I hold his hand. He tightens his fingers.

"It could be," I say as I stare into his eyes, wondering if that's how the Mediterranean would sparkle on a clear summer's day.

This, I think.

This is real.

It has to be.

I lied when I said my date with John would be the best date of my freaking life because last night with Ollie? That was unbeatable. Untouchable. Un-everything. And tonight with John? Well, let's just say I'm just hoping to get through it without barfing.

"Looks like we're the first ones here," Bridge comments. Those seven words might be the most she's said to me all week.

I shrug because I'm too nervous to speak.

My throat has been clogged ever since Ollie left for work this afternoon and the realization sank in that I would not only be seeing John tonight but would have to pretend to be in love with him. With every glance at the winding down clock, my dread has only grown.

Bridge, on the other hand, is cheerful.

Cheerful!

The nerve.

And I know, I know, I got myself into this mess. Made my bed and now I have to lie in it. All that jazz. But now that the hour is here, I just want to get it over with as quickly as possible. Because once it's done, I never have to see John again, and my relationship with Ollie will be smooth sailing, under the radar for as long as we need it to be.

That's the hope anyway.

The only silver lining to the whole mess? Bridge and I made an unspoken agreement that margaritas needed to be involved in the awkwardness that will be this double date, so we're at a Mexican restaurant. And I don't care if the boys aren't here yet, I'm ordering one.

We sit in silence while we wait for our drinks to arrive, taking turns glancing toward the front door, curious who will be the first boy to arrive.

"So, how was the gallery this week?" I ask cordially.

"Good," Bridge murmurs, nodding. "How was the newspaper?"

"Fine," I answer. "Getting ready for fashion week."

"Cool, we just got a new artist."

"What style?"

Bridge shrugs. "Modern."

"Nice."

And I'm dying to tell her about Blythe and the other girls and how we're somehow sort of friends now. But there's just too much tension. I don't even know where to begin.

"Frozen with salt?" a waiter interrupts.

"Me!" I chime, spinning toward him greedily as he places mine down on the table. The margarita without salt goes to Bridge. And immediately, we both duck our heads, taking a sip, letting the tequila sink in.

"So..." I begin, trailing off.

"Yeah..." Bridge sighs.

We stare at each other for a moment, both equally depressed at how we're acting, yet equally stubborn about not being the first to give in. I miss her. And even though it's only been a few days, I see the slight longing in her eyes that makes me realize she misses me too.

"Bridge," I start, fully intending to apologize, because I'm always the first to break. But before I get the chance to finish, her eyes widen, focusing behind me.

"Alex!" Also known as Mr. Hottie, gym boy, Bridge's man of the moment.

I turn in my seat, smiling in greeting, but he doesn't even notice me. His thick, muscular arms immediately go around Bridge's waist, pulling her in for a hello kiss that seems a little bit, well, excessive. And, if I'm being honest, sort of slobbery.

He pulls back.

And even though she tries to hide it, I see the subtle shoulder rub Bridge pulls, wiping the excess saliva from her cheek. I bite my lips, holding back the grin threatening to spill over. But Bridge knows. She always knows. And she throws a murderous glance in my direction, just daring me to say something when in her mind, the boy I'm dating is John.

Enough said.

I stay silent...barely.

"Hey, Skye, right?" he says after sitting down and throwing his meaty forearm across the back of Bridge's chair. I met him once before during the New Year's Eve party, but I was too preoccupied that night to really pay attention. The guy is a freaking body builder. And I'm a little surprised because Bridge definitely loves a man who can lift her up and carry her around, but he, for some reason, just doesn't seem like her type.

"Yeah, Skye," I say. "Nice to see you again."

Before we have time to say anything else, I get a strange tickle at the back of my neck, an unsettling itch. And I know why without having to turn around. When his hand lightly presses against my shoulder, skimming the bare skin at the base of my neck, it takes everything in my power not to flinch.

"John!" I say with feigned enthusiasm and spin around.

