Bridge pokes her head through the doorway, grinning as she scans the room. "A winter wonderland!"
I try to copy her attitude, but my heart is pounding and I don't know where to look, where to go, what to do. In the end, I kneel over the box of decorations, pulling ornaments to hang on the tree, silent once more. Ollie helps. But the tension that surrounded us before Thanksgiving has returned, and I'm even more acutely aware of his every move than I was before. We're dancing around each other, afraid to get too close—two magnets working on opposite charges, with a certain amount of space constantly between us. While I'm standing by the tree, Ollie waits with the box of ornaments. When I'm done, we switch, maneuvering around the small space with self-conscious chuckles, little sighs that do nothing but hang in the air around us, making it thicker.
And then Ollie breaks the pattern.
"What's this?" he asks, walking to the tree, standing beside me. I look at his hand. My heart skips a beat.
"Mistletoe," I whisper. Because of course, he would find the mistletoe—the one single strand in a huge box of other Christmas decorations. Just my freaking luck. Then to fill the lingering silence, I add, "Bridge and I hung it over the doorway when we had that party."
He nods, runs a hand through his hair, fussing it up perfectly. And then he walks over to our door, hanging the strand above the frame. "Well?"
"Wh-what?" I stumble over the words.
He looks over his shoulder, eyes a clear turquoise once more. Piercing. "Tape?"
"Oh, right." I flinch, remembering the tape dispenser in my pocket. I rip off a piece and walk over, handing it to him.
But Ollie doesn’t take it.
He waits. Watches.
I reach up, careful to avoid touching him as I secure the mistletoe to the door, just barely able to reach the height. And then even though I know I shouldn't, I shift my eyes, gliding ever so slightly from the uncomplicated view of the door to the very complicated view of Ollie's burning expression.
He acts swiftly. I don't even have a chance to move.
We're kissing.
Before I even realize his lips are touching mine, they're gone. And I'm left with only the aftershock, the fire blazing on my skin, sizzling and tingling even though the contact lasted for less than a second and is already gone. I swallow, pulling my trembling fingers from the door, moving in slow motion. The warmth still lingers, mocking me, mocking the feelings I thought I’d gotten rid of a very long time ago.
"Skye," Ollie whispers, voice softer than I've ever heard before. "I'm—"
"I have to go," I interrupt, stepping away, backing up, fleeing to my room. Because I know what he was about to say. I'm sorry. All he ever has for me are apologies that come too little too late. And I don't want to hear them.
"Skye!" he shouts, but I'm already behind the closed door, heaving in air.
"What's going on?" Bridge asks, muffled from the door. My heart sinks. What was he thinking? What was I thinking? Did I know that would happen? With Bridge only ten feet away!
"Nothing," I say back, trying to keep my voice steady. "I just forgot I told Patrick I would come see him tonight. I have to go."
"What did you do?" Bridge asks quietly, but I still hear, and I know exactly who that question is directed to. I stop midway through pulling a pair of jeans on. Ollie takes a moment to answer and I wish I could see his expression, but it's far away, on the other side of the door I felt was necessary to put between us.
"Nothing." He sighs. Denial. Good. But then he adds, "Nothing I regret, anyway."
Well, great.
What the heck does that mean?
"What are you talking about?" Bridge asks, voice as sassy as ever. And really, I want to hug her with gratitude. Go get him!
But I'm too furious to speak.
How dare he kiss me! How dare he, like nothing happened, like it's no big deal, with his sister—my best friend!—in the next room. I mean, the nerve! The sheer arrogance!
I shove my pants on, wincing a little as the zipper pinches my skin, but I'm in lightning speed mode. I need to get out of here. Away from him. Before I punch him in the face, and then Bridge will really know something is going on.
I take a deep breath, letting my hand hover over the knob, and then open the door. Bridge is glaring at Ollie. And Ollie, well he looks confused. His brows are pinched tight with concern, but a smug smile widens his lips. And that just makes the anger raging beneath my skin burn brighter. But I shove it down and smile because there is one thing more important than my fury and that's making sure Bridge remains ignorant of the situation. Because she can never, never know.
"Bridge, honestly, Ollie didn’t do anything. I just realized I'm late to see Patrick. I totally forgot." My voice is surprisingly chipper, deceptively easygoing—something I've never been able to attribute to my words before.
Ollie's eyes darken.
For the first time today, I successfully ignore him, throwing my arms around Bridge's neck and squeezing her for a tight hug. "Thanks for being the best roommate ever. Save me a cookie for when I get home tonight."
She clasps her hands behind my back, returning the embrace. "Will do. Have fun with your hunk of a man. If I had one, I'd be doing the same thing."
I roll my eyes but can't stop the little grin that sprouts, puffing my cheeks. And then I leave, walking out the door without a single look back. As soon as I make my way to the elevator and out the lobby, I can breathe again. I suck in deeply, letting the crisp winter air fill my lungs, liberating me from the stale air of the apartment a few stories above my head. My heartbeat slows to normal, and I feel free for the first time in days.
I don't really know what I want to do or where I want to go. My goal was just to escape, and I have. But I find myself wandering to the pharmacy, grabbing a few little Christmas decorations from the dollar shelf, and then boarding the subway heading uptown.
I've only been to Patrick's apartment once before—he cooked me dinner. But I think I know the way. And a little while later, his charmingly surprised face opens the door, mouth dropping before widening to a swoon-worthy grin. And I might swoon, just a little.
Before he can say anything, I plop a Santa hat on his head and hold up the gingerbread house kit I bought at the store. "Surprise?" I say and shrug.
"Best surprise I've had in a while," he murmurs, grabbing my hand, pulling me inside and against his chest. The heat from his skin is warm, comforting. Not a raging inferno, something more manageable. Something I can handle. And when his lips land on mine, I sink into the kiss instead of running away, because his touch sends a little spark down my spine. Not enough to drive me wild, not enough to make my brain stop functioning, but maybe it's better this way. He's not a storm pulling me under against my will. He's a choice I'm making for myself.
And as we fall onto the couch, lips still locked, my thoughts have a second to wander to another choice I could make. To the clothes packed in my handbag just in case I decide to spend the night. Just in case I decide I'm ready.
So…I wasn't ready. Big shocker! What is wrong with me? I'm twenty-two. It should not be this hard. I ended up staying the night, cuddling against his chest under his surprisingly cozy blankets, waking up to a kiss and a hot cup of coffee. I mean, the boy is perfect. So I say again—what is wrong with me?