I take a deep breath and try again.
"Okay, never mind. Don’t answer that. The thing is, do you remember that first weekend home after freshman year? We were at that party—I think Stephanie hosted it? Doesn’t matter, but we were at that party and no one had hung out since Christmas, and someone suggested we play that game, Never Have I Ever. You know, the one where you start with five fingers up and if you've done whatever someone says they never have, you need to put one finger down, and the first person who's done five of the things loses? Well, do you remember we were playing and at some point I was the only one with all five fingers up because obviously I was the mega-prude of the group? And then someone gave me this challenging stare and they said, 'never have I ever been a virgin?' And everyone looked at me, and everyone put down a finger, and everyone was waiting, and judging, and wondering if I really truly got through freshman year at college without having sex? And I was a little drunk, so I gave into peer pressure and put my finger down? And then I looked at you and your eyes were about as wide as dinner plates and you grabbed my arm and hauled me away demanding all of the details, and then I gave you all of those details? Well…what I'm trying to say is none of those details were true. Are true. Have ever been true."
Spit. It. Out.
Now.
I take a deep breath and pick my head back up from between my knees, talking to the room now instead of the floor, feeling more than a little lightheaded. The rummaging in the kitchen has gone utterly silent. I have Bridget's full attention.
"So, the thing is, Bridge…I'm, well…" I take a deep breath. "I'm a virgin."
As soon as I say the word, all breath leaves my body and I collapse against the cushions.
Virgin.
I'm a twenty-two year old virgin.
The word fills the air around me. Expanding. Growing. Suddenly, I can't see anything else in our tiny Manhattan apartment except the word virgin in big, Broadway-sized flashing lights. That song from Les Misérables starts playing in the back of my mind—how does it go again? On my own… something, something… all alone. And in each flicker of those flashing lights is a snapshot of my past self, asking how in the world I ended up here, confessing to my best friend that I've lied to her for years.
When male ballerinas start leaping across my mental stage production in black leotards, I close my eyes, shaking my head and expelling the picture to force my mind back to the reality of the situation.
"Bridge?" I ask, sighing. "Please say something. I think I'm losing my mind."
Still nothing. I lick my lips. Might as well just get it all out of the way now.
"And the whole virgin thing isn’t everything, it's not even what I'm freaking out about. I got a job, finally. After three months of interning for the newspaper, they offered me a job. Only, it's not for the arts and literature section where I've been working—it's for the lifestyle section. Me—the one with no fashion sense, limited social skills, and a T-shirt that reads 'books 4 life.' And that's not even the best part—they want me, the virgin English major, to write a column. A dating column. Okay, a sex column…"
My throat is starting to close, and it's highly possible that hives are breaking out along my neck. I can’t help but reach a few fingers up to rub at my skin as I try to swallow, fighting the chalky feeling on my tongue.
"And, I sort of said yes."
Well, there it is. I said it. Now do you see?
I'm a farce. A fake. In my utter desperation to land a job with a full-time salary (and benefits!), I created the worst situation any hopeful journalist could ever be in. I'm going to be a reporter who can't report the truth. A liar. A sham. They'll run me out of the city before my first column is ever printed. I'll never work in newsprint again. I'll be forced to return home a failure, begging to oversee the editing of my high school gazette, surrounded by stories about football games and science projects for my entire life, praying for a student-teacher affair or drinking scandal to liven things up. I'll—
"Um, Skye?"
Did I say any of that tirade out loud?
"Yeah?" I call back, pulled from my paranoia.
But then my heart stops.
I stop.
Time stops.
Even my brain stops…for a second anyway.
The full sound of that voice carries to my ears and it's not Bridget's. It’s not even a woman's. And I recognize it.
I'd recognize it anywhere.
"Ollie?" I squeak.
"Skye…" he answers. Is it possible for someone's voice to be smiling?
But I don't believe it—I don't want to believe it. I ask again, hoping for a different answer. "Oliver McDonough?"
"Skylar Quinn?" he asks, and I actually hear a snicker this time.
I stand up and run to the kitchen, tripping over my own feet and throwing my arms against the wall to keep from falling over as I soar through the opening.
And there he is.
Six foot two. Sinfully dark brown hair. Brilliantly turquoise eyes.
Oliver McDonough.
Bridget's older brother.
And the last person I ever wanted to see in the world.
I am sort of in love with Oliver McDonough—no wait, I was! No, I am. No, I was. Am? Was? Crap!
I haven't seen him in four years. In fact, I've actively been avoiding him for four years. And now he's here. In my kitchen. Drinking my milk—from the gallon no less! Did I mention he looks completely and utterly gorgeous? Maybe even hotter than I remembered…if that's even possible…
Okay, I'm veering off track.
"Ollie?" I gasp. "What are? Why are? When?" Great reporting, Skye… I swallow, stilling my racing words and form an actual sentence. "What are you doing here?"
"Here in New York or here in your kitchen?"
Here pretending to be your sister while I confess my deepest secrets? Here looking at me with that infuriating half-smirk smile thing you do? Here pretending like the last time we saw each other wasn't the most horrifying moment in my entire life?
I don't say any of that, of course. Instead, I shrug. "Um, both? Either?"
He puts the milk back in the fridge and closes the door. I can't help but notice a toned bicep below the sleeve of his white T-shirt—the same bicep I used to fantasize about during chemistry class, the bicep of the most popular guy in the school, the bicep of the quarterback. Six years since he stopped playing football, and crap, he still looks good.
"I'm guessing Bridget forgot to mention that I got offered a job at a new steakhouse opening on Fifth Ave? As a sous-chef?"
I shake my head. "Nope, she didn’t mention anything."
He licks his lips, biting back a wider grin. "So she probably also didn't tell you I accepted the offer and just moved to New York?"
"I don't recall ever hearing about that…" I trail off as my palms begin to sweat. I have a very, very bad idea where this is going.
Astronomically bad.
Iceberg straight ahead bad.
Ollie's eyes brighten a shade, crystal aqua, clearer than any Caribbean water I've ever seen. He leans against the wall, crossing his arms, looking at me through a side-glance, the hint of a dimple on his cheek. My rapid heartbeat has nothing to do with my panic attack anymore.
Oh yeah, this is bad.
"So," he says, lifting his brows and looking at me apologetically, "she probably also didn't tell you that I'm moving in for a few weeks until I can find my own place?"