"I was, but a new position opened up in the lifestyle section and they wanted me, so…"
"Hey," she chastises, sensing my self-conscious tone. "It's a real job as a real reporter in a real newspaper. You have your own column! This is amazing—we need to celebrate!"
Bridget releases me to rummage through the cabinets. I refuse to look anywhere but the floor. Is that a dust-bunny in the corner? I just cleaned. How is that even possible?
"Aha!" Bridget cries. "Tequila. Mix. We're making margaritas."
"You know," Ollie says in a hesitant voice, stretching his arms over his head. Terror floods my system as I wait for his next words. "I have to stop by the restaurant tomorrow morning."
I breathe a sigh of relief.
"So?" Bridget asks.
"Better make mine," he pauses, letting the words hang there for a moment. But he wouldn't… He won't… Oh, but he would. And he will. "A virgin."
No. I will not let him do this to me again.
But then I feel the heat of his gaze from across our shrinking kitchen. "You know the plane I flew today was really amazing. Outstanding snacks. Great service. But I can't remember the name of the company. It was Atlantic…something Atlantic…"
"Virgin Atlantic?" Bridget supplies as she searches for the blender. My stomach leaps into my chest, flipping like a freaking Olympic gymnast. "Yeah, I heard they were great."
"Yeah, they were playing this special on that singer, Madonna—you know, the Madonna?"
I refuse to give in.
Refuse.
I won't do it.
"And—"
"Okay, okay!" I scream. "Bridget, I'm a virgin. I'm a virgin sex columnist. I'm a total professional sham. Are you happy now, Ollie?"
"Would it be wrong to say yes?" he asks.
But Bridget drowns him out by dropping the blender. "But you told me you and John, freshman year…"
"I know," I say and bite my lip, "I know I did, but it wasn't true."
"You guys were together for three and a half years in college, why not?"
"Well, he comes from a really Christian family and he wanted to wait until marriage, and that was fine with me, and—"
"Didn’t you guys break up because he cheated on you?"
"Yeah, well…John said the whole waiting until marriage rule only applied to people he could see himself marrying. Apparently, band girls had a different set of rules."
Ollie is having a coughing fit in the corner. I want to punch him.
"But why did you lie?"
"We were at that party freshman year, and everyone had all these crazy stories, and we were playing that annoying game, and I just felt like such a loser—"
"Well, that's stupid," Bridget interrupts, cutting off my words. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, please, you know my first time was nothing special. I would totally take it back if I could."
"Your what?" Ollie bellows from the corner.
"Please, Oliver." Bridget rolls her eyes. "Control yourself."
"Who was he? Was it that asshole Jimmy, god what was his last name? Jimmy… Jimmy…"
"Ew, no, it wasn't Jimmy." Bridget and I make eye contact, biting our lips, holding in barely containable mirth. Jimmy was one of Ollie's football teammates in high school and Bridget dated him for this exact purpose—to annoy her brother.
"Andrew? That creepy artist guy from college?"
Bridget and I remain absolutely silent, because, obviously we both know that yes, it was Andrew, that creepy artist guy from college. Truth be told, he was a fantastically gorgeous brooding painter Bridget dated during her freshman year—and yes, he was ridiculously sexy, and yes, he was a bit creepy. Bridget still blames the paint fumes for taking away her sanity—I blame the brood. The brood does things to girls, makes them crazy.
I should know.
Ollie can do a mean brood when he wants to.
"It was Andrew." He fumes at the realization. "That guy? Really? I'm going to kill him. You cried over him for all of Christmas break—there were tear stains on my wrapping paper!"
"I'm an artist," Bridget says with a shrug. "I feel things very deeply. It's a blessing and a curse."
"But—"
"Okay," Bridget shouts over him, grabbing her brother by the arms and pushing him out of the kitchen. "That's enough sharing for one evening. Ollie, go unpack. Skye and I need to talk."
He protests for a few more minutes, but even though Bridget is smaller than him (and not by much), her will is iron. I learned a long time ago to never try to out argue her. It’s exhausting and in the end, pointless.
Which is why when she finally pushes her brother from the room and I can breathe easily again, I tell her the honest truth when she asks, "So, are you okay?"
"I don't know." And I don’t. "How in the world am I supposed to write a sex column?"
"You'll be fine. You’re a writer, embellish. And I'll help you—if you need any sordid details, don't hesitate to ask."
"As if I have to ask." I nudge her and raise my eyebrows.
"See what I mean? I've probably already given you enough material for your first few months of columns anyway." That just might be accurate. Bridget has a long trail of broken male hearts behind her. "Be excited, it's a new challenge. It's your dream job, sort of. Close enough anyway."
And she's right.
I'm getting paid to write. I have benefits. I have an office I go to every day and coworkers and a boss I'm sure I'll hate soon enough.
"I'm a journalist," I say, suddenly realizing for the first time in all of the fear that my dream has sort of come true. "I'm a real journalist."
And we do in fact drink those margaritas. Lots of them. Too many of them. But in the slight tequila haze, my anxiety drains away.
Everything will be fine.
My job.
My life.
Living with Ollie.
Everything will be fine.
And I truly believe it as Bridget and I say goodnight, and I stumble into my tiny room with a twin bed that's lofted over my dresser drawers. I'm happy as I struggle to launch myself onto the mattress, using my corner desk as a prop for my foot. I'm excited as I lie down for sleep, ready to dream about my first real day of work tomorrow morning.
But then a gentle knock sounds against my door.
And there's only one person it could be.
"Skye?" he whispers into the dark.
I could pretend to be asleep, but the alcohol has drowned out my neuroses, replacing them with curiosity. "What do you want, Ollie?"
"I just…" He sighs. My eyes are closed but I can perfectly imagine the way he's running his hand through his hair, messing it up—an unconscious move he doesn’t even realize makes my heart melt. Makes every girl's heart melt.
"Don't apologize," I say. It's the closest reference I've made to talking about what happened. And he understands immediately. Understands that I don't want to talk about it—but I doubt he understands why. It's not because I'm embarrassed or hurt or vulnerable. It's because I can't bear to hear the regret in his voice. Because before he did what he did, before that moment, I had the best few minutes of my life. And I don't want to hear that he wishes they never happened.
"Okay, can I say one thing then?"
"Sure." I rollover, finally sitting up. Even in the dark, his eyes shine, glowing blue. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol talking.
"It’s just, I can tell you're nervous about the new job, but you shouldn’t be, Skye. You’re a great writer, and well…" He shrugs, scanning the room for a moment. There's a note of honesty in his tone that I rarely ever hear, that I've learned to recognize over the years. "You don't have to have sex to be sexy, Skye. Some people do, maybe, but not you. Never you."