Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (15 page)

She shrugs. "Not anytime soon. But let me know where you go and I'll try to meet you out later. Oh—" And then she stops, looking over my shoulder, gazing really intently at whatever is behind me. A second later, a little twinkle lights her eyes. "Excuse me. I've got to go talk to people who might actually buy something, like the lady in a fur coat who just walked in. I'll see you guys later. Enjoy the free champagne!"

I toast her as she walks away, taking my next sip in her honor.

"I think I'm going to head out too," Ollie says.

Immediately my heart jerks. "No!" And really, I have no idea why I say it—especially not so wholeheartedly. "I mean, you should stay. You never know when you'll get to see Bridge in action again."

He holds my gaze for a moment, blue eyes intense, before flicking his attention to Patrick. "No, really. I'm beat from the work week. All I want right now is my bed."

"It was good to see you again," Patrick says, reaching out for a handshake, which Ollie returns.

"See you later, Skye," he mumbles.

But I have no response.

I'm just so utterly confused. Who is that guy? Because it's not Ollie. Not the Ollie I've known for almost twenty years. He would never leave an event his sister was throwing early. Would never be so quiet, so absent. Would never be—I don't know how to describe it except to say defeated. Dejected. Everything in his person just looks so down.

"Should we take a walk around the room?" Patrick asks, placing his arm around my shoulders.

I rip my gaze away from the lone figure of Ollie walking away, trying to diffuse the cloud hanging over my mood. "Sure."

"I'll keep an eye out in case there's anything my father would want. I'm actually surprised they're not here," Patrick says, leading me around the room. "Have I ever told you about our summer house?"

I shake my head.

And as he launches into a description, my mind rebels against my better judgment and completely tunes him out. Then my body follows. Against my will, my eyes creep over to the door just in time to see it shut behind Ollie's back. I spy on him, watching as he stops, shoulders rising in what I think is a long, deep breath. And I keep looking as he steps farther into the night, across the street, disappearing around the bend. And even then, I just stare at the empty spot his body used to fill.

Something happened.

I don't know what or when or how. But I do know Ollie looked lost, not himself. And even though I don't want to admit it, the pinch of my gut tells me I'm the reason for the change. If I dug a little deeper, I'm sure I'd understand. But I don't know if I'm ready for the answer.

Memories are really easy to bury—at least that's what I always thought. My dad. The divorce. Ollie. All those sad moments are trapped under layers and layers of happy ones. Like the old saying, out of sight out of mind. But ever so often, you see something, or smell something, or hear something, and the dam breaks. Just like that, the moment you tried so hard to forget comes flooding forward, washing over you and pulling you under.

Home.

I feel like home is one of those things that is so underrated until you don't have one anymore. Before the divorce, I took my family for granted. Two loving parents. One child. Happy. I never dreamed it wouldn't stay that way forever. But until the papers were finalized, my house became a warzone. It wasn't until I left for college and realized how strange a place the rest of the world could be that I relearned to love my house, my home, minus its one former occupant.

But Bridget's house is sometimes what I really think of when I think of home. It's where I came for solace. Where I went to escape. At least it was, before everything happened with Ollie. But no one knows about that except for him and me. So for the past six years, ever since my parents' divorce, it's where my mom and I have come for most of our holidays, including Thanksgiving. And this year is no different.

But I can't shake this uneasy feeling as Bridget's dad pulls into the driveway after picking us both up from the train—and yeah, you read that correctly. Both of us—two of us. Believe it or not, Thanksgiving is a really busy day for restaurants, which is why Ollie hasn't been home for Thanksgiving four years in a row. And truth be told, I'm a little thankful he's not here this year.

For the past few weeks, everything has felt off between us. That uneasy tension I noticed the night of the gallery party hasn't gone away. I mean, I'm getting used to Ollie's presence, to having him back in my life—at least, I think I am. But something shifted during our double date. Ever since, the air between us has been awkward in a way it never has before. He's talking to me less, paying attention to me less, which is fine, I guess. It's just strange. Just something I need to get used to.

On the other hand, everything with Patrick has felt just right. I mean, the broken hand has put a little damper on everything, but in all honesty, I don't mind. I'm a little thankful for that too. Everything has been brought down to my pace, which I'm sure is much slower than he's used to. But so far, he hasn’t complained. So far, he's been the best boyfriend any girl could hope for. For the most part, my life is exactly where I want it.

