But then his gaze sharpens and he looks at Patrick with interest. A small knot of dread churns my stomach. What's coming?
But all he does is ask, "So, what do you think of the artist?"
Patrick glances around, eyes zipping from canvas to canvas, taking the paintings in. "I'm not really into all of this stuff, but it seems pretty good to me. I think my parents might have some of his work at our beach house."
"Well, I think it's a little overhyped, to be honest," Ollie murmurs, and then his eyes flicker over to me. I try to keep my heart from leaping out of my chest. Just from nerves. Obviously. "What do you think, Skye?"
Cue penetrating bright blue stare.
I fidget under Ollie's scrutiny, looking up at Patrick instead, moving just a smidge closer to him. And even though I'm not looking at him anymore, the intensity of Ollie's gaze burns my skin. "Well, you heard Bridge, he's a genius. I don't really know much about it either."
I peek to the side, just quick enough to see a hint of disappointment line Ollie's eyes before he turns them away, out toward the window. A sinking feeling lurches in my chest, but I'm not sure why or what it means.
"Champagne?" a man asks, leaning a tray into the middle of our group.
God, yes. It's sad how little hesitation there is in my movements. But hey, I'm desperate for a distraction. Almost immediately, the glass is at my lips and I'm taking down a long sip, rummaging through my thoughts for something to say once the bubbles dissipate.
Luckily, Patrick beats me to it. He leans in, speaking more to me than Ollie. "How long are we going to stay here?"
I purse my lips, thinking for a moment. "Well, we don't need to stay for the entire thing. Bridge will be here for hours, I think she needs to stay to help clean everything up after. Maybe another hour or so? Just so we can talk to her some more?"
He nods. "Okay. Some friends of mine are at a bar around the corner from here. Want to meet up with them after?"
I smile. Um, duh. But I have to play it cool. "Sure."
"You can come too, man, if you don't have plans," Patrick follows up, looking past me. And for the second time that night, I almost spit out my champagne as I jerk my head to the side. Freaking Ollie. I totally forgot he was here for a second. It was an easier time.
"Nah, I'm good," he murmurs with a shrug.
Thank god.
Before anyone has time to say anything else, I notice a red head barreling toward us with a wide grin.
"Patrick, you're here," Bridge calls, closing the distance. "How's my favorite investment banker?"
He throws her an amused grin. "Good. How's my favorite slightly inebriated art salesman?"
"Wonderful," she chirps. And then leans in conspiringly. "Keep the inebriated thing on the down low. I have to maintain a professional aura."
"I'll take this then," Ollie says and plucks the half-full champagne glass from her hand, downing it in one gulp.
"Hey!" she argues. But it's too late anyway.
He just smiles. "You'll thank me tomorrow, sis."
She raises one eyebrow, holding Ollie's gaze for a long moment before turning back to Patrick. "So, see anything here you like? If anyone asks, just make sure you tell them Bridget McDonough sold you on a piece."
He winks. "Will do."
"We were just talking about what we're going to do later tonight," I say, changing the tide of the conversation from Bridge trying to pawn off a multi-thousand dollar painting on my boyfriend. "When do you think you'll be able to break free of the gallery?"
She shrugs. "Not anytime soon. But let me know where you go and I'll try to meet you out later. Oh—" And then she stops, looking over my shoulder, gazing really intently at whatever is behind me. A second later, a little twinkle lights her eyes. "Excuse me. I've got to go talk to people who might actually buy something, like the lady in a fur coat who just walked in. I'll see you guys later. Enjoy the free champagne!"
I toast her as she walks away, taking my next sip in her honor.
"I think I'm going to head out too," Ollie says.
Immediately my heart jerks. "No!" And really, I have no idea why I say it—especially not so wholeheartedly. "I mean, you should stay. You never know when you'll get to see Bridge in action again."
He holds my gaze for a moment, blue eyes intense, before flicking his attention to Patrick. "No, really. I'm beat from the work week. All I want right now is my bed."
"It was good to see you again," Patrick says, reaching out for a handshake, which Ollie returns.
"See you later, Skye," he mumbles.
But I have no response.
I'm just so utterly confused. Who is that guy? Because it's not Ollie. Not the Ollie I've known for almost twenty years. He would never leave an event his sister was throwing early. Would never be so quiet, so absent. Would never be—I don't know how to describe it except to say defeated. Dejected. Everything in his person just looks so down.
"Should we take a walk around the room?" Patrick asks, placing his arm around my shoulders.
I rip my gaze away from the lone figure of Ollie walking away, trying to diffuse the cloud hanging over my mood. "Sure."
"I'll keep an eye out in case there's anything my father would want. I'm actually surprised they're not here," Patrick says, leading me around the room. "Have I ever told you about our summer house?"
I shake my head.
And as he launches into a description, my mind rebels against my better judgment and completely tunes him out. Then my body follows. Against my will, my eyes creep over to the door just in time to see it shut behind Ollie's back. I spy on him, watching as he stops, shoulders rising in what I think is a long, deep breath. And I keep looking as he steps farther into the night, across the street, disappearing around the bend. And even then, I just stare at the empty spot his body used to fill.
Something happened.
I don't know what or when or how. But I do know Ollie looked lost, not himself. And even though I don't want to admit it, the pinch of my gut tells me I'm the reason for the change. If I dug a little deeper, I'm sure I'd understand. But I don't know if I'm ready for the answer.
Memories are really easy to bury—at least that's what I always thought. My dad. The divorce. Ollie. All those sad moments are trapped under layers and layers of happy ones. Like the old saying, out of sight out of mind. But ever so often, you see something, or smell something, or hear something, and the dam breaks. Just like that, the moment you tried so hard to forget comes flooding forward, washing over you and pulling you under.
Home.
I feel like home is one of those things that is so underrated until you don't have one anymore. Before the divorce, I took my family for granted. Two loving parents. One child. Happy. I never dreamed it wouldn't stay that way forever. But until the papers were finalized, my house became a warzone. It wasn't until I left for college and realized how strange a place the rest of the world could be that I relearned to love my house, my home, minus its one former occupant.
But Bridget's house is sometimes what I really think of when I think of home. It's where I came for solace. Where I went to escape. At least it was, before everything happened with Ollie. But no one knows about that except for him and me. So for the past six years, ever since my parents' divorce, it's where my mom and I have come for most of our holidays, including Thanksgiving. And this year is no different.