Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (10 page)

"Skye!" Ollie yells, exasperated.

I fasten my gaze on him. "Hey! How is this my fault?"

"Why didn’t you warn me?"

"Oh, I don't know." I shrug. "Because I didn’t want involuntary manslaughter to go on my permanent record."

"Out," he orders.

I scrunch my eyebrows. "Wait, are you still talking to me? Because I really don't think I'd feel good about abandoning the poor guy to your wrath all on his own."

"No, I'm not talking to you." Ollie sighs and turns, then points to naked guy, who has grabbed a towel from the bathroom to cover himself up.

My towel.

Ugh.

That might have to be burned.

"You!" he demands. "Out!"

I stand, wrapping my hands around Ollie's furiously pointing arm. "Ollie…"

He doesn't move an inch. "Get out of my apartment, now."

"Dude!" Naked guy shrugs.

"Ollie, he's naked."

"I'm aware," Ollie growls. I roll my eyes.

"No, I mean, he's naked. We can’t just kick him out of the apartment."

Ollie lowers his arm. I breathe a sigh of relief, smiling apologetically toward the stranger still stuck in the bathroom doorway, afraid to move. And then Ollie charges across the living room, and I, still holding onto his arm, stumble behind.

"Bridget!" he yells, banging on her door. "Bridget, put some clothes on and get out here now."

I push him out of the way. "I'll go in, just cover your eyes for a second."

Using the opening, I squeeze past Ollie and slip inside Bridget's room, sealing the door shut behind me before closing my eyes and turning on the light.

"Bridge?"

"Yeah?" she says, mid-yawn.

"Do you have any clothes on?"

"What?" she mumbles, still half asleep.

I purse my lips, weighing the options, wondering how long it will take Ollie to kill Bridget's, uh, man-friend. Screw it. I open my eyes and pick her T-shirt up off the ground, handing it to her as I crouch onto the bed.

"Skye?" she asks, pulling on the T-shirt and sitting up, utterly confused. "Where's Tim?"

"Oh, is that his name?"

Realization dawns. Bridget's eyes grow wide, filling with horror. "Where's Tim?"

I shrug, wincing. "Well, I'm assuming you only have one guy here. So it's safe to say Tim is the one who is currently standing butt naked in our living room."

"Bridget!" Ollie calls through the door.

She drops her head into her hands, moaning. "Why is he naked?"

"Well, you probably know the answer to that better than I do." Our eyes meet, and we both bite our lips to keep from cracking.

"He's naked in front of Ollie?"

"Yeah."

"Is it so hard to put on a pair of boxers to go to the bathroom?"

I shrug. I mean, I would think it was obvious enough but… "Maybe make that more clear next time?"

She sighs, shaking her head. "Do I have to go out there?"

"Yes," I say and grab her hand, pulling her to her feet.

"Remind me again why I thought living with my brother would be a good idea."

I pause, staring at her. "I have no idea."

And on that subject, the two of us easily agree.

"Okay, okay, I've got this, I can do this," she repeats, giving herself a little mini-pep talk. In the meantime, I slip out the door. The tension in the living room is palpable. Ollie stands at the far side of the room, arms crossed, glaring. He and the naked guy, I mean Tim, don't say a word to each other.

"Bridget will be out in a moment," I whisper, speaking to both of them.

"Um?" Tim asks, hesitant. "Can I go get my clothes?"

"Yea—no." I change my mind mid-sentence after meeting the steel in Ollie's eyes, a crisp furious blue. "Why don't you just wait until Bridget gets out here and then you can go in."

Ollie nods, giving his consent.

And then the silence thickens. My eyes bounce around the room, not sure where to look. I tap my foot. The seconds crawl by.

Finally, Bridget emerges.

"Bri—"

"Ollie, shut up," she snaps. His mouth hangs open, halted mid-word. Heck, mine hangs open too. The fierceness in her voice is fantastic.

She ignores her brother and walks over to Tim, handing him a bundle of clothes. "Here you go. It’s probably best if you go now. I'm so sorry about this. Call me tomorrow and we can try to forget this ever happened."

He doesn’t even bother to get dressed before leaving the apartment. He's gone, fast as lightning. I've had blinks that have lasted longer than his exit.