Which is why I don't understand the clump of nerves tightening my stomach as I step out of Mr. McDonough's car and make my way up the front steps of Bridget's house. And the more I try to ignore the mounting fear, the more intense it becomes. Making my hands tremble. My palms sweat. My tongue dry. But the front door flies open before Bridge's dad can even pull out his key, and I don't have time to uncover the source of my anxiety, because two motherly embraces quickly steal my attention.

"Mom!" I exclaim, falling into her arms and wrapping mine tightly around her. She visited Bridge and me back in early August and we talk at least once a week, but still, it feels like I haven't seen her in forever.

"I missed you," she whispers into my ear.

"I missed you too," I say back, squeezing a little tighter for emphasis.

Behind me, Bridge yells, "Mrs. C!"

I break away, letting her take a turn hugging my mom. The
C
stands for Cooper. She switched back to her maiden name after the divorce. Joanna Cooper—I've always preferred the change. It sounds more like her anyway.

"Hi, Mrs. McDonough," I murmur as Bridge's mom, Claire, pulls me in for a tight embrace.

"We've missed seeing you around here," she says. And I guess it's true. Ever since Bridge and I went to college, I haven't been coming around as much. Just a few times a year instead of an almost weekly basis. But, you know, the whole avoiding Ollie like he was the plague for four years sort of does that.

"The house smells amazing," I say as we all step inside. The scent of turkey, gravy, and stuffing immediately fills my nose, warming my heart. That. That is what I think of when I think of home.

"Seems like you outdid yourself this year, Mom," Bridge comments, moving swiftly to the kitchen.

"Hey, I helped, young lady!" her father, Sean, calls after her. But he's a little busy bringing our bags in through the front door. Which, well, whoops! I guess old habits die hard. As soon as I come home, even though I'm a fully functioning—well, mostly functioning—adult, I resume the role of dependent child when I cross state lines into Pennsylvania.

All five of us wander into the kitchen, taking our usual places around the snacks set up on the table, munching but trying not to get too full. Bridge's mom stands at attention over the burners and the oven, circling the kitchen like a hawk, keeping an eye on all the dishes still being prepared. And I can't help but be reminded of Ollie, who looks so much like his mother. Same dark brown hair. Same bright turquoise eyes. Same love of the kitchen. And then there's Bridge and her dad, the two redheads reaching for the same snacks at the same time. Well, and then you have my mom and me. We used to be completely different—she was loud where I was quiet, confident where I was shy, popular where I was nerdy. But after the divorce, something shifted, and now she's more like me, sitting in her chair, happy to listen while everyone else speaks.

"So, how's living with your brother going? I'm amazed you haven’t killed each other yet," Mr. McDonough asks between crackers.

Bridge just rolls her eyes, following his hand to the cheese plate and letting him cut her a slice. "God, he's so overprotective. I feel like I haven’t had a date in months."

"Good," her father murmurs. "That's exactly how he should be."

"Dad," Bridge whines, lifting her brows at him while she bites into her cracker. And then mutters, "Yeah, well, say that to Skye's boyfriend cause Ollie almost got in a fight with him."

Bridge!

I widen my eyes, glaring at her. But it's too late. The damage is done.

"You have a boyfriend?" my mom says, shocked.

"Ollie almost hit him?" Mrs. McDonough calls from the other side of kitchen.

"Sorry," Bridge mouths in my direction, cringing. It’s not really her fault. I forgot to tell her my mom doesn’t know that much about Patrick. Stupid, stupid mistake.

"Um," I say, and then swallow, hoping everyone else didn’t hear that resounding gulp. "Well, Mom, I've mentioned Patrick to you before, I told you we went on a few dates."

"You didn’t tell me he was your boyfriend." And yes, there is an undercurrent of accusation in her tone. Not that I blame her—I always tell her everything. Well, almost always…

"Haven't you been reading Skye's—" I kick Bridge under the table, cutting her off. And she coughs, face burning red, glaring at me this time.

Oh, right, I probably should've mentioned that I never told my mother about the style section or the, uh, sex column. She may think that I got hired full-time for the book review section, but, well, can you really blame me? Who wants their mother to read all about their dating life every week? Especially mine, which is half-fabricated with frisky details that are utterly false. I mean, do you really think my mom would believe me if I told her those more suggestive elements of my column are complete fiction? That Bridge helps me write them? Uh, yeah, she'd just think I was trying to pull a fast one. Heck, I'm pretty sure I've convinced most of New York that I have a raging sex life, why wouldn’t my mom think the same?

