"How do you know?"

"Just trust me," he urges. I fold my lips into my mouth, forcing myself to be quiet. "One of the other sous-chefs lives around here, and he's letting us borrow his car for the day."

"Car?" I ask, suddenly intrigued.

Ollie wiggles his eyebrows but doesn't give anything else away. Instead, he sends me on a run for provisions while he goes to get the car. Two coffees, two egg sandwiches, and two bags of skittles later, we're on the road, almost to our mystery destination. The signs of the city disappeared a while ago. Now the highway is lined with snow-dusted trees, sloping mountain vistas, and every so often a glimmer of the Hudson River. For some reason, it reminds me of home, of the sweeping farmlands I grew up with. We're still in New York but not the hustling-bustling New York I'm used to. This is slower, calmer, much more beautiful, much more serene. Already, my mood has shifted. The bundle of nerves always coiling in my stomach has loosened, making way for a sense of peace I'm not really used to.

Ollie's driving with one hand, holding on to mine with the other. Every so often, we shift, and his palm wraps around my thigh while I read directions off his phone. There's something unspoken in our movements, as though our bodies already anticipate each other, already move together. Everything between us is easy. Everything is right.

After about two hours of driving, we finally pull off the highway, turning down local roads until I see what must be our destination in the distance. Cars are parked all along both sides of the road, a huge white tent sits in the center of a snow-covered field, and there are quite a few people making the long walk to the entrance.

"What is this?" I ask, totally confused as Ollie pulls into an open slot on the edge of the road and unbuckles his seat belt.

"You'll see," he says, reaching for my hand, entwining our fingers. And out here, miles and miles from everyone we know, I eagerly hold on tight, loving how his skin keeps mine warm, fighting the winter air.

We follow other couples and groups until we're close enough to read the sign hanging in front of the entrance to the tent-The Hudson Valley Winter Wine Festival.

I stop short, totally amazed, shaking my head in disbelief. "How'd you find out about this?"

"I was looking for something fun to do together, and a friend of mine from culinary school suggested this." Ollie shifts his hold and swings our bound hands over my head so his arm rests across my shoulders, pulling me close to his side. Then he whispers, "Happy Valentine's Day."

"It's Valentine's Day? I didn't, wait, no it's not."

He shrugs. "Close enough, it's on Tuesday."

"Oh my god," I murmur, because really, I don't know what else to say. While I've been worrying about Bridge and making friendly with Blythe and pretending to date John and doing everything I could to keep Ollie a secret, he's been doing this. I'd completely forgotten Valentine's Day even existed let alone planned something special. And for the first time, I'm realizing just how great Ollie's been-how patient, how understanding, how devoted. He didn't freak-out about the incident with John. He didn't give ultimatums when I told him I wanted to keep us a secret. He didn't even get angry when I came home at dawn, sloppy drunk, offering no explanation. He took care of me instead. He's doing everything he can to prove to me how much he wants us to work, how much he loves me, silently begging me to believe in us, and I've been totally blind, totally stuck in my own head.

But my eyes are open.

And for the first time, I'm starting to see things clearly.

Because when we walk in and buy tickets, I stare at the lady who takes our money, searching her gaze for the slightest hint of disbelief, of wonder that I'm the one standing next to him. And when we head to the first booth and taste a selection of their red wines, I examine the man pouring the glasses, trying to pick out any clue that he doesn't get what someone like Ollie might see in someone like me. But the more people I look at, the more I realize that everything is in my own head. No one here cares about Ollie and me. No one here is worried about how we ended up together. No one spares us a second thought or a second glance.

I'm the only one who thinks the idea of us being together is crazy.

I'm the only one having trouble accepting it.

The more I meet Ollie's dazzling eyes, the more I'm wondering why. Because every time he holds my gaze for that split-second too long, I see hope flashing, hope that I'll finally see us the way he sees us-as perfect.

So for the rest of the day, I pretend I'm that girl.

The one who's not afraid.

The one who's confident.

The one who doesn't have any doubts.

I lean against Ollie as he goes off on food-related tangents, asking if I recognize the subtle hints of Indian spices in that wine or the fruity tones of another, telling me try one cheese with this wine and then try again with a little honey to see if I can taste the different flavors. I smile at the passion in his voice as he rattles off every recipe that comes to mind, comments on how he would improve the snacks laid out on the tables and takes a second sample of the ones he finds particularly delicious, the ideas he might borrow some time. His enthusiasm seeps into my heart, so I become the one dragging us from display to display, impatient to hear every word he has to say. When Ollie leans down to kiss me, I don't pull away, I don't even think for a second of all the people around us who might see. And when an older woman kindly says we look so sweet together, I just grin happily and agree.