Bridget's expression sinks as she watches him go, and then it narrows, tightens, turning to Ollie. "You," she speaks through her teeth, hardly opening her mouth. It's frightening. "You asked to live with me, temporarily. You asked. And I, being the wonderful human being that I am, said yes. But if you can't deal, you can leave."

"Bridget, you're my little sister. I'm not just—"

"No," she cuts him off, shaking her head, and points a finger into the center of his chest. I stand in the corner, watching in amazement. "You might be my big brother, but we're both adults now and we can both make our own decisions. Tim and I have been going out for a few weeks and I really liked him and now he might never speak to me again. And it’s all your fault. So you can shove it, because I'm going back to bed and I expect an apology in the morning."

And then she's gone, just like that.

"What just happened?" Ollie whispers, glancing in my direction.

I shake my head, lost for words. That was magical to behold.

"There was a naked guy walking around our apartment," he says with disbelief. "How did she turn that around on me? I mean, how? What? I'm not crazy, right?"

I bite my bottom lip, trying not to smile, and nudge Ollie with my shoulder as I walk past him toward my room. "Go to bed, Ollie."

But he grabs my hand, stopping me.

I turn.

My eyes flick to our intertwined fingers. Then they travel slowly up his arm, across his broad shoulders, over his pursed lips, and into his aqua eyes. They're cloudy, confused, full of the same unspoken words from before in the hallway.

My heart skips a beat.

He holds on. Not saying anything. But not letting go.

Then a shudder passes through him, erasing whatever I thought I saw.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, dropping my fingers, releasing me. "For, uh, ruining your night."

I lick my lips, looking down at the floor, swallowing. Patrick, I remember. He's talking about what happened in the elevator, what he said about Patrick… Sweet, sexy, relatively uncomplicated Patrick.

I shake my head, bringing a smile to my face as I meet Ollie's gaze again. "You didn’t."

"Good." He nods a few times, small movements while his eyes flick around the room, and then runs his fingers through his thick, almost black hair. "Because I want you to be happy. I hope you know that. And if this guy makes you happy, then, well, I'm happy for you."

"Thanks," I say. And there's this sinking feeling in my stomach, but I don't understand why, so I just say goodnight and leave Ollie alone in the living room. As I crawl into bed, I listen to him shuffle around for a little while, tinkering in the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, the light seeping through the space below my door finally flicks out and he goes to bed.

I wait for dreams of Patrick to come, to lull me to sleep. But they don’t. Instead, I stay in the real world with my hand pressed flat against the wall, wondering what is happening on the other side of my lonely fingers. Wondering if maybe Ollie is pretending to sleep, pretending not to be thinking about me too.

I'm embarrassingly gullible. Really, tell me the sky is green and the grass is blue, and I just might believe you. But it sort of stinks, because I end up trusting in things I probably shouldn’t. Like thinking for all of high school that I actually had a chance with Ollie. Or never once guessing that my ex John was cheating on me for years. And it sort of makes me wonder what other things I believe when I really, really shouldn’t…

All Monday mornings are terrible. But as I walk into the office, bleary eyed and exhausted, I quickly realize this Monday is going to be far worse than I ever expected.

"Did you go on a date with my brother?" Blythe asks before I've even had a chance to remove my coat and turn on my computer. Before I've even had a moment to visit the fancy coffee machine and make myself a sweet hazelnut latte. Her timing couldn’t be crueler. At least let a girl get some caffeine before you lock her into an interrogation! But alas…

I sit down, shrugging out of my jacket, and turn in my swivel chair to face her. "Good morning, Blythe."

Her perfectly framed eyes are livid. The black eyeliner only enhances the force of fury. I sigh, leaning back in my chair, waiting for the onslaught.

Brothers? Why do I need to fall for people's brothers? Life would be so much easier if I could just fall for one of the, I don't know, three billion other guys on the planet.

"Where'd you guys go?" she asks, ignoring my hello.

I glance to either side, realizing I'm completely surrounded as Rebecca and Isabel casually twist their chairs and stop typing to listen in. Oh well, that was inevitable. "I don't remember the name of the place, but he said your family goes all the time. It was an Asian fusion restaurant in Columbus Circle."

Her eyes widen and she tightens her lips.

"Did you guys have a good time?" she asks, and I can't help but notice the somewhat hopeful tone in her voice—the wish that my answer will be no.

