Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (13 page)

"I do not like that guy," Patrick mutters. And I mean, I can't say I blame him.

"He just…" I trail off with a sigh. How do I finish this? He just what? Truthfully, I have no clue what could possibly have gotten into him. Ollie was the most popular guy in high school. The captain of the football team. That guy every girl was in love with and every guy wanted to hang out with. He didn’t get in fights. Ever. Well, except with some of Bridget's boyfriends, but that was like a macho big brother thing…

Wait?

Is that what's happening? Does Ollie really think of me like a little sister? I mean really? After everything…

I shake my head.

Doesn't matter. For now, it's as good an excuse as anything.

"He's just really protective of Bridget and me. Like he said, he's known me since I was five. And I mean, Bridget and I were best friends from the start, playdates every day, doing all the same clubs, and Ollie was with us most of that time. He's always been super overprotective about any guys Bridget or I see, and," I pause, biting my lip, unsure of how much to say. But the words just tumble out anyway. "And Ollie was there when my parents got divorced, there to cheer me up when I snuck through Bridget's bedroom window at two in the morning because my mom and dad were fighting again. He saw me cry, a lot, and I think he just doesn’t want to see me get hurt like that again."

And I know what I'm saying is true. But when I think of the top three worst times of my life, there's no question what they are—my parents' divorce, when my grandfather passed away, and how I felt after everything went down with Ollie over four years ago. Which is funny really, because I dated John for more than three years before I found out he cheated, and what Ollie did was still worse—far, far worse to my heart.

And now he's here. Pretending like a few weeks of living together has erased all of the history, has given him back the right to be overprotective of me, when it hasn’t. Not by a long shot.

"Okay," Bridget says as she opens the door, shocking me from the dark direction of my thoughts, pulling me back to the real world. "So, Ollie and Aubrey just left. And to top it all off, I think I thought of a great way to solve this whole mix up."

Patrick and I look at each other, both slightly confused.

"What mix up?" I ask.

"Well, I mean," she says with a shrug, "isn't it obvious? The whole Patrick, Ollie mix up. Clearly the two of you haven’t gotten off to a great start, which trust me, my brother can be an ass sometimes so I totally understand. But if you and Skye are going to keep dating, then you and Ollie need to be friends. Well, not even friends, just civil with each other."

"Bridge…" I growl. "What did you do?"

"Nothing, I just set you all up on a double date for next weekend. That way all four of you can get some quality time. Though, between you and me, I don't really think Aubrey is going to last." She rolls her eyes, frowning as though to say
typical
.

But I'm still caught on her last words. "You set us up on a what?"

"A double date, the four of you. Ollie has an early shift at the restaurant on Saturday, so I thought dinner or something that night would be perfect. I mean, if you can make it, Patrick."

I glance at Patrick, whose jaw has also fallen slack. His eyes find mine, widening with some alarm.

"You set me, Patrick, Ollie, and Aubrey up on a date?" I repeat.

"Did you hit your head during the fall?" Bridget asks, eyebrows rising higher by the second. "A double date. Yes. You, Patrick, Ollie, and Aubrey."

"And Ollie agreed to this?" I question.

"Actually, he came up with the idea."

I lean back against my seat, deflated. Why am I not surprised? More importantly, what the heck is he planning?

"Saturday night you said?" Patrick asks, turning to Bridget. She nods. "I can do Saturday night."

And there's just a little bit too much joy in those words. My questioning changes—just what in the heck is Patrick planning?

"Skylar, does Saturday work for you?" he asks. I narrow my eyes, trying to read his expression. But I can't. He might apparently be my boyfriend, but I still haven't known him long enough to decipher what meaning hides behind the green flames in his eyes, sparkling with some sort of mischief.

Every fiber of my being urges me to say no. No! Just say it, come on. Nip it in the bud. But of course, this pops out instead, "Um, sure."

I really am a glutton for punishment.

Ugh.

A few minutes later we arrive at the emergency room, which really looks more like rejected circus performers anonymous with all of the bright colors and costumes. Patrick, Bridget, and I settle in between Dracula and Medusa, waiting our turn to see a doctor. And all I think as I ease into my chair, is holy crap, it's going to be a long night. And I'm not sure if I'm talking about this one, or the double date I just barricaded myself into.

I repeat. Ugh.

There is one benefit to knowing someone for your entire life. Sure, Ollie has dirt on me. And well, a lot of it, because as you know, I have issues. But I also have dirt on him. Oh you know, just little things like he used to let Bridge and I braid his hair—butterfly clips, fake pink hair strands, glittery ties, the whole shebang. And, yes, before you ask, I have the photos to prove it. Dirt!

"Do we need to lay some ground rules for the evening?" I ask Ollie as we step onto the elevator. My nerves are totally shot. I've been worrying about tonight for the past two days, ever since I last saw Patrick on Thursday. Which makes it even more infuriating that Ollie seems completely at ease by my side—lazy smile, lazy gait, suspiciously good-natured attitude.

