Ollie leans back. "Yeah, yeah I guess you're right."
"Where are you going to move?" I ask conversationally, words completely detached, as though someone else is speaking with my lips. "Closer to the restaurant?"
He looks at me for a moment, narrows his gaze, flinches just slightly. And then I lose him. His clear eyes return to the food. "I haven’t really thought about it yet. Maybe."
"It'll probably make commuting easier."
"Yeah."
"Though midtown can be pretty expensive."
"That's true."
"Unless you're going to find another roommate."
"I probably will."
"Anyone from work?"
I wait for a short response, but it never comes. A moment of silence passes, and then he drops the wooden spoon on the stovetop, abandoning his meal, and runs his hand through his already disheveled hair. Like always, he only makes it look better, more wild, more untamable. "So you're okay with this?"
I really don't know what he expects. As always with Ollie, I have no clue what he wants from me. So I say what's safe, what's best for me. "Why wouldn't I be?"
He runs his hand through his hair again, teal eyes darkening, every bit of sparkle gone. "I don't know, Skye." He looks down, picks up the spoon, and gets back to dinner. "I really don't."
"Found it!" Bridget shouts, stomping into the kitchen with the fury of a hurricane about to hit the shore. I flinch, pulled immediately back to my surroundings. The bubble around Ollie and me bursts. "Mom, seriously, next time you go shopping and buy vital cooking supplies, you have to remember to bring the bag inside."
"The mitts!" Her mom winces, looking at the bright red oven mitts in Bridget's hand. "Is the roast okay?"
"It's fine, Mom." Ollie shrugs.
"What about the milk?" she asks.
Bridge just shakes her head, holding up a carton of milk with her other hand. "You smell it."
"I'm sure it's okay," Bridge's dad says, stepping forward to take the milk from his frustrated daughter's hand before she chucks it at him. "It's been below zero every day this week, the garage may as well be a refrigerator."
"Hey, kids, come take a look at this," my mom says, pulling our attention to the desk in the corner of the kitchen. She's holding out a frame. "Is this a new one, Claire? I don't remember seeing it last time I was here."
Mrs. McDonough nods. "I was going through the old albums last week and switched out some of the picture frames. Isn't that one just perfect? It's how I'll probably always think of the three of them."
Bridge gets there first. "Oh god," she snorts, but it's affectionate and warm. Then she hands the photo to me. I take the frame in my hands, smoothing my fingers along the wood, flipping it so it's right side up. A half sigh, half laugh escapes my lips, just a puff of nearly soundless air.
Bridge and I are dressed in princess costumes—I'm Belle obviously, book nerd with dreams of traveling the world. And she's Cinderella—the rebel who sneaks out of the house, hijacks her way into a royal ball and lands the prince in the process. Total Bridge move. And behind our oblivious smiles is Ollie with a devilish grin, using his fingers to prop bunny ears behind our heads.
"Let me see," adult Ollie says, leaning over my shoulder, breath tickling my neck. I don't move for fear I might accidently touch him. And after a moment, he steps back. "I think I remember that. I'm pretty sure I pelleted you guys with my Nerf gun afterward, and then got sent to my room cause one hit Bridge in the eye."
"You did," Mrs. McDonough says, sneaking up behind us and slapping Ollie in the side of the head.
"Ow, Mom," he complains as he rubs the spot. "That was like fifteen years ago."
"And I smacked you then too," she teases. Then she wraps her arm around my shoulder, pulling me against her side. A place I've been many, many times. A place almost as familiar as the embrace of my own mother. "And poor Skylar, always stuck in the middle of my two ornery children."
"Please," Bridge chimes, "Skye was never stuck in the middle. She's always been on my side. The right side, obviously."
Her mom squeezes me tighter, holds for a moment, and then releases. I look around at the five familiar faces and know without a doubt that this is where I belong. In this kitchen, with these people, part of this family. And I can't do anything to mess that up. With one last fleeting glance at Ollie, I smile at Bridge. She's right. The only time I wasn't on her side was four and a half years ago, and you and I both know how great that turned out for me.
"Sorry, Ollie. Two against one," I say.
He looks at me. And for a moment, I expect to see the same expression on his face as the one he has in the photograph I'm holding in my hands. Devilish. Gleaming. Challenging. Filled with the barest sparkle of hope—the hint that he hasn’t given up on me, that I haven't given up on him, or maybe that we haven't given up on each other, not yet.
I want to see it.
I'm terrified to see it.
But when I meet Ollie's turquoise eyes, the mischievous boy I used to love is gone. He's a man. Hardened. Distant. Someone I barely recognize.
Then he blinks.
The moment passes.
In a flash, the Ollie I know returns. He grins, gaze shifting to Bridge.
"You know what, sis?" he asks. She shrugs, raising her eyebrows with obvious attitude. "That's never stopped me before."
Out of nowhere he produces a spatula, pulls it back and releases. Everyone in the kitchen watches as the glob of mashed potatoes sails across the room, arching in slow motion, only to land with a splat on the center of Bridget's forehead.
We all freeze.
The cream mass holds steady for a moment and then slides, halting on the tip of Bridget's nose, drawing a trail of white residue down the center of her face before it falls. And falls. And falls. And—
Plop.
"Ollie!" Bridge screams.
He's already running. And now she's running. And because I'm so used to it, because it's second nature, because maybe I want to forget that look I saw on his face only a few moments ago, I'm running too. And it should feel just like old times, just like when we were kids. But it doesn't.
Something's changed.
Something I don't think I'll ever be able to undo.
I've never gotten a proper New Year's kiss—so lame, I know. My ex John and I were always apart on Christmas break. He with his family, me with mine. So I'm especially determined to make this New Year's count. In more ways than one.
I'm in a room full of people, yet somehow I feel totally and utterly alone. Isn't that just the most bizarre thing you've ever heard? I have my boyfriend and my best friend. What else could a girl need to help ring in the New Year with a bang?
On second thought, don’t answer that.
You know too much.
"Let's dance," Bridge shouts over the music, pulling me from our safe spot in the booth Patrick reserved and dragging me into the wilds of the club.
We wiggle our way through tightly pressed bodies, only stopping when we find a small pocket of space in the crowd, just large enough for two. I move with the music, swaying my hips as best I can, lifting my arms in the air, trying to dislodge the uneasy feeling stiffening my muscles.
"Spill!" Bridge shouts, leaning close to my ear before spinning around.
I shrug. "What?"
"I've known you long enough to know when you're being silent because you have nothing to say, and when you're being silent because you're too afraid to speak." And then she squeezes her brows, face filling with concern. "Is it Patrick? Did you guys—"