"You should leave," he says, voice dark, tone dead. I've never heard him like this before.
"Ollie? What just happened? Why?"
"You should go."
I stand, pulling the sheet with me, suddenly shy. I reach out to touch his back, golden in the soft midnight light, but he turns before I do. I snatch my fingers to my chest, hugging the sheet, and meet his empty expression. There's no hurt. No confusion. No anger. Nothing. He's blank. Emotionless.
"Go."
But I can't. I won't. He felt it too. Feels it too. Or he wouldn't have kissed me. I shake my head. I love him. "Ollie, why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?" he asks, tugging his shirt back over his head, sitting on the bed, casual.
"Why did you kiss me? Why did you—why?" And my voice sounds weak, trembling, on the brink of tears—which must be the burning sensation around my eyes.
"Because I wanted to see if I felt something, and I don't. So it's better for both of us to forget this ever happened and move on. Friends, like we've always been."
I lift my foot to step closer, but I can’t move. My head swivels back and forth, frantic with denial. "I don't believe you. There's no way you felt nothing just now. You can't kiss someone like you just kissed me and feel nothing."
He sighs, teal eyes colder than I've ever seen them. "You’re just a kid, Skye. You have no idea what guys can or can't do."
"I know you," I whisper, desperate to cling to something.
"Do you?"
"Yes." I step forward, still wrapped in his sheets, clutching them to me like a life raft. "And I know that if you felt nothing, you would have said that in the first place. You wouldn’t hurt me like this. You wouldn’t be so cruel."
He pauses.
Doesn't respond.
And then he rolls over and turns his back to me, settling in against his pillow and reaching for the light. "Go to bed, Skye. You're drunk. You'll barely remember this in the morning."
Darkness floods the room, surrounds me. I blink through the black, trying to see past the mortification burning my eyes—to see past the fact that I'm half naked, standing in the middle of Ollie's room, utterly heartbroken. Even in the dark, I hold the sheet over my chest as I feel for my shirt on the floor. My throat clogs, stopped by a painful lump beginning to form. Tears drop soundlessly to the ground. I try not to sniffle, not to give him a clue, but I know some sighs leak out, loud in the silence.
Ollie doesn't say a word.
He's a statue in his bed. Made of stone.
My fingers brush the soft cotton of my shirt and I pull it over my head, forgetting about my bra as I rush for the door. I don't look back as I leave.
The next morning, I waited in Bridget's bed until I heard the front door open. I crept to the window, watching Ollie leave for the airport with his mother, waiting for him to look back and find my face in the window, to show me he was sorry. He never did. And I told myself I was done. That I never wanted to see him again. That I never wanted to hear his apology. Then I walked downstairs with a grin on my face, hiding the heartbreak inside, and moved on. At least, I thought I did.
I have that panicky feeling again. Why does this keep happening to me? My hands tremble in my lap, matching the bounce of the taxi as it races over the city streets. No matter how fast the cab moves, my heart surges faster, a constant pounding in my chest.
"Skye?" Bridge asks beside me. "Are you okay? You've been really silent all day. You barely spoke on the train."
I swallow, finding my voice. "I'm fine. I think I'm still working off my stuffing hangover, too many carbs. It makes me sleepy." Which would have been a great excuse if it were Friday, but it's not. It’s Sunday afternoon and the leftovers ran out yesterday morning.
Bridge raises her eyebrows. "You're not sleepy. You're fidgety."
And as she says it, I notice my thigh is bumping up and down on the seat, nervously ticking.
I stop.
"If you don't want to tell me what's bothering you, it's okay," she says, though I can hear the soft disappointment in her tone. "But I'm here if you need me."
I scan my brain for something to say, something to lift her downcast eyes, to prove to my best friend there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t tell her—except, you know, the truth. That I'm terrified to see her brother. That a wound I thought I had sealed shut four years ago ripped back open and it burns, a fresh sort of sting.
"My dad," I finally say, remembering something else that threw me for a loop this weekend. "My dad wants me to go to his house for Christmas, to celebrate with his wife and her son."
"Really?" Bridge lets out a slow breath, nodding. "What did you say?"
I roll my eyes. "No, obviously. I would never abandon my mom to survive Christmas alone. So then he asked if we could maybe all take a trip together this summer."
"Wow, he's laying it on thick."
"Yeah," I growl, shaking my head. "For years, all he did was send cards for my birthday and over the holidays, maybe a visit once a year. And now he wants me to go on a family vacation with them? I should have known this was coming."
The cab rolls to a stop outside our apartment building and a spike pierces my chest. We're here. Distraction over. My palms clam up on the handle of my suitcase as I roll it over the sidewalk, through the doors and to the elevator. Bridge doesn't comment on my silence. She leaves it alone.
And then we're at the apartment door.
And then it's opening.
And then he's there. Grinning. Shouting hello. Reaching in for a hug.
I'm numb, stuck in the doorway.
Ollie leans in, hesitating just a moment, barely enough to notice, but I do. I see the hitch in his movement, normally smooth. But a second later, his arms wrap around me, pulling me close.
I forget to breathe.
In a flash, my mind imagines another time when we were this close. Skin to skin. No clothing between us. No tension.
But now I'm stiff as a board.
"Hey, Skye, welcome back," he whispers into my ear. And then he pulls back, eyes the color of a stormy sea as they squint at me, confused.
My grip on my bag tightens. A lifeline.
"Hey, Ollie," I murmur.
Breathe.
Walk past him and breathe.
I do, beelining to my room, gulping in air as soon as the door closes behind me.
Get a grip, Skye.
I shake my head, pulling my hair tight as I run my fingers through it. Just ignore him. Ignore that feeling. I've done it before and I can do it again. I have to. Still whispering a pep talk, I change into sweatpants and then straighten my shoulders, feigning confidence as I march back into the living room.
"Everything okay?" Ollie asks, eyes finding me before I've even stepped fully through the doorway, as though he was watching and waiting for me.
"Yeah," I sigh, energizing my tone. "I was just telling Bridge about some news with my dad, no big deal."
His eyes brighten. Relief flashes over his irises, lightning to break up the clouds. At least, I think it was relief because his entire body slackens, tension unraveling, and he tosses a heart-wrenching grin in my direction, lifting just one corner of his lips.
My gaze stays on his mouth, feeling the ghostly touch of those lips pressed against mine, trailing a line across my skin, making me shiver. But then I remember something else, the words that fell out, the few sentences that managed to break my heart more thoroughly than any other words I can remember.