Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (17 page)

And then I wait, running over every possible outcome in my mind. Ollie will reject me, of course. Maybe he'll say I'm too much like a little sister, that we've known each other for too long, that he's never thought of me that way, that we've always just been friends. He'll be kind, he'll be gentle, caring like he's always been to me. But no matter how he says it or what he does, it will all mean the same thing—no. No, I don't love you too. No, I don't like you like that. Just no. And even though my heart sinks just thinking about it, it’s okay. It's what I expect. It's what I need to hear to get over this—it's the whole reason I came to his room tonight, to hear the
no
I've imagined a million times in my dreams.

But he doesn't say no.

He doesn’t say anything.

He blinks.

And then he moves. Closer.

I can't breathe.

Ollie shifts his hand, lifting it from the doorknob, turning it so he brushes against my fingers. Those clear cerulean eyes hold mine enraptured. Butterflies flutter to life. Every rub of his thumb against my wrist sends fire up my arm. And then he leans down, led by his lips, closing the already small gap between our bodies.

My eyes shoot wide. I can’t move. Can't react. I've envisioned Ollie's response for years and never once did I let myself believe he might actually say yes. Might actually feel the same. Might actually—

Ollie kisses me.

And I can't think anymore.

In a rush, our bodies melt together. My hands run through his hair, slipping past each strand, holding the back of his head. His fingers draw a burning trail up my arm, setting fire to my skin as they come to a rest just below my jaw, drawing circles on the soft skin of my neck, driving me wild. His other arm molds to my back, holding me close, skin slipping beneath my shirt, sending a shiver up my spine.

And I want to ask what's happening. What this means. What he means.

But I can't.

His lips trail across my jaw, down to my neck, eliciting a little gasp of pure pleasure from my lips, and I admit to myself that if I'm dreaming, I don’t want to wake up. If this is a trick, I don’t ever want to know the truth. I want to stay here, in this moment, finally living everything I never dared hope could be real.

I let my fears go.

And everything moves fast forward.

Somehow, my shirt ends up on the floor, followed by my bra, and in a few moments I've gone farther with Ollie than I have ever gone with anyone before. We still don't speak. Everything is quiet, as though being pulled along by fate. No questions. No awkwardness. It’s just happening, smoother than anything I've experienced before. His skin feels made to touch mine, to hold mine, to caress mine. Ollie's shirt tumbles to the ground. My fingers trace the groove of muscles cutting into his chest, to his back, tracing the lines along his skin, exploring places I've only ever explored in my mind. All the while we're kissing, tasting.

Then he steps.

I step.

He falls.

I fall.

We land in a tumble on his bed, a mess of limbs, but nothing pauses. Ollie rolls, tucking my body beneath him, and then sinks down with utter control, pinning me against the mattress. His hand travels down my side while his lips still dizzy my brain, sending my nerves haywire. But as his fingers dip just barely below my waistband, tickling my untouched skin, I break away, sobered.

"Ollie?" I murmur, breathing heavily.

He stops.

Everything.

"Ollie?" I whisper again.

In one motion, he jumps from the bed, walking to the other side of the room, turning his gaze away from me, staring at the wall instead. And I understand. The spell is broken. I broke it.

"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.

I drop my eyes to the floor.

"Skye?" Ollie asks, stepping closer, voice full of concern.

I snap up, smiling. "What?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head. "Nothing."

"We need a Christmas tree," Bridge announces as she steps into the room, decked out in red snowflake pajamas and reindeer slippers. I step back from Ollie, needing space.

"That's a great look on you, sis," he mutters, shifting his expression to a more humorous one.

"Skye has the matching set," Bridge says, shrugging.

I nod, regretfully. "I do. We bought them for a party in college."

"Put them on," Bridge urges. "I have a surprise."

"A surprise that requires me to wear reindeer slippers?" I mutter. Bridge glares at me. I sigh, rolling my eyes, and return to my room, happy for the moment away from Ollie to breathe, to bring my body speed back to normal. When I emerge in my matching set—can I just say I forgot how ridiculously comfortable these slippers are—Ollie is standing in the middle of the room wearing a Santa hat and a pained expression.

"Do you know what she's doing?" he asks.

I shrug. "Nope."

But the distraction of Bridge and of the holidays is welcome, necessary to keep my mind busy, to prevent it from wandering.

A moment later, a scratching noise catches my attention. The scrape of plastic on wood. Then an exerted grunt. And then, Bridge calls from her bedroom, "Um, a little help here, guys."

"This seems like a job for an older brother," I say to Ollie with a teasing grin.

He rolls up his sleeves, flexing his muscles. I try not to stare, but I can't help it. He's gone before he's even got the chance to notice my attention, and for a moment, it feels like high school all over again. Me pining. Ollie ignorant of the attention. And I'm not sure what that means. But I don't have time to harp on it, because two seconds later, the McDonough siblings emerge with a huge plastic box.