I want to throttle him.

"What sorts of rules?" He leans forward to press the button, just barely grazing my shoulder with his arm. I step away, out of reach.

"Hmm, I don't know, maybe that you aren't allowed to shout at Patrick or go psycho big brother on him?" I accuse, glaring at him.

"Okay." He shrugs, turquoise eyes slipping over to mine, hidden under the layer of dark hair that's fallen over his forehead. "Then rule number two is you're not allowed to gawk at Aubrey."

I step back, arching my eyebrows. "I did not gawk!"

He drops his jaw, staring at me with a vacant expression, letting his entire body go slack, drooping his head forward. And okay, I admit, it's a rather good impression of what I probably looked like on the yacht, but still.

"Stop," I murmur.

Ollie just widens his eyes, continuing to gape at me.

"Ollie…" I shift on my feet, uncomfortable with the attention.

Of course, he doesn't break character at all.

I shove him. "Ollie, stop!"

The door opens and he finally straightens, grinning, slipping past me with an air of victory. I jog to catch up, following him through the front door of our building.

"Okay, fine, whatever. Here's an actual rule, no telling embarrassing stories about me."

Ollie just shakes his head. "That's never going to happen."

"Why?" I ask, glancing up at him with pursed lips.

He meets my gaze, eyes twinkling, dimples out full force. "Because, Skye, embarrassing you is one of my favorite things to do."

I sigh, fighting the urge to shove him again. "Come on, Ollie. Patrick and I have only just started dating, and even with my broken hand, he somehow finds me attractive. Right now I think I'm in that cute place where my clumsiness is charming. I don't want the bubble to burst."

"That's insane," he mumbles.

"What is?"

"That mentality," he says, with a note of bitterness in his tone. "If you really like this guy, don't you think you should know he appreciates everything about you? Not just the parts you want him to see? You shouldn't be afraid to be yourself."

"I'm not…" Am I? I mean, I'm trying to be a little more confident and a little more suave to fit in next to Patrick, but with the accidental groping and the broken arm, I'm pretty sure the real Skye is leaking through.

I nibble my lip as we step down the entrance to the subway and swipe our cards, shuffling through the turnstile. Five minutes for the next downtown train.

"It's not that I'm afraid to be myself," I finally say, still bothered by the idea. "I just, I think it takes time for two people to get to that place where they’re close enough to be their true selves with each other. And Patrick and I are moving in that direction, but we haven't quite gotten there yet."

"Okay." Ollie shrugs, not looking at me and instead leaning over to peek down the tracks, searching for the next train.

But I'm not finished yet. For once, I want to be the one who wins the argument. "Come on, Ollie. Don't tell me it's not the same for you with girls."

"It's not," he responds, still not looking at me. "If I found someone I really liked, I'd be myself. I'm pretty charming, you know."

But I don't take the bait. I want to stay here in this more serious place. I want a real answer from him. "Have you ever really been yourself with a girl?"

And I think we're both aware that I'm included in the question.

Ollie finally turns, just as the rumble of a train shakes the ground beneath our feet, a thunderstorm barreling forward. "Once," he says, brutally honest. And I really don't know if that one time was with me. Then he mumbles something, slipping his head to the opposite direction so I can't decipher the movement of his lips.

"What?" I ask, shouting over the screech of the train brakes.

Ollie doesn't respond. He just keeps his eyes focused on the doors coming to a slow halt right before us. Silently we both board the train, shuffling forward, grabbing onto the pole in the center of the floor for balance. I don't know what to say, so I remain quiet, thinking. A few seconds later, Ollie's finger brushes mine, slipping ever so slightly down the metal, just enough that his pinky lands on my thumb.

Ignore it.

Don't look up.

Don't show him you noticed.

I hold my hand still, but every ounce of awareness in my brain is focused on the small centimeter of skin touching mine. And I can't take it. Can't take what it makes me think about. So I move, drop my hand down an inch, and suck in a deep breath, glancing out the windows and away from Ollie.

A few seconds later, I feel him again.

Pinky to thumb.

The smallest connection, but enough to make my nerves go haywire. To make even the hairs on the back of my neck stand alert, to make my mouth go dry. My stomach fills with flutters, alive, sending thrills up and down my chest. I slip my hand down, farther this time, a few inches, only able to breathe when our contact is broken.

Then I wait, wondering if it will happen again. One time is chance. Two times, an accident maybe. But three and it starts to feel like a choice, a decision he's making, a signal he's maybe trying to send.

The train stops, more people get on, and I'm pressed into Ollie's side, feeling the warmth of his body through my coat. The air fills with an awkward tension I can't ignore, and I know one of us needs to speak, to fill the silence. But I don't know what to say.

And then his finger lands on mine again.

I lick my dry lips.

Even with the crowd and the murmur of conversation and the thrum of the train, the moment feels intimate. As though we're alone. Skin to skin. Bodies pressed tight.

I give into temptation.

