Confessions of a Virgin Sex Columnist! (7 page)

Until Glenn apologizes, retreating to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the dessert. And left alone again, my eternal freak out begins anew. Is this actually going okay, or do I just think it's going okay? Does he think I'm funny? Does he think I'm cute? I think he's cute. But, what if he doesn't think I am? Is this all in my head? And then, oh god, we ate creamed spinach. Why do I eat so much spinach? Do I have something in my teeth—again?

I dip down for my purse, pulling my phone out of the side pocket, and turn on the camera, discretely checking my teeth out in the image.

Phew.

They're clean.

But then a text message vibrates my phone, popping up on the top of the screen.

Ollie:
Stop checking yourself out.

I sit up straight, spinning, but I don't see him anywhere.

Ollie:
You'll never find me.

Me:
Where are you!?

Ollie:
Secrets of the kitchen. My lips are sealed.

Me:
Jerk!

Ollie:
Did you like the soup? It's a new recipe I'm working on.

Me:
Soup? Yes. Garnish? No.

Ollie:
Aw, come on. It was funny.

I tell myself I won't respond to his goading and drop my cell in my lap. Radio silence.

Ollie:
Skye? You're not really mad, are you?

Screw it. I'm all alone at the table, my water is empty, and I'm bored.

Me:
How does my dessert look?

Ollie:
Horrible. You should just leave now and cut your losses.

And suddenly, I'm grinning wider than I have all evening, buoyant. I look up, but Ollie is still nowhere to be seen. Where the heck is his lookout spot? I turn back to my phone, retorting.

Me:
You're just saying that because you want it.

Ollie:
Maybe…

Ollie:
But Glenn would stab me with the cake knife before he'd let me eat your dessert.

Me:
You'd deserve it for stealing my cheesecake! I've been thinking of that caramel drizzle all night!

Ollie:
I took a spoonful when the head chef wasn't looking. So good.

Me:
Yum!

Ollie:
So…

Ollie:
Think you'll go out with Glenn again? How are things going?

I bite my lip, thinking, sort of wondering why he's so curious. Then again, he works with Glenn, so it's not that strange to ask. But he's Ollie. And I'm Skye. And nothing is ever quite as uncomplicated as it seems between us. Or maybe it is, for him.

Me:
Yeah, sure. He's a great guy. Really sweet.

Ollie:
You don't think he's a little old? Did he tell you he's thirty?

And for the first time I wonder if Ollie maybe wanted the date to fail all along. I challenge back.

Me:
Well, you set us up, so obviously you didn’t think the age difference was a big deal. Why should I?

The little texting thought bubble pops up, showing me Ollie is typing something. But then it disappears. Pops up again. Disappears.

Don't look up. Don't look up.

I look up.

I turn.

And there he is, standing in the doorway—the same one Glenn first walked out of—casually leaning against the frame, arms crossed. His hair looks even darker against the crisp white of his chef's suit, his furrowed eyebrows look stark against his pearly skin, and his normally full peach lips are drawn in a thin line. But then again, mine are too.

The door opens behind him.

Glenn.

Available Glenn. Smiling Glenn. Excited Glenn.

Ollie moves out of his way and goes back into the kitchen, not bothering to look at me again. I pull my lips wide, feigning enthusiasm as Glenn makes his way back to the table.

He's so nice. He's so kind. He's so fun.

But he's not Ollie.

I eat the cheesecake. I rave over how amazing it tastes. I thank him profusely for taking the time to make something so delicious just for me. And when the meal is over, I let him lead me outside even though the back of my neck tingles the entire time, alert to the fact that someone is watching me and I know exactly who.

When Glenn goes in for the kiss, I hesitate. The evening was wonderful and I haven't been kissed by a boy in months. But at the last second, I turn, offering my cheek. And he gets the message loud and clear, saying goodnight and hailing me a cab.

The whole way home, I tell myself over and over again that no, I'm not just sitting in silence waiting for my phone to vibrate. I refuse to take it out of my purse. Refuse to look at it.

Until,
buzz
, it moves on my lap.

I rip open my bag.

Bridget:
How'd the date go?!?

I ignore the sinking feeling in my chest.

Me:
Great!!

Beautiful, fashionable women scare the crap out of me. They're like a foreign breed I don't know what to do with. Well, aside from Bridget, but I think it must be because I've known her for so long. It’s hard to be intimidated by someone you've had burping contests with…

"I love it!" Victoria exclaims, swiveling in her chair, grinning while she reads the last few sentences of my column for next week. For a moment, I sit up higher, ears perked. And then, as per usual, she places the papers on her desk, reaches for her red pen, and goes to town.

Each swish of her hand is a dagger to my heart. The swirls of crimson ink are my blood. And Victoria, in her crisp clementine dress and floral scarf, is my executioner. Not the most obvious outfit choice for a killer, I'll admit, but the woman is heartless as she tears my work to shreds.

