally shift positions, burying my head in my hands. "What am I going to do?"
"Make something up?" Bridget says cautiously.
I slap her leg. "No! I'm not going to risk all of my journalistic integrity. We just need to think about what I haven't tried yet."
There's a pause.
A long pause.
Okay, a humiliatingly long pause.
I peek at Bridge, and I'm pretty sure there are daggers shooting out of my eyes.
"What?" she grumbles. "I'm thinking."
I refuse to look at Ollie—I don't need to actually see the grin rapidly widening his annoyingly perfect lips. I can picture it just fine on my own.
"What about online dating?" Bridget asks, cringing in anticipation of my response.
"Aren’t I too young for that? I thought online dating was for, like, single moms with kids in college. Widowers. You know, people our parents' ages."
"No, it's not," she says, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "Here. Take a look at this." Bridget grabs Ollie's phone, plugging in his password and swiping through his pages.
"Hey." He reaches for it, but Bridget elbows him out of the way.
"I know you have one." Then a few seconds later. "Aha!" And she hands me the phone.
I take it begrudgingly, staring at the screen, which is filled with the photo of an incredibly busty blonde. I mean, could those things possibly be real? "What is this?"
"It's an app. I mean, this is Ollie's so I'm sure it's programmed to only show brainless girls, but we can download it to your phone and give it a try."
"I resent that," he says, reaching across the couch to snatch the phone from my hands. My heart jumps when his fingers brush against mine, but I shove that feeling down into the pit of my stomach.
No more.
That stage of my life is over. Ollie is my roommate and absolutely nothing more. Nothing. The crush is done. Long gone. Finito. And maybe if I tell that to myself enough times, it'll eventually be true.
"So," I say a little too loudly, trying to force my thoughts back on topic, "what do I have to do?"
A sly smile spreads across Bridget's face. "Surrender your phone."
I know that look. That look got me grounded one too many times. That look means trouble.
I give her my phone anyway.
What? I'm desperate.
A few torturous minutes later, Bridge hands my cell back. I close my eyes tight, torn. Do I even want to see what she's done?
I sigh.
Yes.
Yes, I do.
A moment later…
"Bridge!" I whine, half-wanting to close my eyes and forget this ever happened. Of course, she used the only photo ever posted of me in a bikini—spring break senior year, the one that came about a week after my split with John, the one where Bridget volunteered to take his place and help drown my sorrows, the one where in my weakened state she managed to take more blackmail-type photos of me than ever in the history of our friendship.
And now she's cashing in.
"What, you look great in that photo."
"I'm practically naked in that photo."
"What photo?" Ollie perks up, straining his neck to take a peek at the phone. My face goes beet red—or at least it feels that way from the heat crawling up my neck—and I hastily bury the screen against my chest, hiding it from him.
Bridget pushes her brother back down, turning to me. "Just keep reading."
"Reading what? I don't even know how this works."
Scoffing, Bridge takes the phone from me, switching positions so her feet are on Ollie and her upper body is snuggled against my side. "Here," she says, shifting her finger on the screen to bring up the text for my profile. "Skylar Quinn, 22. Columnist. Recent grad. Looking for romance in the city that never sleeps."
I shrug. "That's not bad."
"And I put up these photos too, the bikini one is just to grab the initial interest." Bridget flips her finger to the side, shifting through the photos to prove her point. There's one of me at graduation. One of me with my dog back home. One of me surrounded by a pile of books on our campus quad. One of me laughing at a party. A nice enough variation saying I'm intelligent but not stuffy, fun but not too fun.