My mind begins to wander, as it always does, but instead of listing all the ways in which things might go wrong, I daydream about all the ways they could go right. What if we do move to Italy for a year? What if this becomes our normal weekend, tasting foods and wines and indulging in Ollie's passions while I search for my own? What if I could wake up next to him every day without having to sneak out in the morning? What if I could hold his hand just like this all the time, in the bright light of day, for the entire world to see? What if he was mine, and I trusted that this time it was real? What if I just let go of the past and put my faith in the future?

Ollie and I wander outside after a while, cradling warm cups of hot apple cider in our hands as we take in the view from the back of the tent, marveling at the rolling white hills that turn lavender in the distance. The sun is starting to soften, growing hazy, as the shadows stretch longer across the ground. We find an open bench beside the blazing fire, not the only pair out here enjoying the cool air and the need to keep each other close. But I'm not thinking of anyone else as I lean against his chest, sipping my drink, quiet and lost in thought. There's no awkwardness between us, just a shared sense of peace, a common knowledge that we're right where we're supposed to be.

"I think I'm ready to go home," I whisper to Ollie, turning my head back to look up into his face. He's already watching me.

"Yeah?" he asks lightly, as though it's not a big deal.

But we both know it is.

Because home means Bridge, means telling the truth, means making us a real relationship, no longer confined to stolen nights and secret kisses. Ollie searches my eyes, trying to find a hint of the fear and neuroses he's so used to, but I don't think it's there. I really don't. I'm having a full-fledged out of body experience. I don't know where the real Skye went, but I don't miss her. Good riddance! Because I like who I am right now, I like who I am with Ollie when no one else is around, and I want to be that girl all the time.

We spend the entire car ride back planning out what we're going to say. Ollie is better at these things, so he's going to start, he's going to calmly tell Bridge that we've been dating, but we wanted to wait to tell her until we were sure things would work. And, well, now we're sure. He's going to explain how this started so many years ago when I snuck into his bedroom that night before I left for college, how I kissed him and changed everything. And then he's going to tell her about New Year's Eve, about how we finally got over our pride and admitted how we felt.

And me?

I'm going to stand by his side, holding his hand, trying my best not to bolt or have a panic attack or hide. My idea, not his. And trust me, it's going to be a lot harder than it sounds.

If Bridge is furious, we'll let her blow off steam.

If she starts yelling, we'll stay calm for her.

If she asks questions, we'll answer them all.

We'll be honest.

We'll tell the truth.

No more secrets.

At least, that's the plan. But I can't help but think in the back of my mind that even the best laid, most well-intentioned plans always seem to have a way of going to utter crap whenever I'm involved.

"You ready?" Ollie asks when we pause outside the front door of our apartment building.

I cup my hands in front of my mouth, blowing warm air on my fingers and rubbing them together, stalling. "How do we even know she's home?"

"She's home."

"But-"

"If she's not, then we'll just wait-however long it takes."

I close my eyes and nod, swallowing the pit of fear gnawing at me. I was doing so well, I was so calm, but as soon as I spotted skyscrapers on the horizon, my heartbeat surged, my pulse started to race, my hands grew sweaty, my lungs seemed to shrink, and a burning pain settled in my chest, a furnace that grows hotter with each passing second.

Ollie squeezes my fingers, trying to give me some of the strength he knows I need, but it takes everything I have just to step one foot in front of the other and follow him to the elevator. I concentrate on my toes, telling myself over and over that it will all be okay. Because I'm ready to come clean about Ollie. After today, I want to take the next step. I want us to be together for the whole world to see. I'm not worried about that anymore.

I'm worried because it's me.

I'm worried because somehow, someway, I always mess things up.

I'm worried because I've been lying to my best friend, she's been lying to me, we haven't spoken truthfully in weeks, and I really don't know if the next ten minutes are going to make it better or worse.

"On three?" he asks when we stop outside the door.

I smile because words are beyond me.

Ollie holds my gaze, lifting his fingers to my cheek and kissing me softly. "You don't have to be so nervous, everything is going to work out, I promise. Because this thing between us? It was meant to happen. And Bridge? At first, yeah, she'll probably be a little pissed that we lied. I mean, she's a McDonough after all. But when she has a moment to really think about it, she'll be so excited and so happy for us. I love you. You love me. She loves both of us. And none of that is going to change."

I hold on to his words, trying to wrap them around me like a security blanket, and whisper, "One."

"Two," he murmurs.

Our eyes meet on three.