"What the heck is that?"

"My surprise," Bridge exclaims, excitement bubbling, contagious.

I grin, suddenly recognizing where I've seen that box before. "You brought that thing all the way to New York?"

She nods gleefully.

"What?" Ollie asks.

But it's too late, Bridge and I are both reaching for the lid, ripping it off, revealing the bright white artificial pine underneath. An uncontrollable smile widens my lips and I realize I'm giggling as I dig through the contents, pulling out tinsel and garlands and strands upon strands of lights.

"What in god's name is that?" Ollie asks from over my shoulder, disgust heavy.

"Our Christmas tree!" Bridge chirps.

Ollie just shakes his head. "Christmas trees should be green. And real. No pine smell, no Christmas tree."

"Lighten up," Bridge says, rolling her eyes. "Skye and I got this two years ago. The theater kids were going to throw everything away since the university decided to cut any shows that weren't secular, so we grabbed all the Christmas gear they had."

"Yeah, Bridge was working as a set designer, so they let her take everything. And then we threw an amazing holiday party—the white tree was a hit. Everyone said we were so vintage."

"More like cheap," Ollie mutters.

Bridge and I both shake our heads, smiling to each other. And for a second, life seems to go back to normal. Three amigos just like Bridge is always saying.

"Okay, Ollie put the tree together. Skye, start unraveling the lights. I'll supply the tunes."

"Why do I have to put this atrocity together?" Ollie asks, crossing his arms. But even he can't hide the little smile pulling at his lips.

Bridge hands him the base of the tree. "Because you're a pain in my ass. Just do it."

He crouches down, separating the many individual branches by size, unfurling the wires, and shaking his head. "How old is this thing? Don't they have fold out ones now? You know, pull a crank and voila—Christmas tree."

I nudge his shoulder with my hip. "What's the fun in that?"

He meets my gaze and winks. I try to ignore the sparkler bursting to life in my chest, sending a wave of thrills down my arms.

Concentrating on the lights proves to be a welcome distraction, and I lose myself in weaving through knots, pulling wires through loops, undoing the web. Christmas music fills the apartment and soon enough the smell of sugar cookies drifts to my nose. Bridge has a weakness for cookie decorating. I shake my head as the sweet scent grows stronger—how in the world did she sneak all of this stuff in here without my realizing?

"Almost ready with the lights?" Ollie asks, catching me off guard.

I flinch, eyes lifting from my lap to find the tree perfectly constructed and ready to be decorated. It takes up about a third of our living room, but I don't care. Holiday cheer has wiggled its way into my heart, and it sort of makes everything seem okay. "Sure."

I walk over, handing Ollie the strand of lights I just neatly looped around my arm—which really, this is the first time my cast has come in handy. But that thought vanishes as our fingers graze. My heart flips, stilling my breath, as he takes the strand from my hold.

"Do you want to help?" he murmurs.

I nod.

We stand on opposite sides of the tree, and for the next few minutes, only the soft strain of caroling fills the room. Ollie and I pass the lights back and forth, fingers touching, igniting sparks along my skin each time. We finish one strand, add another. And then we move to the rest of the room, using clear tape to line the walls, finding one of those icicle strands for the space above the television.

"So, how was your Thanksgiving?" he finally asks, breaking the silence.

I shrug. "Good." But my mouth has suddenly run dry. "We ate at your house. It was really nice to see your parents. They missed you." Did I miss him too?

I push the question away.

Ollie lifts the corner of his lip somewhat sadly. "Yeah, the one downside to being a chef. Holidays are sort of the busiest time of the year for work."

"Do you think you'll be able to go home for Christmas?"

He nods. "Yeah, I hope so."

"What'd you do here? All by yourself?" And then I wince, because I didn’t mean to make that sound so pitiful, but it sort of does.

"Honestly? Sleep." He releases a soft laugh. "And think. I did a lot of thinking."

"No Aubrey?" I ask, not really sure why.

"Uh, no," he murmurs. "No, I ended things with her. There just wasn't that spark, you know?"

I don't reply.

Because of course, I know. And that's the whole problem.

I place tape over the last inch of the lights, trying to ignore the questions springing to life in the back of my thoughts. Ollie presses his fingers over mine, helping to push the tape down. The warmth from his skin radiates. Familiar. On fire.

A spark.

And I can't help it. I glance up. Maybe it's the Christmas colors blinking all around us, but his eyes have never seemed so green before, so rich.

He licks his lips.

Neither of us moves.

And I can't help but notice that the song playing in the background has shifted to Mariah Carey's Christmas classic, "All I Want For Christmas Is You". And if I wasn't entranced by the white lights flickering in Ollie's eyes, I might just roll my own with an exasperated sigh. I mean, the world is totally against me.