But she did start being nice, and when it comes down to it, she's the one here for me right now while Bridge is out gallivanting with my ex-boyfriend. And maybe that quick sentiment, mixed with my current total lack of inhibitions, is why I finally, after so many months of hiding, tell Blythe the truth. I'm not 100 percent sure I trust her, but even in my belligerence, I recognize that I owe her. Big.

"I was a virgin," I murmur, immediately sinking my face into my cocktail.

Blythe stares at me, confused. "Yeah, so was I. We all were once."

"No." I shake my head. "What your brother didn't tell you, what I've been hiding? Until about a month ago, I was still a virgin."

She spits out her drink.

Yes, little miss debutante, probably went to a cotillion, bred since birth to act like a lady, just spit her cosmopolitan all over the grimy table separating us-and a little bit all over me too.

"Shit," she blurts. "Really?"

I nod.

"No," she gasps, pushing both of our drinks aside to lean in close, so we're eye to eye, but in a verging-on-creepy way. And then she starts laughing hysterically, walking the fine line between psychotic and inebriated. "You were a virgin writing a sex column? I just thought you were a prude, but not, you know, to that extreme. But a virgin?"

"I was a virgin sex columnist," I admit.

She sits back dramatically. "I could've destroyed you."

"I know."

"I would've."

"I know."

There's an awkward moment of silence.

"I mean, I won't now."

I roll my eyes. "Thanks."

And then her entire face scrunches together, and her eyes go wide, horrified. "Oh my god, was it my brother? Is that why you-"

"No!"

"Oh, thank god." She takes a long swill, but then grins wickedly. "Although, it would be nice to hear that he sucked at one thing."

I nudge her. "Stop."

"What? I'm just saying," she trails off, smile deepening with dark humor. And then she blinks, letting it fade. "So, the secret boyfriend then?"

"Yup." And now it's my turn to grin, but instead of evil delight, mine is laced with embarrassed satisfaction.

"Good, then?"

"Great."

Blythe sits back, shaking her head. "You bitch."

"I thought we already established that you're the bitch."

"The only thing that's been established is that we both need another drink."

I don't argue.

Blythe returns a few minutes later with two more cosmos.

"My first time was terrible," she blurts as soon as she sits down.

But I'm not really paying attention. The few minutes of being left alone have allowed my mind to wander back to the image of Bridge and Patrick in the hot tub and to the suppressed anger still stewing in my belly.

"I'm a damn good best friend," I state loudly.

Blythe hardly realizes I totally ignored her comment. Instead, she jumps on my bandwagon. "You are a damn good best friend, I haven't had a girls' night like this in, maybe, well, ever."

"I am," I assert. Then I take another sip, swishing the liquid around my mouth for a few moments before swallowing. "I used to cover for Bridge all the time, you know. I went along with any crazy scheme she thought up. My whole life I've done everything she wanted me to do, even when I didn't want to. Snuck out of the house. Threw a party once when my mom was out of town. Helped her chase after boys. Helped her study. Helped with her homework. Sat through so many hours as her model for god knows how many paintings. I even attended some modern art shows, which, I mean, let's be honest, only a best friend would do. And this is what I get?"

Blythe shakes her head. "You deserve better."

"I do deserve better," I repeat, getting riled up. But then I frown. "No, I don't."

Blythe shakes her head, my sloshed cheering section of one. "You do."

"No," I whine, sinking into my drink, not aware enough to realize that my anger-fueled buzz is quickly traveling into the terrible realm of drunken hysterics. "I'm a horrible friend."

"No-"

"Yes," I interrupt. "Because I'm dating Oliver McDonough."

"Huh?" Blythe murmurs, lost for the first time since we began our drunken rant.

"Oliver McDonough!" I repeat, shaking my head miserably, voice growing louder, more helpless. "I'm in love with Oliver McDonough!"

"I think you think that name means more than it actually does..."

"Oliver Freaking McDonough," I grumble, shoulders slumping. But when I look at Blythe, her eyes are still blank, so I elaborate. "My secret boyfriend is Bridge's brother, Oliver McDonough."

Blythe slams her drink down on the table, choking on the sip she just took as her eyes alight with recognition. "No! I completely forgot that's who he was."

"Yes!" I cry. "And he's our roommate!"

"No!" she gasps.

"I'm having an affair right under her nose!"

"No!" Blythe repeats again. All other words in the English language have abandoned her.

"I'm horrible!" I moan, dropping my head against the table, slamming it down a little painfully. But the feeling passes quickly, lost in the general fuzziness of my mind, replaced by the image of Bridge and Patrick, cozy beneath the stars, not caring at all about me. "And Bridge is horrible, too. We're all horrible. This whole place is horrible."

"I'm not," Blythe says, puffing out her chest.

I lift my head just enough to stare at her pointedly. "Are you or are you not still internally debating whether you should out me to Victoria and get me fired? Be honest."

Blythe looks at the floor.

"Aha!" I exclaim, pointing at her. "Horrible."

"Oh, all right," she grumbles and downs the rest of her drink. "I'm horrible. I'm also horribly drunk and horribly over this place. Let's go downtown. I know a DJ at this club who can get us into the VIP section free of charge."