A small smile curves my lips involuntarily just thinking about the evening, and well, more importantly how it ended—the hours of making out part, not the Ollie-naked boy-Bridget part. Sigh. Patrick. Prince Charming. The words could really be synonymous. And my face must say it all, because before I get the chance to respond, Blythe rolls her eyes and scoffs.

"You're totally smitten," Rebecca chimes, now blatantly ignoring her computer to join in the conversation.

Isabel follows. "So, can we get details?"

"Well…" I trail off, not quite sure what to reveal. To these girls, an expensive restaurant and a private car are probably nothing unusual. "Well, he greeted me at my apartment with one long stemmed red rose and had champagne waiting at the table when we got to the restaurant. And after dinner, we took a few carriage rides around Central Park, and well, you know, one thing led to another, and…"

"Is he a good kisser?" Rebecca asks.

Blythe sneers.

I fold my lips inward to keep from giving too much away.

"Look at her face, of course he is," Isabel teases.

A blush creeps its way up my cheeks.

"Just try not to get too love struck," Blythe offhandedly comments before turning back to her computer. But she doesn't type anything, and I know it’s just because she's waiting for me to ask for clarification.

I really don't want to give her the satisfaction.

But at the same time, what the heck did she mean?

"Um, Blythe?" I murmur, waiting.

"Yeah?"

I stare at the back of her head, imagining I'm burning a hole through those perfect blonde tresses. Through my gritted teeth, I respond, "Is there anything else you want to add?"

"Oh, I mean, I'm sure it's nothing," she says, spinning in her chair with a far too-innocent expression. Yeah, because I'd really believe she's looking out for my well-being. "He just loves the chase, you know? Romantic gestures, over-the-top dates. He loves reeling a girl in, and I'm sure you can guess what happens after he gets what he wants."

He cuts them loose with nothing but a broken heart? Yeah, I get the picture. And though it makes complete sense—I mean, that would describe about half the boys I've ever met in my life—I just don't see him that way. But maybe I should.

And this is exactly what Blythe hoped would happen—she planted a seed. I smother it, pushing the doubt far down into the pit of my stomach, and plant a fake smile on my face. "Well, thanks for the tip."

"I mean," she says, sitting up and putting a freshly manicured hand over her heart, "I'm not saying he'll do that to you, I just want you to be careful. I wouldn't want to see you get hurt."

Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't.

I ignore her and turn back to my desk, but I guess my sinking mood is sort of easy to see because Rebecca rolls her chair over in my direction.

"I really like your necklace by the way," she whispers, smiling.

I glance down, touching the beaded and bedazzled piece I bought just yesterday on a shopping spree with Bridge. I mean, it's still paired with my navy suit and crisp white button down, but it's something. And I appreciate that she noticed. "I was bound to pick up a few fashion tips at some point, right?"

Rebecca just grins and goes back to work.

I flee for the solace of the coffee machine on the opposite side of the floor, bringing my phone to text Bridget while my latte brews.

Me:
What would you do if you didn’t like someone Ollie was dating?

I wait for a few moments, idly tapping my foot and hoping that Monday morning at the gallery where she works is as quiet as my section of the newspaper is right now.

The phone buzzes.

Bridge:
The real question is has Ollie ever dated a girl I've liked? And the answer is, hell no!

I grin. I can't help it.

Me:
But if he did…would you try to sabotage? Or do anything?

Bridge:
Eh, no. My brother can make a fine mess of things all on his own.

Bridge:
Wait, what's this really about? You know he's an idiot as much as I do.

Bridge:
Did the assistant from planet bitch say anything to you?!

I bite my lip. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. But I'm in too deep to stop now. Bridget, stubborn as she is, would text every hour on the hour until I finally gave in and responded. Or she'd just bombard me as soon as I got home.

Me:
Nothing really, Blythe just sort of suggested Patrick was playing me…

Bridge:
Well, that's as good a sign as any that he's really into you! Or she wouldn't be so worried!

Me:
You think?

Bridge:
Definitely! You're probably just a little sensitive to the idea because of the whole John fiasco in college. But we're grads now. Much more mature dating standards.

I sort of want to remind her that just two nights ago her date was caught walking around naked by her best friend and her brother, which really doesn’t help us on the whole maturity level thing, but I let it slide.

