He doesn’t even bother to get dressed before leaving the apartment. He's gone, fast as lightning. I've had blinks that have lasted longer than his exit.
Bridget's expression sinks as she watches him go, and then it narrows, tightens, turning to Ollie. "You," she speaks through her teeth, hardly opening her mouth. It's frightening. "You asked to live with me, temporarily. You asked. And I, being the wonderful human being that I am, said yes. But if you can't deal, you can leave."
"Bridget, you're my little sister. I'm not just—"
"No," she cuts him off, shaking her head, and points a finger into the center of his chest. I stand in the corner, watching in amazement. "You might be my big brother, but we're both adults now and we can both make our own decisions. Tim and I have been going out for a few weeks and I really liked him and now he might never speak to me again. And it’s all your fault. So you can shove it, because I'm going back to bed and I expect an apology in the morning."
And then she's gone, just like that.
"What just happened?" Ollie whispers, glancing in my direction.
I shake my head, lost for words. That was magical to behold.
"There was a naked guy walking around our apartment," he says with disbelief. "How did she turn that around on me? I mean, how? What? I'm not crazy, right?"
I bite my bottom lip, trying not to smile, and nudge Ollie with my shoulder as I walk past him toward my room. "Go to bed, Ollie."
But he grabs my hand, stopping me.
I turn.
My eyes flick to our intertwined fingers. Then they travel slowly up his arm, across his broad shoulders, over his pursed lips, and into his aqua eyes. They're cloudy, confused, full of the same unspoken words from before in the hallway.
My heart skips a beat.
He holds on. Not saying anything. But not letting go.
Then a shudder passes through him, erasing whatever I thought I saw.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles, dropping my fingers, releasing me. "For, uh, ruining your night."
I lick my lips, looking down at the floor, swallowing. Patrick, I remember. He's talking about what happened in the elevator, what he said about Patrick… Sweet, sexy, relatively uncomplicated Patrick.
I shake my head, bringing a smile to my face as I meet Ollie's gaze again. "You didn’t."
"Good." He nods a few times, small movements while his eyes flick around the room, and then runs his fingers through his thick, almost black hair. "Because I want you to be happy. I hope you know that. And if this guy makes you happy, then, well, I'm happy for you."
"Thanks," I say. And there's this sinking feeling in my stomach, but I don't understand why, so I just say goodnight and leave Ollie alone in the living room. As I crawl into bed, I listen to him shuffle around for a little while, tinkering in the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, the light seeping through the space below my door finally flicks out and he goes to bed.
I wait for dreams of Patrick to come, to lull me to sleep. But they don’t. Instead, I stay in the real world with my hand pressed flat against the wall, wondering what is happening on the other side of my lonely fingers. Wondering if maybe Ollie is pretending to sleep, pretending not to be thinking about me too.
I'm embarrassingly gullible. Really, tell me the sky is green and the grass is blue, and I just might believe you. But it sort of stinks, because I end up trusting in things I probably shouldn’t. Like thinking for all of high school that I actually had a chance with Ollie. Or never once guessing that my ex John was cheating on me for years. And it sort of makes me wonder what other things I believe when I really, really shouldn’t…
All Monday mornings are terrible. But as I walk into the office, bleary eyed and exhausted, I quickly realize this Monday is going to be far worse than I ever expected.
"Did you go on a date with my brother?" Blythe asks before I've even had a chance to remove my coat and turn on my computer. Before I've even had a moment to visit the fancy coffee machine and make myself a sweet hazelnut latte. Her timing couldn’t be crueler. At least let a girl get some caffeine before you lock her into an interrogation! But alas…
I sit down, shrugging out of my jacket, and turn in my swivel chair to face her. "Good morning, Blythe."
Her perfectly framed eyes are livid. The black eyeliner only enhances the force of fury. I sigh, leaning back in my chair, waiting for the onslaught.
Brothers? Why do I need to fall for people's brothers? Life would be so much easier if I could just fall for one of the, I don't know, three billion other guys on the planet.
"Where'd you guys go?" she asks, ignoring my hello.
I glance to either side, realizing I'm completely surrounded as Rebecca and Isabel casually twist their chairs and stop typing to listen in. Oh well, that was inevitable. "I don't remember the name of the place, but he said your family goes all the time. It was an Asian fusion restaurant in Columbus Circle."
Her eyes widen and she tightens her lips.
"Did you guys have a good time?" she asks, and I can't help but notice the somewhat hopeful tone in her voice—the wish that my answer will be no.
A small smile curves my lips involuntarily just thinking about the evening, and well, more importantly how it ended—the hours of making out part, not the Ollie-naked boy-Bridget part. Sigh. Patrick. Prince Charming. The words could really be synonymous. And my face must say it all, because before I get the chance to respond, Blythe rolls her eyes and scoffs.
"You're totally smitten," Rebecca chimes, now blatantly ignoring her computer to join in the conversation.
Isabel follows. "So, can we get details?"
"Well…" I trail off, not quite sure what to reveal. To these girls, an expensive restaurant and a private car are probably nothing unusual. "Well, he greeted me at my apartment with one long stemmed red rose and had champagne waiting at the table when we got to the restaurant. And after dinner, we took a few carriage rides around Central Park, and well, you know, one thing led to another, and…"
"Is he a good kisser?" Rebecca asks.
Blythe sneers.
I fold my lips inward to keep from giving too much away.
"Look at her face, of course he is," Isabel teases.
A blush creeps its way up my cheeks.
"Just try not to get too love struck," Blythe offhandedly comments before turning back to her computer. But she doesn't type anything, and I know it’s just because she's waiting for me to ask for clarification.
I really don't want to give her the satisfaction.
But at the same time, what the heck did she mean?
"Um, Blythe?" I murmur, waiting.
"Yeah?"
I stare at the back of her head, imagining I'm burning a hole through those perfect blonde tresses. Through my gritted teeth, I respond, "Is there anything else you want to add?"
"Oh, I mean, I'm sure it's nothing," she says, spinning in her chair with a far too-innocent expression. Yeah, because I'd really believe she's looking out for my well-being. "He just loves the chase, you know? Romantic gestures, over-the-top dates. He loves reeling a girl in, and I'm sure you can guess what happens after he gets what he wants."
He cuts them loose with nothing but a broken heart? Yeah, I get the picture. And though it makes complete sense—I mean, that would describe about half the boys I've ever met in my life—I just don't see him that way. But maybe I should.