I sink so low in my chair that I can barely see over the rim of her desk. Once, just once, I would love to have a column I don’t need to write over and over—oh, I don't know, about a million times—before it's acceptable to print. But this week is not that week, and as she hands back her edits, I do my best not to crumple the sheets into a tiny ball with my furiously clenching fists.

I've gotten much better at doing that assistant smile the other girls do. You know, the one that says I love you and I want to kill you at the same time. You sort of grind your teeth and deaden your eyes, while also pinching your cheeks and lifting your eyebrows. Yeah, that one took me a while to master. I'm pretty sure for a week there Victoria thought I was deranged. But now all she does is return a pleasant smile of her own.

"Get me a new copy by tomorrow morning, all right?"

I take the papers. "Of course, Victoria. I'll start working on it right away."

And then she looks back down at her desk, shuffling through her folders to signal that I'm dismissed. As soon as I'm out of her office, the smile vanishes. I know it's not really her fault—she's just doing her job, and I'm a new reporter, and in the long run my writing will be better for it. But I can't help how my heart sinks when my eyes run across every red scribble decorating the page. Total overhaul.

"Oh, and Skye?"

Crap. I lift the corners of my lips—it's the best I can do at the moment—and turn. "Yes?"

"Are you going on a second date?"

"Ah, no," I murmur, not sure if I should tell her more.

"Good," she says and looks back down. But now I'm the one who's curious. Good? What the heck does that mean?

"Um…" I step back into her office. "Can I ask why?"

"Glenn, the pastry chef." Victoria shrugs and scrunches her face, not bothering to look up from her desk. "It's just not sexy enough, not daring enough to really hook readers. They want to live vicariously. You need to find someone more exciting, more alluring for the long-term."

Poor Glenn…sweet, kind, if slightly boring, Glenn. I wonder if his name has been what's holding him back all along. Something about it just doesn’t scream
sexy
, you know? But then the meaning behind Victoria's words really sinks in and I understand what she's really saying, what she really wants—a train wreck. Not a good guy, not a stable relationship, but drama—full-fledged, on-again-off-again, I-love-you-I-hate-you, one second we're fighting and the next we're passionately kissing, soap opera style romance. Well, I must say, it's so nice to know my boss is looking out for my well-being.

I sigh as I sink into my seat, staring at my computer screen while my mind processes all the things I need to do before I leave today. Rewrite my column. E-mail a few freelancers for status updates on their articles. Answer dating advice questions for the website—which, really, I barely feel qualified for. Oh, and shuffle through the hundred unopened event invitations on my desk—the ones carefully stacked into a very precarious column that may or may not collapse at any second.

Leaning back, I close my eyes for a moment, wishing it were Friday. I had one of those truly terrible days where I went the entire morning thinking it was Friday, only to remember after lunch that it was Thursday, and there was one more insufferable day to get through before the weekend. Ever since, my mood has been terrible. Well, truth be told, my mood has been terrible ever since the end of my date with Glenn—Ollie hasn’t texted me, hasn’t spoken to me, and try as I might to stay up really late and catch him off guard, I inevitably fall asleep before he comes home from work. I don't even know what I want to say, so really, it's probably better this way. I mean, it's definitely better this way. Maybe…

"What are you doing tonight?" I hear one of the other assistants ask behind my back, but I choose to ignore it. All four of us share a corner space, and they're always making plans and not inviting me. To go get drinks, to go to events together, to go shopping. It's nothing new. I don't really think they do it maliciously, but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting.

So I don't answer as I sit up and log into my account, ready to check the e-mails I must have received while in Victoria's office.

"Skylar?"

Huh? Is she talking to me? I glance at the twenty new messages and decide, screw it, they can wait.

"Yeah?" I ask, swiveling around in my chair, curious.

"What are you doing tonight?" It’s Rebecca. She's definitely the kindest of the three, a little more down to earth. During my first week, she gave me some shopping pointers about what colors and clothes might look good on me. Looking to either side, I realize Blythe, the obvious ringleader, is nowhere to be found. And neither is Isabel. Something strange is happening.

I shrug. "Nothing really. I'll probably stay late and get some work done. Why? Do you need me to finish something for you?"

Rebecca looks at me funny and then laughs. "No, I'm meeting the other girls downstairs in a few minutes. We're going to meet some friends at a happy hour downtown."

I nod, moving just slightly back and forth in my chair, completely unsure of what she expects me to do or say. There's a slightly elongated pause, as though we're both waiting for the other to speak. I give in. "Um, have fun?"

Rebecca purses her lips, staring at me, and then asks, "Do you have a problem picking up social cues?" Then, acting as if she didn’t just ask me a totally degrading question, she reaches for her purse and pulls a scarf around her neck, tousling her hair in a way that looks styled rather than accidental. Now that's a skill I could use.

Then I remember her question—social cues. Me. Picking them up. Okay I admit, there may be a disconnect there…a small one, minute really, inconsequential…or you know, one the size of the Grand Canyon.