Spurred on by my tone, he leans in, putting a hand to my waist in a move that feels grossly familiar yet foreign at the same time. And I know exactly what's coming next-what he hopes will, anyway. So I harden my eyes, sharpening them to steel, glaring. His smile only deepens. At the last second I shift, presenting him with my cheek and subtly pinching the hand pressed against me to make him jump away.

I sit back down before he has time to try anything else.

Still grinning, quite lecherously I might add, he turns to Bridge. "Hey, Bridget, it's been a while."

"Jonathan," she mutters.

He turns to her date. "Hey, I'm John. Nice to meet you."

"Alex," Mr. Hottie says, extending his hand. And really, their handshake is almost comical because John's skinny little fingers are completely engulfed by the grip.

At that point the waiter comes back over, interrupting us. "Can I get you anything else before you order?"

And I know he's asking the boys, but I can't help it. "Can I get another frozen margarita with salt, please?" The waiter looks pointedly at my still-full drink. So I just reach over with both hands, raise the glass to my lips, take a nice long sip, and add, "How about an extra shot of tequila on that?"

Dubiously, he nods.

"Me too," Bridge chimes in.

Quickly, I glance toward her, noticing how she's leaning just slightly away from the arm draped across her seat, how she's already finished half of her drink, and how she's obviously avoiding eye contact with me-and realize I might not be the only one who would rather be anywhere else in the world but here.

I know why I'm miserable.

But why the heck is she?

Before I have time to ruminate, John's palm lands on the top of my thigh, sliding higher and higher up my pant leg. I'm so caught off guard, I don't even think. I turn to him, unable to fight the kneejerk reaction to tell him to get the hell off, forgetting that I just took a huge gulp of frozen margarita.

By the time I remember, it's already too late.

My mouth opens furiously, and in an instant, green slush is spewing from my lips. All I can do is watch as it flies out in a perfect arch, sailing toward a target I didn't even realize I'd been aiming at.

John's face.

And it's beautiful.

So beautiful.

Limey ice pellets land in blobs on his nose, his cheeks, his hair, dripping down his pallid skin and dropping to become putrid stains on his crisp, white button-down shirt.

And I know I should jump to help, should grab napkins, should maybe apologize, but first, I sit and stare for a moment, taking a mental picture to remember this glorious moment. He did this to himself. I mean, I literally started gagging at his touch. There's something poetic about it, in a vicious, vindictive, I-can't-help-it sort of way.

And then I remember I'm supposed to be in love with him, for the next hour at least, and I finally surge to life.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry," I cry, jumping forward, wiping at the sticky residue with my fingers. All I succeed in doing is rubbing the stains in more, not that I meant to or anything...

"It's okay," he mutters. But I recognize the anger in his tone, I've heard it before. He's pissed. My joy only deepens, and I smile sweetly as I hand him napkins, ever the adoring fake girlfriend.

"That's why I never wear white," Alex throws in, trying to lighten the mood. I glance over. True to his word, he's wearing a black cotton T-shirt that's maybe a hair too tight, but it looks good with his dark jeans.

"You must not work in a corporate office," John comments, unable to keep the judgment from his tone. Because of course he hasn't changed at all, and if it doesn't follow his vision of success then it must be wrong.

I don't miss the look Bridge tosses in my direction.

But Alex takes it in stride. "Nah, I'm a personal trainer." Then he stares John up and down, noting his thin sort of gangly frame. "You don't look like you work out much. I could help you with that."

"Thanks," John forces the word through his teeth.

Luckily, the rest of the drinks arrive at that moment. I greedily reach for my second margarita, already feeling the effects of the tequila. My body is warm. My brain is fuzzy. But the slight buzz can only help me in this situation, because when John goes for my hand, above the table this time, my reaction time has slowed. Before my gut takes over, my head remembers, and I let his hand stay there, inwardly cringing, outwardly taking another cold sip.

Bridge's eyes harden, focused on the spot where our fingers intertwine. As soon as we're done ordering, she leans forward, asking, "So, how did you guys get back together anyway?"

