Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (20 page)

"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—"

"No," I interrupt before she can finish the thought.

But then her eyes widen and she latches onto my fingers, pulling me closer. Someone behind us whistles, a jerk expecting to get a show. But Bridge ignores the catcall, placing her lips almost against my ear, asking, "Is he pressuring you?"

"No!" I jerk back, shaking my head. "Not at all."

"Well, because I want you to know that if you're not ready, he can wait. And if he can't wait, he can be replaced."

I smile at the protectiveness in her tone. "Bridge, really, Patrick is great. I'm just a little tired, there's nothing going on that I can't tell you."

"Promise?" she asks, earnest, holding up her pinky finger.

I latch my pinky finger around hers, tightening the hold, binding the agreement. "Promise."

"Good," she says. And then adds, wiggling her eyebrows, "So, what do you think of my date?"

But before I can answer, the DJ's voice blasts over the music. "One minute until midnight, everyone. Let the countdown begin!" All the screens in the room flash from the view of Times Square to a blinking clock.

Sixty.

Fifty-nine.

Fifty-eight.

"Oh no!" I shout to Bridge. "Did you realize it was so close to midnight?"

"No!" she shouts back.

The booth where Patrick and gym-boy wait is all the way across the club, and it would take far more than a minute to get there.

Fifty-one.

Fifty.

"What should we do?" I ask.

Bridge is chewing on her lip looking around, shrugging. And I know what her silence means. There's nothing we can do. I've ruined yet another New Year's Eve.

Forty-four.

Forty-three.

I look around, eyes scanning the crowd. Maybe Patrick is on his way here. Maybe he'll surprise me. Maybe the night won't be ruined after I put so much hope on starting the new year the right way—as a new me.

Thirty.

Twenty-nine.

My eyes stop, narrowing, zeroing in on a boy turned away from me. His shaggy hair looks liquid black in the strobe lights. His head swivels enough to reveal cream skin illuminated blue then purple then pink. He's looking for someone, just like I am, scanning the crowd. He shifts a little farther.

His nose is familiar. His jaw is too.

Ollie?

Twenty.

Nineteen.

I take a step forward. Is that Ollie?

My heart pounds, louder to my ears than the music, thrumming with anticipation. Did he come for me? And I know the answer to that question is yes, because there's no other reason he would be here, searching the crowd. No other person he would want to find. My fingers tremble. My lips tingle. I want to kiss him at midnight.

I have a boyfriend.

I don't care.

Not when Ollie finally wants me.

Fifteen.

Fourteen.

Ollie turns. My heart stops. Sinks. There's an empty hole where it rested, a concave feeling in my chest. Hollow.

It's not Ollie.

I blink, shaking my head, taking in the face turned fully in my direction. The dark hooded eyes, the light of recognition for finding someone else in the crowd. The jaw, the nose, the lips, all nearly the same. But his eyes. His eyes are totally different.

Idiot. I step back. Of course it's not Ollie. He's never wanted me like that, not like I've wanted him.

Eleven.

And then the entire room pauses, shouting in unison, excitement palpable.

Ten.

Nine.

But I'm fading, disappearing in my own skin, shrinking away from the happiness piercing the room all around me. How could I be so stupid? After everything? Thinking Ollie would come after me—I'm delusional. And I need to get him out of my system, once and for all. I need this year to be different. I need this year to be more.

Six.

Five.

A hand grabs my fingers, twisting me around. And for a moment, I wonder if I was wrong. But it's Patrick. Smiling, wonderful, possibly in love with me, Patrick.

Four.

Three.

"You found me!" I shout.

He grins, honey eyes warm and meant only for me. "Of course."

Two.

I don't wait for midnight. I grab Patrick by the face, crashing his lips against mine, kissing him to make myself forget, to force myself to forget. The room erupts around us as the countdown ends. Noisemakers. Shouts. Fireworks echoing from the television screens overhead. And I know this is when I'm supposed to break away, to speak, to say something.

But I don't.

I wrap my hands around his neck, pressing against Patrick, deepening the kiss. Urgent. And he's the one who breaks away.

"Happy New Year," he whispers.

I breathe heavily into the silence, teetering on a precipice, not sure if I'm ready to fall. But it seems like no matter what I do, I'll be tumbling one way or another.

I meet Patrick's curious gaze with a hungry one all my own.

"Want to get out of here?" I murmur, and then I swallow the knot of panic back down.

His brows lift, surprised, but then he blinks and his whole face softens into a smile. "Yeah. Sure. Let's get out of here."