"Maybe?" I answer somewhat honestly.

"Well, when I just said the girls and I are going out for drinks, it was sort of an invitation. Do you want to come?" And she stands there in her high heels, looking down at me with perfectly ruffled brown tresses and an outfit that could be torn from the pages of a magazine, and I realize something. Have they been inviting me all along? Dropping hints that I just never picked up? Do they think I'm maybe the a-hole who keeps ignoring them rather than the other way around?

Crap!

My entire life has just been brought into question.

How many times have I misread people's intentions? How many parties was I invited to in high school without realizing, all the while using Bridget as my excuse to go? How many guys have potentially dropped hints and I've been too in my own head to take notice? How many times—

"Uh, Skylar?"

Double crap! I'm doing it right now…

"Sure!" I jump out of my chair, knocking it very ungracefully into my desk. A second later, the gentle ruffle of sliding paper trickles into my ear.

No.

I sigh, knowing what's about to happen right before it does.

And then envelopes rain down around my feet—the invitations. The ones I had so painstakingly stacked are tumbling like a waterfall over the edge of my desk, slipping across the floor—a flash flood drowning my newfound enthusiasm. I have so much work to finish. I have a column to rewrite by the morning. I have a mess to clean. I have a thousand things more important than drinking that I have to do right now.

Rebecca's still waiting for me, so I look up into her smiling eyes. She just shrugs, completely unconcerned. "You ready?"

I look back down at the mess of envelopes circling my feet, still shifting into place. As though the world is mocking me, one last one drops, sharp point landing squarely on the exposed flesh of my upper foot, stinging so bad it brings tears to my eyes—and I decide I've had enough. Of this day. Of this office. Of my lies. And of being the only assistant left out of the fun.

I grab my purse. "Let's go."

When we make it outside to where the other assistants are waiting, Blythe raises one eyebrow in my direction, but remains silent.

Isabel on the other hand, waves enthusiastically. "You're going out with us? You never go out with us."

I choose not to point out that if they did in fact want me to come, they could have been a little more blunt about it in the first place. You know, especially after realizing that I'm socially inept. But instead, I let my mood stay light and cheery, answering with an enthusiastic, "Yup! Where are we going anyway?"

Blythe shifts her upturned nose in my direction, looking down at me from the precarious height of her four-inch heels. "To see my brother and his friends."

"You have a brother?" I blurt and then bite my lip, hoping it didn’t sound as rude as it did in my head. But really, who expects the spawn of Satan to have a sibling?

Blythe rolls her eyes. "Yes. And he's waiting for us."

Before I have time to embarrass myself further by heading for the subway, Isabel raises her hand to hail a cab. As a former model and stunning beauty, it takes about, I don't know, less than a heartbeat for one to pull up. I take the loser seat in the front next to the driver, sort of feeling more like an explorer on an expedition into foreign lands than a girl going out with friends—well, acquaintances anyway.

For fifteen minutes, Blythe, Rebecca, and Isabel discuss weekend plans, their most recent dating adventures, their latest hook ups. I subtly take a few notes on my phone in the front seat—hey, this is good stuff for my column! But when the conversation becomes a venting session about work, and the editors, and our bosses, I join in wholeheartedly, putting my phone away. And it feels sort of nice to bond with the girls over some common ground—they may all be rich and beautiful and fashionable in ways I'm totally not, but at the newspaper we're all at the bottom of the pecking order.

As a solid pack of four, we casually step into happy hour, maneuvering through the crowd in search of Blythe's brother. I can't help but notice as I look around that we don't quite fit in here. Practically everyone else in the bar is a man, and practically all of those men are staring at us, studying us, checking us out. They're young. They're in suits. They all feel shrouded in a cloud of over-confidence, at least that's what their blatant stares seem to imply. Well, either that or just total arrogance, but I'll give them all the benefit of the doubt. And as I meet a few of the roving eyes, I realize I'm one of the girls they're checking out. Me! I must be hot by association! I should hang out with models more often.

A blush warms my cheeks and I look away, focusing on following Rebecca's back as we weave in and out of people. All the way in the corner by a booth, we stop.

"Blythe!" a boy shouts, waving us over.

He's cute.

Like really cute.

Angular jaw. Straight nose. Clean-shaven. Honey brown eyes with a hint of green. Soft brown hair. Sort of the all-American boy look. And, oh man, that smile…open enough to be kind, thin enough to be mysterious, and—shoot! He caught me staring. Way to be subtle.

I quickly flick my eyes to the side, nonchalantly scanning the room. When I glance back, he's still looking, but this time that melt-your-heart smile is even wider and definitely pointed in my direction, with some blatant interest I might add.

The need to flee jets up my spine.

Run. Run.

Fast!

But I don't. And I don't look away either.

What is going on? This is so not me… But for one night, maybe it can be. You know, for the research.