But it makes me smile because I haven't been hit by her in a really long time, and I sort of missed the abuse. "Okay, okay, how did you and Harold get together?"

"Well, you remember when I told you he stopped by to get his parents a gift?" Bridge asks. I nod, encouraging her to continue. "That was on a Monday, and he came to the gallery at lunch every day for the rest of the week. At first, I thought maybe he just needed a friend, so I didn't say anything to you because I didn't want to hurt your feelings. Every time he came, we just talked about the art, about our lives, about our passions, but nothing ever happened. And I told myself nothing could ever happen, I told myself to keep my distance. At the end of that week, Pa-I mean Harold asked me on a date, but I turned him down. I told him I just wanted to be friends, and I really thought that would be the end of it, until..."

Bridge trails off, so I turn over the timeline in my head, counting back the days and weeks until realization hits. "And then the double date with John happened?"

Bridge winces. "Yeah."

"So you went to see him after?"

"It wasn't like that," she says, tone strained. And then she sighs, glance falling to the floor before lifting back toward me. "Do you know that I haven't painted since graduation?"

My jaw falls open. "No!"

How did I not realize this? Painting is her passion, her life. When I think of Bridge, the first thing that comes to mind is her paint-covered overalls and color-stained hands. How could I not have noticed that she gave it up, that she stopped?

Bridge shrugs, as though it's no big deal, but her features are torn and nervous, giving far more away than her actions. "I don't know," she starts. "I guess after I started working at the gallery and saw what real artists look like, what real talent looks like, I got down on myself. I realized I would never make it as a professional, that my art really isn't up to snuff, and I just stopped. I got too scared, too intimidated to even try."

"Bridge," I urge. But I don't know what to say, this is unfamiliar territory. I'm the one who gets afraid. I'm the one who gives up. She's the one who is always ready with a pep talk. When did that change? How did I not see?

"It's okay," she says, shaking her head. "I kept it a secret, I didn't want anyone, not even you, to know. I was just ashamed I guess, I don't know."

"But Patrick changed that?" I ask, code-name forgotten because this is so much more important than I ever realized, so much more real.

Bridge nods slowly, face full of hesitation. But I keep my eyes curious, keep my heart open, keep my mind blank because I want to hear the whole story, I want to know everything, I need to.

"After the double date, I was so emotional, so confused that I got the urge to paint. You know me, that's how I process, how I think, and how I escape. But I hadn't felt that draw, that yearning for my brush in so long, I needed a worthy subject," she confesses, as though releasing a weight that's been weighing heavily on her for quite some time. "And I could have asked Alex, the guy from the gym, but I wasn't interested in him. And I wasn't being honest with myself. I told myself nothing would happen, that we were just friends, that I just liked the sculptural perfection of his features. I said that if you were dating John, you wouldn't care if I started hanging out with Patrick a little bit, even though I knew none of it was true. And I just texted him, asking if he wanted to hang out, asking if he would mind being my model for the night. And at first, that's all he was. But then, I don't know, between the moon and stars and the soft lighting in his apartment, something just happened. We kissed, and maybe a little more, and I got so freaked out I ran away. When I saw you the next day, you weren't speaking to me, you weren't even looking at me, and I felt so guilty. I ignored his calls and texts. But then I saw you grinning like an idiot into your phone, and I thought it was John, and I snapped. I called Patrick back, and he said he had a surprise for me. The next night, he told me that he rented me my own studio. And I was so touched, so overcome, I just gave in. Before I even knew what was happening, we were spending as much time as we possibly could together. It was easier to be with him than to be home because every time I saw you, I just felt so bad, so terrible, I just, I don't know, ignored you instead of dealing with my own completely confused feelings."

"It's okay," I tell her, reaching out to hold her hand.

"No, it's not," she mumbles, shaking her head. "But being with Patrick just made me so happy, I was so inspired. I mean, he made me want to chase after my dreams, you know? He made me think I could actually achieve them. He even convinced me to rent a stall in one of those upcoming Union Square trade fairs, so I could try to sell some of my work."

"That's amazing," I jump in. "I want you to be happy."

"You do?" Bridge asks.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, silly, of course I want you to be happy." And then I pause, making sure I really have her attention. "And if being with Patrick makes you this excited and inspired and happy, then I want you to be with him."

