"What?" I mouth at her.
But Bridge doesn't say anything. She just opens her eyes wider. I sigh, stealing away from the nice warm spot on my mom's shoulder, and cross the kitchen to the kid's side. I settle into a spot next to Bridge, a little too close to Ollie, who seems suspiciously unaware of our presence.
"What?" I ask again.
"You're not the only one with news," she says, and then stops, eyes dancing. My lips twitch with anticipation. Bridge leans in, whispering, "I got a date for the New Year's Eve party."
"Who?"
"You know that guy I was telling you about from my gym?"
I raise my brows. "You mean the guy who can do one handed pull-ups and caught you drooling last week?"
"I was not drooling," she says, slapping my arm lightly. "That was a bead of sweat that just happened to start at the corner of my lips and make a painstakingly slow trip to the floor."
"Mm-hmm, sure it was."
"Anyway…" Bridge draws the last syllable out like it deserves its own sentence. "The gallery was closed this morning, but I decided to wait until Ollie got off work so I could come home with him. So, I had a few hours to spare and decided to test my luck at the gym. Low and behold, Mr. Hottie was there and right next to him was an open treadmill. So—"
"Let me guess, you did some stretching first?" I interject, trying to hide my grin.
Bridge bites her lip. "Light stretching, maybe."
"Did you wear that spaghetti strap shirt you claim is for working out but is really for showing an ample amount of cleavage?"
"Potentially…"
I can’t help it, a little snicker squeaks out. "That's like the third date that shirt has landed for you."
"What?" She huffs. "Name the first two times."
I roll my eyes. "Bridge, come on. Freshman year, you found out when the lacrosse team had weight lifting training and went in booty shorts and that shirt."
She chews on her lip for a moment, and then grins. "Okay, but he was gorgeous. And an athlete. And we got into a lot of parties because of that little fling. What's the second time?"
"Do you really want me to say?"
"Please don't," Ollie mutters as he opens the oven, checking on the beef. Aha! So he is listening in. Sneak.
Bridge ignores him, waiting for my response. Oh well, she asked for it.
"Junior year, yoga on the quad?"
Immediately, a giggle fit bursts from her lips. "I totally forgot about that. I asked you to do yoga with me, and you showed up in gym shorts and a T-shirt, and then accidentally flashed the entire quad during downward facing dog. Classic."
"Yeah," I mutter, "and somehow you're still the one who ended up with a date."
Ollie snorts.
Bridge shrugs.
I roll my eyes.
All pretty standard reactions. And for a moment, I actually think maybe things can return to normal, someday at least. Maybe—
"Hey, Bridge," Ollie asks, looking over his shoulder while he stirs a pot of boiling potatoes, testing how soft they are. "Can you do me a favor and find the oven mitts? Mom bought new ones and left them in some shopping bag in the garage. I want to see the temperature on the meat. And I need to put the popovers in."
"Sure," she chirps, shooting me an apologetic look before she walks off.
And then I realize the one thing I didn’t want to happen is happening.
I'm alone with Ollie.
I mean, not really because our parents are fifteen feet away and Bridge is fluttering around. But there's no one else in earshot. And I'm more afraid of his words than anything else.
"Um, I'll help," I quickly add, slipping from the stool I had propped myself onto.
"Wait, Skye," Ollie says, forgetting the stovetop to give me his full attention. "Come here for a second."
But I don't move.
He shakes his head. "Would you just get over here? I'm not going to bite."
"That's not what I'm worried about," I whisper, and then wince. Stupid.
Ollie's expression softens. "I'm not going to do that either."
"Good," I respond, even as my heart sinks just a little. Barely even anything. Except I notice it, and I don't really want to think about what it means. So I step next to him, leaning over the food, arm an inch away from his. And even with the heat of the steam and the food, I can pick out that special prickle of awareness, that little spark telling me Ollie is near.
"What's going on?" I ask, eyes stuck to the potatoes floating in the water, the vegetables steaming, the gravy brewing.
"Well, I told Bridge on the train ride here, and I just wanted to tell you myself rather than have you hear it from her."
At that, I do look up.
His shaggy black-brown hair is in disarray, curled from the steaming kitchen, tumbling over his forehead as he keeps his gaze concentrated on the food—concentrated down. I wonder if he doesn’t want to look at me, or if it's that he can't. But I can look at him, and I do. I stare. His skin glistens from the moisture, making the contours of his face stand out even more than usual. Especially the rugged lines of his jaw, flexed and tense. I watch his hands, the authority with which they move, flipping and stirring, in complete command. And I know from experience that cooking isn't all those hands know how to do.
"What, Ollie?" I prod.
"It's nothing serious." He shrugs, still not meeting my eyes. "It's just—I'm moving out."
"What?" The word blurts out. I blink once, twice, in total shock.
He's moving out?
"I'm moving out," he repeats, almost as though he can read my thoughts.
And then he looks up.
Damn those eyes. Those perfect, entrancing blue eyes.
I lose myself in them. And this time, my heart doesn't just sink a little. It plummets. Crashes to the ground.
"I just figured since it's almost the new year, I should let you and Bridge live with one of your friends and find my own place. I told her I would wait until you have someone new lined up. I don't want you two to get bogged down by the rent. But she said she has a friend she might be able to ask, so I just wanted you to be informed this time. I wouldn't want someone else to surprise you in the middle of a rant—I'm sure once was more than enough."
One corner of his lip lifts, a small grin, a secret one meant only for me.
But I can't process it. My mind is moving in slow motion. Surprise me in a rant? And then I remember, the virgin sex columnist confession—the first time I saw him in four years. He's just joking.
But my tongue feels heavy, unable to respond. My nerves are frozen. And it can only mean one thing. In my heart, I really don't want him to go. Because I know something scary—forgetting Oliver McDonough is impossible, but avoiding him is frighteningly easy. Before he surprised me in our kitchen, I hadn’t seen him in four years. Even living together, I was able to barely speak to him for the past three weeks. If he moves out, there's a very real possibility that I won't see him again for months—that I won’t see him again period. Is that what I want?
Staring into his turquoise eyes, my chest is thumping—no, no, no.
But remembering a different night, my head is screaming yes.
"Skye?" he asks.
I swallow, blink. One instant of dark, and the connection is broken, I look away—I seal my mind shut.
"Thanks for letting me know," I answer with a voice unrecognizable to my ears. For the first time ever, my tone sounds unaffected by his presence, by his words. It's shockingly light—the complete opposite of the turmoil churning my stomach into knots. "It was only a matter of time, right? You wouldn't want to live with your little sister and her best friend forever."