"What sex app? What's going on? All I heard was something about licking and chocolate fudge…" He trails off into a fit of confused laughter.
"This!" I shove the phone in his face. At first, he turns serious, focusing on the screen to read what it says. But then I watch him mouth the words chocolate fudge and a moment later he's convulsing again.
I snatch the phone back. "I'm deleting this app. That's it. Online dating is so not for me."
"Oh, come on," Bridget urges. "That was just bad luck. We could try a website instead of an app. It can't always be like that. I mean, right, Ollie?"
"I don't know, sis," Ollie teases. "I always start my conversations by offering to lick hot foods off of a girl. I mean, really, it’s just good manners."
Can I hit him again? I really want to hit him again.
Bridget beats me to the punch—literally.
"Ow." He sets the food down and rubs his side. "That actually hurt."
"Good," Bridget and I mutter in unison. And then we lock arms and collapse back onto the couch. A sigh travels up my throat.
I'm right back where I started.
Single. Prospectless. In need of a boyfriend, and ASAP. Well, except now I'm even more exhausted and even more hopeless. And I had thought the situation couldn't get any worse. Clearly, I'd been wrong. Oh, blissful ignorance, why did you abandon me?
"What am I going to do now?" I grumble, sitting up to reach for a dumpling wrap. Ollie scoops a handful of the pork stuffing onto my roll and I start folding, repeating the process over and over. It's sort of soothing in its monotony. Bridget joins us and the room goes silent while we work, folding and crimping, folding and crimping, over and over until a bowl of raw dumplings sits full on the coffee table.
"I have an idea." Bridget sits up straight, looking at me with a triumphant expression. There's a very high possibility that I won't like the sound of this, but I keep quiet. What do I really have to lose at this point?
Uh, do me a favor. Don't answer that.
"Ollie!"
What? Did I just hear that correctly?
Ollie and I make eye contact—panicked. I know I must look just as alarmed as him, if not more. Terror makes my hands tremble, sends a painful shiver down my spine. Bridget can't know… She doesn't know…
"Ollie can set you up with someone at his restaurant."
I yank my gaze to the floor, releasing a heavy breath, blinking and then swallowing before I lick my lips. "I'm not so sure that's a great idea."
"Yeah, me neither," Ollie says, and I don't hear any joke in his tone this time. Like me, he's dead serious.
"Oh, come on. I'd set you up with someone, but you know all my friends. They're all your friends. But Ollie can vet the guy, make sure he's not crazy."
"A blind date?" I ask, hesitant for oh so many reasons. That's just the easiest to voice to Bridget at the time.
"Come on, guys. For me?" Bridget pleads, pulling on both of our heartstrings. And like always, I doubt either of us will be able to say no. Especially because, according to Bridget, there's no reason for either of us to say no in the first place.
I look at Ollie.
He looks at me.
And at the same time, we give in. "Okay."
"Perfect." Bridget leans back, grinning, and grabs the remote from the coffee table, clicking on the television.
"I'll go cook these," Ollie says and lifts the bowl of dumplings from the table.
I bite my lip. Thinking. And then just go for it. "Can I help?"
He pauses, cocking his head, but then shrugs. "Sure."
I follow Ollie to the kitchen, unsure of what I'm really doing here. But it felt right, in the moment, to come with him. I watch from a few feet away while he turns on the stove, grabbing a frying pan and dropping in oil. It pops and sizzles, growing louder when a handful of dumplings are tossed in. His movements are fluid, utterly confident, lazy yet commanding. The muscles in his forearm flex as he rapidly shuffles the spatula around the dish, completely controlled.
Pulled by some unknown force, I step forward, closer, so I'm leaning over his shoulder, hardly an inch away from his body. My eyes are on the pan, but my attention is completely on him.
"So, um, thanks," I say, not turning my head.
"It's no big deal, I'm happy to help."
"Well, it means a lot, to me at least." I lick my lips, nervous.
Ollie steps back, turning to me. And even though I don't want them to, my eyes find his.
"You want to try?" he says after a moment, offering me the spatula.
"You're trusting me in the kitchen?" I mock.
He shrugs. "There's a first time for everything, Skye."
"Oh, this isn’t the first time. Don't you remember when you tried to teach Bridget and me how to make crème brûlée?"
One corner of his mouth picks up, puckering a dimple into his cheek. "Giving the two of you a blow torch was the biggest mistake of my life."
"We almost lit your mom's Christmas towels on fire."
"Almost?" He lifts his eyebrows in amazement, aqua eyes shining bright. "I seem to remember burying a certain Santa-covered cloth in the backyard before she got home."
"Oh, yeah…" I trail off. "I might have forgotten about that."
"Well, I didn't." He snatches the spatula away. "Maybe I should rethink this offer."
"Come on." I jump forward, reaching for his hand. "Give me a second chance."
"A second chance?" he asks, stilling his body. The air feels charged.
I nod, not really sure what we're talking about anymore. But my answer would be the same either way, I think. "Yeah, a second chance."
Ollie hands over the spatula. I dip it into the pan, pausing to look at him before focusing on the dumplings. I get under one, flipping it onto the spatula and depositing it on our serving platter. So far so good. I get another. But when I try to go for the third, it's stuck to the bottom of the pan a little and I press too hard, sending it flying across the counter—airborne.
Ollie sighs. "Let me show you."
And he wraps his fingers around mine, gently gripping my hand. I close my eyes, reveling in his warm touch. He guides me, flipping and turning, as though we're dancing and not cooking. I'm lost in the movement, in the subtle rub of his skin on mine—soft yet coarse enough to be manly. I don't realize the pan is empty until he pulls away and the barest shiver travels up my arm.
I don't say anything as I turn around and leave. I just walk to the couch and snuggle under the blanket next to Bridget, suddenly ice cold.
I've never been on a real, one-on-one, first date! Pathetic, I know. But all of high school was dominated by my obsession with Ollie. And my nearly four-year relationship with John started as a month of anxious flirtation culminating in a 2:00 a.m. make out session in the basement of a frat house…the sheer definition of romance.
My palms are sweating. My boobs are sweating. I think even my butt cheeks may be sweating. Okay, sorry, that last bit might have been too much information. But, well, I'm freaking out.
I'm going on a date.
A blind date.
My hair was blow-dried. My makeup perfectly applied. My outfit carefully selected by Bridget with absolutely no say from me—and these tights aren't exactly helping the situation. Thank god I'm wearing black. She at least had the foresight to put me in something sweat-stain proof.