Half an hour later, he's slipping the key to his apartment into the lock and turning the knob. We don't wait until we're inside. Once the door is open, our lips are locked together.

Patrick kicks the door closed with his foot.

My jacket falls to the ground.

His coat follows.

Then his shirt.

Then my shoes.

And we're stumbling to his bedroom, leaving a trail behind. We stop against the door, him in his boxers, me in my bra and underwear. And I know once we're inside, those are the first things to go. Patrick's hands are exploring my skin. His lips leave a blazing fire down the side of my neck. Even in the heat of this moment, I close my eyes to see the vision of someone else pressing me against the wall, someone else holding me, someone else wanting me.

Turquoise eyes burn behind my lids.

I open, gazing into the hazel eyes before me in real life.

We're both breathing heavily.

We both know it's my move.

I reach back, fumbling with my fingers until they find the metal knob. I turn. The door creaks open behind me, sending a blast of cool air against my bare skin. A shiver shoots up my spine. Goose bumps rise along my arms.

Patrick still waits for my move.

I take a step back, tugging him forward. And he doesn't need any more motivation than that. He doesn't know I'm a virgin. I never felt comfortable enough to tell him. But on some level, he must know something. Because as soon as we cross the threshold, the power shifts and Patrick takes control.

We ease slowly onto his bed.

Smoothly.

There's no awkward movement. Patrick knows exactly what he's doing. Which is good, because I'm diving into unknown territory. And the closer I get to hitting the bottom, the more panicked I become. The heat beneath my skin shifts, constricting my breath. My heartbeat surges, pounding against my chest, painful. I grow dizzy, lightheaded, until I'm barely aware of what's happening around me.

But I press forward.

Every sigh that escapes my lips sounds of pleasure.

I have to do this.

I want to do this.

Patrick pauses above me, and I find his eyes. "Are you ready?" he asks.

Yes.

I want to say it.

One simple word. Yes.

Maybe if I do this, I can finally move on. It's the one thing I haven't tried. I close my eyes, Ollie's face appears. I open and it's Patrick. My eyes shift in rapid succession until the two images begin to blur.

I want to get him out of my head.

I need to.

So I open my lips, fully intending to say yes, but something else comes out instead.

"No."

Patrick recoils.

"I mean…" I shake my head, trying to recover. But my brain rebels. "No," I repeat and then I roll out from underneath him, putting my feet on the floor, grounding myself so I can try to think, can try to work this out in my head.

"What?" Patrick asks, confused. "What do you mean? What was all this tonight then?"

The bed shifts below me, and even though I don't turn around, I know he's fallen onto the mattress, energy zapped.

"I don't know," I say honestly. "I'm just not ready."

"What's the big deal?" he asks, and I can't help but release a soft puff of air, closing my eyes tight. Of course he doesn't understand. Why would he? "We've been together for weeks."

"I know," I murmur, "it's just…" But I don’t know how to finish the sentence. I'm confused about the answer myself.

It's just that I'm a virgin? He'd understand that. He might be freaked out by it, but he would understand why it meant I wasn't ready. But somehow that doesn't feel like the truth, not quite.

It's just that I can't shake this crush on my best friend's brother? Yeah, because Patrick would really be okay with that excuse. And when I think about saying it, the words taste sour on my tongue. Because even though I'm stuck on Ollie, he doesn’t feel like the real reason why I stopped, like the whole reason. There's something else, something I can't wrap my head around.

"What did your parents say about me?" I whisper instead. And I don't know where the words come from, but they sound right rolling over my lips.

"My parents?" he says, dumbfounded. "What does this have to do with my parents?"

I finally turn around, hugging the covers around myself, and fold my knees into my chest. I find his eyes, dark and tumultuous, no longer filled with sweet honey.

"Can you just answer?"

"Fine." He shrugs, exhaling an especially weighty breath before fixing his eyes up, resting on his pillow. "My dad thought you were very sweet with a good head on your shoulders."

"And your mom?" I bite my bottom lip, waiting for the inevitable.

Patrick flicks his gaze down from the ceiling. "Blythe was talking to her about your column."

I nod. I expected as much. "She doesn't approve?"

He doesn't say anything. He just lets his head fall first to one side, then the other, slowly.

"Did you tell her it's not true? That everything I write is an exaggeration?" And even though it would mean Blythe learned the truth, part of me wants him to say yes, part of me wants to hear that he fought for me, for us, that he tried to change her mind.