Me:
Thanks, Bridge!

And I slip my phone away before anyone in the office notices that I am clearly stationed at the coffee machine and not working by any standards. Taking one glorious sip, I shuffle back to my cubicle, careful not to let a single drop spill.

Bridget's right.

At least, I hope she is.

When I sit back down, I feel my butt vibrating and pull my phone out for a quick second, thinking it's Bridget. But to my surprise, it's not. It's him. Patrick. I immediately grin. Butterflies swarm in my chest. And I realize that even if he is a player, I don't really care. Hey, I've been a virgin for twenty-two years, I think I can wait a few more months to see if a guy is the real deal or not. But I remember our kisses, which did in fact wiggle their way into my dreams, and think, well, maybe not…

Patrick:
Shake Shack, tonight? I have a break in work from around 6 to 8, just enough time for dinner.

I immediately start to text back that I'm in, but then pause.

Do I want to be so available? Do I want him to think I'm just at his beck and call whenever he wants? Or should I be busy? Should I make him work a little harder? Dating politics are the worst… And then another question pops in. Do I really want to eat macaroni and cheese alone tonight, wondering the entire time what it would be like to be out with Patrick instead?

Yeah, no…

Me:
Sure! I'll meet you there at six.

Patrick:
Perfect.

And it is, it really is.

Because now, for the rest of the day instead of obsessing over Blythe's snide remarks I'm daydreaming about milkshake kisses—which, really, does anything beat that? The answer you're looking for is no. Well, then again, maybe chocolate kisses. Really, I should run an experiment to figure this out. These are the sorts of things every girl deserves to know.

As it turns out, I don't have to wait too long for my answer.

"Skylar!"

I turn, glancing up from my spot in the line wrapping around Madison Square Park to see Patrick approaching with two paper cups in his hands. I got here first and decided to stake out a place in line—the sooner we get to the front, the better. The smell of burgers and fries has already got my stomach twisted in knots. It's only a matter of time before my body rebels against me and starts groaning embarrassingly loudly, demanding food.

"You know, this place always has a crazy line, but I thought in mid-October on a surprisingly cold night, we maybe wouldn't have to wait as long," he says, shivering for a second as he steps next to me. "Here."

I take the cup from his hand and my palm instantly warms from the heat. Bending down I smell the lid. "What's this?"

"Hot chocolate." He shrugs, but then grins deeply, honey eyes glowing. "You said last time I was missing chocolates, so I thought I would do the next best thing. I want to be newsworthy after all."

"Oh, you are…" I say and then trail off, holding his gaze, hoping I look at least a little flirtatiously mysterious, and not like, a serial killer with crazy eyes or something.

"I am?" he asks.

I shrug. "I may or may not have started working on my next column this afternoon and you may or may not be the subject."

"I'll have to remember to buy an issue to see how I scored."

I lean in, whispering, "I have some inside information I can give you."

He moves closer, meeting my eyes. "Oh yeah?"

"You scored pretty highly."

"Good," he murmurs and then winks.

And I can't help it. I close the gap and kiss him. His lips are warm and taste of cocoa, and as soon as we touch, I want more. But then my neurosis catches up with my body and I freeze. I just kissed him—kissed him. Was that too forward? It's only our second date, are we at this level? The making out in public before the sun has set level?

Shut up, brain!

I push the thoughts away, stretching on my toes as Patrick presses his hand into the small of my back, deepening the kiss. My free hand finds its way to his chest, tugging on the zipper of his coat to pull him just a tad bit closer. I'm lost in the chocolate and the heat and the buzz gathering beneath my skin.

"Is she peeing, Daddy?"

Well, that'll take the mood right out of a situation. But then I pause, feeling a warm trickle slip down my thigh, hearing the soft pitter-patter of droplets.

Crap!

Am I peeing? I mean, I feel like that is something I would know I was doing.

Wait…

Is he peeing?

I pull away from Patrick, wide-eyed and beet red, and look down.

My hot chocolate.

I sigh. Relieved. But then I see that my cup was crushed between our bodies and both of us are mildly covered.

"Shoot!" I curse, wiping the liquid off my jacket, running my hand down the front of my pants, and swatting the spill away. Luckily, it's coming off pretty easily and after a moment I switch, rubbing Patrick's jacket, wiping the material clean, murmuring, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."