"Really?" she squeals, jumping up and into my arms.

"Really," I say, shaking my head.

"Good," Bridge confesses, pulling back, emerald eye dancing as she winks. "I was hoping you would say that because we sort of got back together last night."

I snort. "Jerk."

But I'm grinning, and she's grinning, and we're hugging. And the real thought running through my head is how could she think I would ever have said anything else? Now that I know the truth, now that I know how she really feels, my answer is so obvious. Of course they should be together-of course! But then again, I guess I've been doing the same thing-letting the doubts own me rather than believing in the fact that my best friend will always pick my happiness over everything else.

"So," I murmur into the curly red hair surrounding my face, "should we talk about Ollie?"

Bridge grunts. "Do we have to? Everything was going so well..."

I sigh, pulling back. "I think it's time."

"But he's such an idiot," she teases. "I was hoping for so much more for you."

I stare at her pointedly, raising one eyebrow.

"Okay, fine," she relents. "But I really don't think I can handle any sordid details, I mean, it's my brother. It's just gross. You've seen him burp and fart just as much as I have, the very fact that you find him attractive is disturbing."

"No sordid details," I agree, and then pause, pursing my lips. "Okay, in the effort of complete honesty, I do feel the need to tell you one thing."

"Oh god, what?" she asks, cringing preemptively. "Does he like have a weird fetish or something? Does he-no, never mind. I'm not sure I can handle this."

"Bridge," I say.

She's already closed her eyes, trying to hold off the possibilities suddenly flooding her mind.

So I just jump in. "I'm not a virgin anymore."

"What?" she screams, eyes flying open. "When did this happen? How was it? No wait, I don't want to know that. But, yes-but, ew, no. But, but...good grief, this is going to be confusing."

"I'll save us both the embarrassment and just stay quiet," I respond.

But the look on my face must tell a different story because Bridge takes one glance and shoves me back against the bed, covering her own face with her hands, unable to take it.

"I did not need to know that about my brother!"

"I didn't say anything," I whine.

Bridge offers me a death stare.

I bury my face in my palms, pressing into my pillow as though it's a shield as the heat of a blush creeps across my cheeks, giving everything away.

"Ew! Ew! Ew!" Bridge chants over and over.

But I can't help it, my smile is so wide my cheeks hurt, and my heart is fluttering just thinking about our first night together, and the many nights since.

But it all stops in an instant.

Because suddenly, I remember-Ollie broke up with me.

Ollie's gone.

And before I can stop myself, I'm crying into my pillow, and Bridge has picked up on the mood, jumping onto the bed to run her fingers through my hair, murmuring soothingly as I let it all out. She's there for me, no hesitation, no questions asked, just like she's always been. And when I finally look up, bleary-eyed and devastated, she's watching me, hurt by my pain.

"You really love him?" she asks, tone tinted with the slightest bit of disbelief.

"I do," I blubber.

"Even though you knew him before the growth spurt? Back in the pre-contact, pre-football, scrawny with black-rimmed glasses and braces days?"

I nod pathetically.

Bridge sighs, shaking her head. "Okay then, let's start from the beginning. Because if my idiot brother messed up my only chance of having you as a sister-in-law, I'm going to kill him. For real this time."

Remember when I said I was going to have to do this the hard way? Don't let the fact that Bridge let me off easy fool you because the time to come clean has finally arrived. And there's one person I dread telling the truth to even more than Ollie-my mom. That's right! Because Ollie didn't believe me when I told him I trusted him, that I have faith in us, and this is the only thing that might possibly convince him. It's my Hail Mary pass with ten seconds left in the fourth quarter. My one last chance.

"I don't think I can do this," I confess, choking on my own breath.

Bridge grabs my shoulders, shaking me. "Yes, you can."

"You girls coming inside?" Bridge's dad calls from the door in the garage, the door leading into her family's house, the door where all three of our parents are curiously waiting and wondering why Bridge and I called in sick from work to take the train to Pennsylvania for an emergency meeting.

So, unsurprisingly, I'm having a panic attack.

Again.

"No, really Bridge," I say, light-headed, trailing off as my vision starts to spot. I blink, but the dizziness only grows, making me wobbly on my feet. I teeter, swaying beneath Bridge's hands, trying my best to draw in breath.