Ollie twists the knob and steps inside the apartment. I follow, using his hand as my guide, letting him lead me beyond the foyer and into the living room.

Bridge is sitting on the couch, staring at her phone. The television isn't on. There's no music playing. She wasn't asleep. And she still hasn't moved, hasn't glanced curiously in our direction, hasn't even bothered to look up.

My brows come together as my whole body freezes. Ollie senses it, glancing at me, wondering why I've suddenly gone stiff as a board. But I can't take my eyes off my best friend. Because to her brother, this may seem normal, may seem like she's playing a game on her cell, scrolling through social media, reading a website, too distracted to notice that we walked in.

But I know better.

And when she finally looks up, pausing for a moment on our interlaced hands, her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. With trembling fingers, she puts her phone on the coffee table and finds my gaze, holding it silently, but the pain and hurt and fury are loud and clear.

My heart drops.

Literally, it falls through the floor, all the way to the basement of the building, lower even, as though the ground isn't there, as though nothing is below me but an endless abyss for my soul to keep tumbling farther and farther into.

"So," she says, trying to sound casual, but her voice is strained and strangled, brimming over with pent-up emotion. "How was your date?"

Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.

How was your date? How was your date?

Those four words play over and over again in my mind as the quiet stretches, making our tiny living room feel a mile wide, as though the space between Bridge and me couldn't be vaster.

How was your date?

Great. Amazing. One of the best I've ever had.

But I can't say any of those things because she's not asking how our date was, not really. She's asking how could we do this to her? How could we let her find out some other way? How we could lie? How could her brother and her best friend, the two people who love her most in the world, betray her like this?

And I have no response.

Nothing.

"Bridge," Ollie starts slowly, "give us a second to explain before you jump to conclusions."

"Before I jump to conclusions?" she repeats, sputtering. "Before I jump to conclusions? You guys walk in holding hands as though it's the most normal thing in the world, and I'm somehow jumping to conclusions?"

"Okay," he says, dropping my hand to hold his palms toward her-a sign of peace. But the moment his skin leaves mine, I feel empty. My anchor is gone. My lifeline is gone. Without Ollie holding me, I'm adrift in the storm, weathering it all on my own, and I'm not ready. Not even close. But he continues, unaware of my struggle, "Okay, that probably wasn't the best way to put it. All I meant was, please let us explain."

"Oh, I will," she growls. "I'm just dying to hear this explanation. I'm just dying to hear how long the two of you have been hooking up behind my back, right under my nose."

I'm drowning.

Suffocating.

The air is too thick to breathe, and I'm buckling under the pressure.

Because I can't stand to hear her voice sounding like that, can't stand to see that look in her eyes, and most of all, I can't stand knowing I'm the one who put it there.

"It's not like that," Ollie tries to assure her. "This isn't some casual thing. We've fallen for each other. I love Skye, she loves me, and we just wanted to wait until we were sure it was real before telling you."

"How long?" Bridge asks darkly.

Ollie stands up straighter, delaying just enough for all of us to notice the pause. "A little over a month," he confesses. "We got together the same night that Skye broke things off with Patrick."

At that name, I pause.

I stop floundering.

I stop sinking.

A life raft has been tossed out to save me, and I grab on, holding for dear life as I remember that I'm not the only one who lied, I'm not the only one in the wrong, I'm not the only one who has to be held accountable.

Bridge says something, but I don't hear.

Ollie responds, voice still as soothing as ever, but I don't listen.

I'm too lost in my own head, too wrapped up in my little bit of salvation. I've seen the light at the end of the tunnel, and I'm making a mad dash toward freedom, completely unaware of everything being left behind in the process.

"Patrick," I blurt.

Ollie's head whips toward me. "What?"

But Bridge falls utterly silent.

I lift my head, focus sharpening as I zero in on her. "I saw you with Patrick."

Bridge swallows, eyes narrowing as she watches me, not sure if I really know what she's afraid I might know. "You saw me what with Patrick?"

"Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about."

But Bridge chooses denial, shrugging. "I don't."

"I'm not the only one keeping secrets, I'm not the only one who's been lying," I say, voice growing louder with each word, stronger. Because if she's going to be mad at me, then I'm going to be mad right back. Anger is a lot easier to deal with than guilt, so I straighten my shoulders, taking a step toward Bridge, completely forgetting that Ollie is even in the room, and fight fire with fire. "I saw you making out with Patrick in a hot tub. So don't stand there and pretend like we're the only ones who've been going behind anyone's back. Don't stand there and act so innocent."

She doesn't admit to anything. Doesn't apologize. "How'd you find out?"