I'm wasted.

It's two in the morning.

And my entire life has been flipped upside down.

So, naturally, I link arms with Blythe and follow her downtown. Because what else am I going to do tonight besides dance until the sun starts to rise and continue to drown my worries away? My best friend is on a date with my ex, I'm not speaking to her for the first time in our lives, Ollie is probably already fast asleep after a long shift at the restaurant, I might have just handed Blythe the means of my destruction on a silver platter, and all I want to do right now is just escape it all. Just run away for a few hours and pretend like everything isn't falling apart.

So I do.

And that's where everything gets a little fuzzy.

I know we made it to the club. I'm positive we had more drinks. I'm pretty sure we decided that we were now best friends for life. And the rest is in flashes of blinking lights, an internal strobe. Blythe and I dancing hand in hand. Blythe making out with the DJ so I could steal his headphones and blast a 90s girl-power pop song. The two of us on the bar singing said 90s pop song. A bouncer throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me out of the club, which if you were wondering, did not stop me from completing my impromptu karaoke. Blythe following soon after, saying her father was going to sue. There were definitely some dollar pizza slices involved at some point. And why do I feel like we challenged a street performer in Union Square to a rap battle? And stole someone's skateboard? But that can't be right, can it?

All I really know is that it's half past five by the time I stumble into my apartment, sweaty and reeking of alcohol, banging into the hall closet as I try to keep myself upright.

"Skye?" a tired voice asks.

I spin. "Ollie!" And then I freeze, bringing my finger to my lips. "Shh, you're asleep."

He shakes his head and sits up from the couch, rubbing his eyes, glancing out the window at the soft light of a new dawn. "I was worried when I came home and you weren't here. I tried to wait up, but I must have fallen asleep. Didn't you get any of my texts?"

"Texts?" I ask, immediately rummaging through my bag, which slips out of my hands and falls to the floor, crashing with a loud bang. I reach after it, nearly following the purse to the ground, but two solid arms catch me. And as soon as Ollie's arms come around me, everything floods back, everything I tried to drink away but knew I'd eventually have to face.

I turn into his chest and start crying, as though a switch has been flipped. Not in a pretty, sympathy inducing way. But in a belligerent, bloodshot eyes, face squished, sniffling like a baby, bawling my eyes out sort of way.

"Come on," he murmurs, carrying me toward the bathroom, not bothering to ask why I'm crying or what happened. Somehow, he just knows it's about Bridge without my even needing to say so. Maybe he thinks I'm finally having the freak-out he said he'd been waiting for all week.

I may or may not vomit.

Twice.

Moving ever so gently, he helps strip off my clothes, peeling the sticky, moist dress from my skin, sliding my feet from my shoes, even untying my ponytail. Turning on the shower, Ollie guides me into the hot water, holding me up, not caring as his own clothes get soaked. After the soap washes off, he wraps me in a towel and carries me to his room, setting me down just long enough to throw one of his T-shirts over my bare shoulders before tucking me beneath the covers.

When he lies down a few feet away, trying to give me space, I pull him closer, entangling our bodies, because I need to hold on to him.

"Do you still love me?" I whisper through the tears.

"I still love you," he says, smiling and shaking his head with a sigh, probably thinking it's nothing more than a drunken confession. But it's more, much more. It's all the mess of fears I've been too scared to say until now.

"Even after tonight?" I ask, voice already becoming overtaken by tiredness, too exhausted for fear.

Ollie kisses my forehead, tugging me closer into his warm chest. "Even after tonight."

"Even though you're Oliver McDonough and I'm just Skylar Quinn?"

He presses his lips to my ear. "Because I'm Oliver McDonough and you're my Skylar Quinn."

In my sleep, I smile.

I'm never drinking again-okay, that's a lie. How about, I'm never drinking while in a blind rage ever again? Only happy drinks for happy occasions? Perfectly logical. Perfectly reasonable. Perfectly un-Skye. Now, if I could only learn how to go back in time...

Ow. Ow.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

That about sums up my morning, but I'll fill in some details.

I woke in Ollie's bed to the sound of my phone buzzing. My eyes were plastered shut. My entire body ached. My mouth literally tasted like sewage. And I swear someone was taking a hammer to my forehead. Incredibly, I found the strength to lift just far enough to look at my phone screen, internally screaming the entire time. The bright whiteness initiated another round of stabbing pain, but amazingly, I powered through. You're impressed, I know.

Blythe: I hate you.

Me: I hate me, too.

Blythe: Well, at least we agree.

And then I glanced at the clock to see that it was nine in the morning, meaning I'd gotten a full three hours of coma-like sleep. Next to me, Ollie stirred.

Blythe: I'm going to Starbucks on my way to Lincoln Center. I'll get you a latte.

My hero.

But then I read her text again, not processing.

Until, I did.

Work.

Fashion week.

Beautiful people in beautiful clothes-and me.

Basically...fuck my life.

"Why are you awake?" Ollie groaned.

"Work," I croaked and then collapsed back onto the pillow, curling into a fetal position, utterly pathetic. "I want to die. I actually might be dying."