"Skye," she commands.

I'm too woozy to speak.

"Listen to me," she orders. "Breathe."

I nod, sucking a long breath through my parted lips, letting the cool air percolate and holding it in before releasing.

"Again."

I swallow the well of nerves creeping up my throat, drawing in another prolonged breath and another under Bridge's command until my vision returns.

"You love my brother?" she asks.

"Yes," I whisper, voice faint.

"You want to get him back?"

"Uh-huh."

"You want him to understand that you're ready? That you've let go of your fears, and he should let go of his?"

"Yup."

"Good," she cheers and slaps my back, sending me toward the door on unstable feet. "Then get your ass inside and tell all of that to our parents. Because if you want Ollie to think you're not afraid, then, well, you've got to man up and stop acting like such a wuss."

"Bridge!"

"What?" she asks, shrugging as she steps around me and heads for the door. A moment later, she pauses, glancing over her shoulder, flipping her brilliant red hair with all the attitude I've come to expect from my best friend (and, though I hate to admit it, completely missed). "You coming?"

Ugh, I hate it when she's right.

Though my hands are still shaking, quite incessantly I might add, I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders, gathering what little courage I have. And while I wish I could say I've suddenly become Wonder Woman, totally confident, totally sure of myself, totally poised, obviously that's not the case. But my tiny bit of bravery, no matter how small, is all I've got. So it'll be enough because it needs to be, because there's no other option, because no matter what I won't accept failure-not when it comes to Ollie.

"Mrs. C!" I hear Bridge call.

"Bridget," my mom's voice responds delightedly. A moment later, her head is poking around the door, searching for me.

"Hey, Mom," I mumble, dragging my feet.

"Hi, honey," she says, reaching for me and pulling me into a firm hug.

"Thanks for taking the day off," I murmur against her neck, a little guilty she had to take off work for me.

"Nonsense, my assistant can handle the store for a few hours," she replies. And then her voice deepens, revealing some of the anxieties she has such a hard time controlling, because, obviously I had to get it from somewhere. "What's going on? I was so worried after you called this morning. Something's happened. I can hear it in your voice. Is it Patrick? Did you two break up?"

Yikes.

I cringe in her arms, immediately guilty.

This might be God's way of telling me to call my mother more. Has it actually been that long since I filled her in? I mean, as if being a terrible girlfriend and a terrible best friend wasn't bad enough, do I really need to add terrible daughter to the list?

Yeesh.

"I'll tell you everything inside," I say, sighing, because I can't run away. Not this time. I've got to own up to the lies. I've got to be honest. I have to fix my own life.

Following my mother, I make my way through the open door and shut it softly behind me, trying to ignore the ominously loud click of the latch, focusing on my end goal instead of my mounting claustrophobia.

"Skylar, darling!"

Another motherly embrace pulls me in. "Hi, Mrs. McDonough."

When she steps back, it's physically painful for me to look her in the face because all I see is Ollie. Same dark-chocolate hair. Same bright-blue eyes. An apron is wrapped around her waist, always the chef just like her son, but the smell of sugar wafting across the kitchen pulls my attention from the similarities.

"Did you make...?" I trail off, eagerly sniffing the room, trying not to get my hopes up.

But Bridge's mom, Claire, never disappoints. "I just pulled a new batch of my homemade butter cookies out of the oven, and there's some tea in the kettle on the stove."

She grins, placing her hand on my back and leading me farther into the kitchen where Bridge is already sitting at the island next to her father, munching away. Immediately, I steal the spot on her other side, grabbing a fresh, warm, gooey and delicious cookie, letting the crumbles melt on my tongue, trying my best not to groan for how amazing they taste. And before I even have a chance to ask, Claire sets a cup of tea and a packet of brown sugar down on the counter.

This is the life.

Like, really, I could live in this kitchen. Between Ollie's dinners and his mother's baking, who needs a restaurant? I've had the best meals of my life sitting right here, surrounded by so much love, and I can't even fathom that those days might be behind me, might never happen again.

"So, you're probably all wondering why we're here," Bridge says, jumping in because she knows I won't.

"Course not, kiddo," her father teases.

Bridge offers him the classic McDonough death stare. He just smiles and takes the last bite of cookie out of her hand, popping it into his mouth.