I look up only to find that Ollie is already watching me. His jaw is tense, tightened, as though he's clenching his teeth to keep from speaking. His normally grinning lips are drawn thin, tight. And his eyes are shaded, heavy behind slightly closed lids, below furrowed brows. But the longer our gazes hold, the more the tension eases from his expression, melting away.

The doors behind us ding, opening. It's our stop.

We hold for another moment, neither breaking. And then one side of Ollie's lips rises, smirking. And I can't read why. The grin turns mysterious, alluring, as his bright eyes shimmer with a secret he doesn't want to let me in on—not yet.

This time I look away. I break the moment. I walk off the train, leaving him behind. Because whatever that secret is, I don't want to know it. I'm tired of being confused, of being left out. I'm tired of the games.

I want easy.

I want Patrick.

And right now, I know exactly where to find him.

Ollie eventually catches up to me when we're above ground, crossing the street, but I don't bother to say anything. One block and one quick elevator ride later, and we've arrived. Patrick and Aubrey are already here, making polite conversation, and it's all I can do not to run over and throw my arms around him. I do however plant a big one on those smiling lips when I get close enough to close the distance.

Easy. Sweet. And exactly what I need.

"I reserved a lane for an hour," Patrick tells us. Before you ask, yes we're going bowling. And yes, my arm is broken and currently wrapped in a cast. And no, it wasn't my idea. Do you think I have a death wish?

The cashier gives me an incredibly dubious look as Patrick helps me shrug off my coat, and I walk up to the counter asking for a size eight shoe.

"I'm right handed," I mumble with a shrug, holding up my broken left hand. She doesn't say anything. She just hands me the shoes with a smirk. I snatch them and walk away, following Patrick to our lane and leaving Aubrey and Ollie to follow behind.

"One hour, huh?" I ask Patrick as we sit down.

He smirks. "I figured we might sneak away after and grab some dinner on our own."

"Sounds perfect to me." And really, I couldn't appreciate him more in that moment. One hour. I can make it through one measly hour. No big deal.

"So, who wants to go first?" Ollie asks when he and Aubrey arrive.

Patrick is already working the monitor, setting up our names. "I thought you might," he says, overly generous. And I look up to see the order is Ollie, Patrick, Aubrey, and then me—last, just like I asked. I mean, really it's just prolonging the inevitable. But still…

Oh, did I not tell you I can't bowl?

Well, we'll get to that.

Ollie walks up, grabs the heaviest ball on the rack, and steps forward smoothly, releasing. Strike. Aubrey lifts her hand for a high five and the two of them smile at each other.

My stomach recoils.

"Nice shot," Patrick murmurs, standing.

Ollie raises his eyebrows, gesturing to the lane. "All you."

I'll admit, a tingle of nerves pricks my heart as Patrick steps up and a strange sense of competitiveness tightens my chest. I want to win. I want to beat Ollie. I want Patrick to be better.

He grabs the same ball as Ollie and lines up. Step. Step. Step. Release. His leg swooshes back in perfect form and…

Strike!

I jump up, cheering, and give him a kiss as soon as he turns around, throwing my arms around his neck. Okay, maybe a slight overreaction, but every nerve in my body snaps all at once, and there's nothing else I can think to do to release all of this pent up energy. And besides, he just looks so adorably kissable when he turns around with a look of complete triumph.

But as soon as we break away, I can't help it. A blush creeps all the way up my cheeks and embarrassment warms my skin. My eyes slip to the side, running into Ollie's furious glare. A thrill shoots up my spine, bringing a grin to my lips. But I break contact, tearing my gaze away and turn around.

Whoa—what the heck did that mean?

Did I make him jealous? Was I trying to make him jealous? Or was that just overprotective Ollie once more—older brother Ollie?

I sit back down, folding my hands in my lap, biting my lip as I stare at the floor. Patrick follows, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and easing back as Aubrey takes the floor.

She bowls a spare. I wince. Does the girl need to be stunning and talented and a good bowler? Aren’t the first two enough?

"You're up, Skye," Ollie prods, teasing. His turquoise eyes dance in the dark, fiery with anticipation.

Patrick gives my shoulder a squeeze, whispering, "You got this."

I walk up, every step a resounding thump in my chest as the rest of the room goes so silent that I can hear myself breathe.

Seven-pound ball? No. Hot pink and way too girly.

Eight-pounder…okay, never mind. Whose fingers are that small?

I grab the nine-pound ball, not really at all sure what I'm doing as I slip my thumb and two other fingers into the slots.

Be the ball.

Breathe.

Be the ball.

Okay, let's get back to what I said earlier. I have no idea how to bowl. I mean, sure I've gone before—with Ollie I might add, hence the smirk burning my back right now—but the whole one-handed throw thing has alluded me for my entire life. I'm more of the squat and use two hands sort of bowler, but the cast wrapping around my left hand has kind of made that option obsolete.

How hard can this be, really?

Just breathe.