"You were broken up?" Alex asks, surprised.

"Well-" I start, but Bridge cuts me off.

"They were together for about three years in college, but then she caught him cheating on her and they broke up."

His brows lift and he leans back, as if to say, I'm not getting involved in this one.

Good call, Alex. Good call.

I wish I had it so easy.

Instead, I find myself telling her another carefully crafted lie. "Well, like I was saying, John reached out over Christmas break. And at first, I wasn't going to give him the time of day. But after he had a chance to explain himself and apologize, I decided that I missed him enough to give us a second try."

Bridge's eye roll could go in the Guinness Book of World Records.

It's that good.

I can just see her gearing up for an interrogation, and I really, really don't want to keep lying, so I beat her to the punch. "So, Alex, you're a personal trainer? Do you work with celebrities? What kind of things do you do?"

And for once, the gods are on my side.

Because Alex? He's a talker.

And unbeknownst to him, he just became my secret weapon. And my new best friend. Especially since my current best friend looks like she wants to murder me, and John, and actually, Alex too.

Any time Bridge tries to cut in, asking personal questions about John and me, all I need to do is sidestep a little, asking Alex about working out, clean eating, healthy living-all things I know nothing about-and he happily supplies the next five minutes of uninterrupted conversation. Really, I hardly need to do anything. It's almost too easy.

By the time our food is gone, I'm grinning from ear to ear.

And Bridge is sulking.

Our drunken moods have gone in two very opposite directions. After my third margarita, I'm tipsy enough to almost forget the way John is randomly touching me-brushing my hair out of my face, gently rubbing my arm, pressing his shoulder close to mine. I'm too high on my victory, too elated that the night is winding down and it's almost done, too eager to head home and wait for Ollie.

Bridge, on the other hand, is sinking deeper and deeper into a drunken rage. Every time Alex opens his mouth to go off on a tangent, she disappears behind her drink, trying to hide the frustration. Every time John casually places his hand anywhere near me, her scowl deepens. And I know with that ever-intensifying frown that I've convinced her. My best friend is currently heading down the dark, dark path of imagining a future filled with John-and to be honest, I, more than anyone else, understand how utterly terrifying that concept can be.

And yet, I do nothing to stop it.

Because in a twisted, horrible, selfish sort of way, the more she goes down that road, the more relieved I hope she'll be when I finally tell her the truth. Because compared to John, Ollie will be an angel sent from heaven to save Bridge from a future in best friend hell.

When the check comes, Alex immediately reaches for his wallet, signaling to Bridge that he doesn't want her to pay. I could kiss him, I really could. Because his chivalry forces John to suck it up and offer the same.

"Can we talk outside for a second?" Bridge asks under her breath while the guys sort everything out.

I watch John for a smidge longer, getting a sick enjoyment as I watch the irritation pass over his face when he realizes how much my margaritas cost. In Bridge's belligerent eyes, my expression must come off as adoring because before I answer, she's jumping out of her seat, grabbing me by the arm, and dragging me outside.

The freezing air is sobering.

And for the first time that night, I realize what an absolute jerk I'm being. Shame rattles through me, a painful burn that sizzles all my self-indulgent joy away. Because everything about my best friend is furious and depressed and torn, and I'm the bitch who made it that way. When I look into her eyes, I see tears building at the corners, and for a moment, I ache so much that I fear I've stabbed myself straight through the heart.

"Bridge," I start softly, not sure what to say.

But she shakes her head. She doesn't want to hear it. "I don't care, Skye. Date him if you want to, love him if you want to, but I can't sit around and watch. Maybe you don't have enough self-respect for yourself to realize how wrong it is to get back together with a guy who treated you that way, but I do. I love you. I know just how amazing you are. And I respect you way too much to silently let this happen. So if you want John, fine, be with him. But do it without me."

Not sparing another glance, she turns and walks away.

"Bridge!" I shout after her.