Yeah… don't want to go there…

"Skye's what?" my mom asks, eyes narrowing.

"My blog," I interject before Bridge has to say anything else. She looks relieved. "I was, um, writing a blog about life in New York, but then work got a little too hectic and I decided to delete it. No big deal."

"Well, I wish you'd told me. I love to read your writing…" She trails off, a little dejected.

Crap.

Now I feel guilty.

"I'm sorry, Mom, really. I would have told you, but it didn’t really seem like something worth telling. Anyway, yes, Patrick is officially my boyfriend, so now you know that. And it only happened yesterday, so it's not like I was keeping a secret from you." A little white lie never hurt anybody, right?

"When did Oliver try to hit him?" Mrs. McDonough asks, and something about the way she says Oliver makes me a little nervous. It's that whole full name thing. Parents only say full names when you’re about to get in trouble. It's like an unwritten rule.

"Bridge is just exaggerating," I say, keeping my voice light. "You know how she loves to dramatize a boring story."

"Hey," she calls, defending her honor.

But the protest is sort of undermined when her mom chimes in with, "Oh, yes, well that's our Bridget. But I'll give Oliver a good talking to if you need me to."

"No, really, nothing happened."

She goes back to mashing the potatoes. Thank god.

Phew. That was close. Subject change needed immediately. "Hey, Bridge, why don't you tell everyone about the gallery opening."

"Ooh!" She sits up, spitting some cracker crumble out. "It was so cool."

"Swallow, kid," her dad teases, receiving another exasperated eye roll from his daughter.

I sit back, off the hot seat for a moment, breathing a sigh of relief. But the longer I tune out the conversation, the more I notice the tingle of anxiety still funneling through my veins, the slight discomfort, as though something just isn't right.

My mom must notice, because she leans over and nudges me with her shoulder. "Come on, I have something for you in the car."

We excuse ourselves and I follow her outside, hugging my arms around my midsection to fight the cool air. "What's going on, Mom?"

"Nothing, sweetie," she says, and I can't help but notice that like her daughter often does, my mother didn’t really think this plan through. We're standing in the cold, teeth chattering just a little. Not exactly the ideal place to have a heart to heart. She nudges her head in the direction of her SUV. "Come on, get in for a minute."

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"So, where's this mysterious thing you have for me in the car." I raise one eyebrow in her direction.

"You know, you're a terrible liar for a reason. Me." But then she grows quiet, and I know exactly why. I must get my terrible lying ability from her, because we both know my father was a pro. Then again, the whole virgin sex columnist thing is pretty under-wraps. So, maybe I'm more like my dad than I care to realize…

Ugh.

Don't want to follow that line of thinking.

My mom interrupts, reaching out for my hand. "You just seem a little down, I thought we could come outside in case there is anything you want to talk to me about."

Hmm…let's see. Things I would love to say to my mom. Yeah, I've racked up quite a few of those. But for some reason, nothing comes to my lips. I've had so long to talk to her about Ollie, about my job, heck even about the good stuff like Patrick. I'm just not really sure where to even begin. And I don't know why now, after a few weeks of pure bliss, my mood has tanked. "No, Mom. Really, I'm just a little tired."

"Nothing with Patrick…"

"No, he's practically prince charming. So sweet to me."

"But?"

I bite my lip. Is there a
but
at the end of the sentence? He's perfect. That's the truth. I smile, glancing up from the dashboard to meet her warm gray-blue eyes—something I definitely got from her. "No buts. We're happy together."

"Good." She nods, accepting my response. But I can tell something is still bothering her, something she comes really close to saying. But then she shakes her head a little, and shrugs. "Come on, let's get back inside. Dinner is almost ready."

I nod, but I suddenly find I can't speak.

I'm staring at the tree in the McDonough's front yard, and a memory pushes its way to the front of my thoughts. Bridge, Ollie, and I are playing in the shade of the leaf-filled maple. Ollie keeps stealing our dolls and tossing them away, so to get rid of him, Bridge and I bet that he can't climb all the way to the top of the tree. He tries, obviously, like any obstinate little boy, and then proceeds to fall about twelve feet to the ground, breaking his leg. I still remember the fear that enveloped my entire being as Mrs. McDonough ran outside, hearing her son cry.