"Bridge, come on," he charges.

The hint of accusation in his tone finally makes Bridge snap. Her eyes whip up, raging with jade fire, and she looks me dead in the eye. "Ask Skye, if you're so interested."

He turns to me, turquoise irises clouded with confusion. "What is she talking about?"

Oh god, I did not want to tell him like this, right in front of Bridge when it will be impossible to explain myself. "Umm," I whisper, coughing slightly to clear my throat, buying some time to think. "Last night, Bridge sort of called me out for keeping a secret from her." I start slowly, tone ripe with hesitation. Immediately, Ollie's gaze turns darker. "So, even though I'm not ready," I say, emphasizing the words, hoping he understands the message beneath the surface, "and even though I don't think it's time for my relationship to be out in the open because we both need more time to figure out where things are going, to decide how we truly feel, I told her-" The hope gathering in his expression stops me.

But it doesn't matter.

Bridge finally chooses this moment to speak up, spitting, "She got back together with John."

Ollie flinches as though the words physically cut him and turns to his sister. "What?"

Bridge shrugs, tossing her hands into the air, finally giving up the pretense that she had been doing anything important on her phone. "I said the same thing. It's absurd."

"No, it's not," I jump in.

Ollie throws his eyes toward me, letting them flare wide, and copies his sister's words. "It's absurd."

"No, it's not," I say again. The conversation is on repeat.

But Ollie holds my gaze, not needing words as his face grows pleading, and he shakes it just slightly, black shaggy hair falling over his eyes. I purse my lips, stubborn, and turn my own beseeching expression on him.

Please, understand, I try to speak without sound. We're not ready. We need time. This will give us time.

His answer comes back loud and clear. Why?

And there's so much in that single word I read in his eyes that I have to look away. Why another lie? Why use John as a cover? Why not the truth? And the worst-why can't you believe in us? Why aren't I enough?

"Skye, you can't," he starts, stopping himself before revealing too much. But I can see the strain of holding the truth in, the way his muscles clench, tightening his neck so his Adam's apple bobs with a prolonged gulp. Clenching his jaw, Ollie forces a different sentence out. "Getting back together with that jerk won't solve anything."

"But it will," I implore, casting a furtive glance at Bridge, who is watching me with arms crossed, anger palpable. "And now I don't have to lie anymore." He opens his mouth, but then forces it closed, shaking his head in frustration. I press on, trying my best to explain in hidden words and half-truths. "I can go on dates when I want. I can write about what I want. I can do what I want because there's no reason to hide."

The words sound weak even to me.

I wish I could say what I really want to.

I wish I could just tell him my plan.

I wish I could explain.

But I can't. Ollie is unable to look at me, but Bridge is staring, sneering, her eyes a spotlight I can't escape, holding my words prisoner.

Ollie stretches his finger across the space between our legs, not quite grazing, as though the distance is insurmountable. Am I pulling away? Or does he just refuse to reach any closer? We both watch the tiny space between us, realizing it represents something much bigger. Is he waiting for me? Or am I waiting for him?

A moment later, he curls his finger back in.

My leg turns cold.

Finally, he jumps up from the couch. "I'm getting a beer."

There's undeniable disappointment in his hunched shoulders and shuffling feet. I can't look away, even after he disappears into the kitchen.

"The fact that you lied says it all, Skye," Bridge jumps in. I turn to her, not comprehending. The sounds from the kitchen have fallen silent. "If you need to lie to your best friend about the person you're dating, he can't be the right guy for you."

I wince. Because he is. He so is.

"How do you know?" I fight back, defensive, because in my mind we're speaking about Ollie, not about John. And right now, I can't help but fight for him and hope he hears me.

"Because you shouldn't have to hide if you're in love," Bridge fires. "And the fact that you were hiding him from me, means you knew there was something wrong, and you just didn't want to face it."

"Well," I retort, denial and rage bubbling. "What if I just didn't want to face you? What if I knew this was how you'd react, and I just didn't want to deal with it? What if it has absolutely nothing to do with him, and it's all about you!"

"You were only afraid of telling me because you know I'm right!"

"I love him, can't you just be happy for me?"

"He broke your heart!"

"He didn't mean it."

Bridge scoffs. "He cheated on you!"

"No," but then I stop. Because I suddenly remember we aren't talking about Ollie, as much as I sort of wish we were. We're talking about John. And he did cheat on me and break my heart, and Bridge has every right to hate him just like I do.

"Yes," she cuts back in. "Don't tell me you forgot. You walked in on him. You caught him. And I was there to pick up the pieces."

"You're right," I whisper, defeated and doubting.

Is this really worth my three weeks of privacy?

Fighting with my best friend?

Disappointing Ollie?

As if my thinking of him draws him out, I turn to see Ollie watching from the doorway, beer bottle in hand, swigging down a long gulp. But his eyes are on me the entire time.

My love burns, painful, as I take in the space between us. Because I do love him. I love him with everything I have. And it scares me. It's always scared me. Even now, even after everything, I can't force myself to believe he isn't one mistake away from turning his back on me and leaving. Because he's Oliver McDonough, cue the chanting choir. He's like air, impossible for me to hold on to. And I need these three weeks, I need them desperately, because they're the only way I'll ever have a chance to believe his feelings for me are real. That we're real.

Maybe that's what John actually is.

My little secret.

A test I hate to give but need.

Because I wish I was that confident girl, that one who owned every room she walked into, who never questioned herself, who never thought for one second a man could say he loved her and not mean it. But I'm not that girl. I never have been. I'm a bundle of nerves and doubts and stress. I'm still the eighteen-year-old who walked into Ollie's room expecting him to say no. And I need three weeks to make myself trust in the fact that this time he truly said yes.

"He's not who you think he is," I mutter. Bridge will take it one way. But the truth I'm too frightened to admit is buried in those words, a message too cryptic to unfold.

She snorts. "He's exactly who I think he is."

"He's not," I say with dark humor, still lost in my own thoughts.

"Fine," Bridge replies with just enough challenge in her voice to pull me out of my own mind. "Prove it."

"What?" I ask, blinking rapidly, trying to refocus.

"Prove it."

I suddenly don't like where this is going. Tentatively, I follow her guide. "How?"

"Let's go on a double date."

All the air leaves my lungs in one single instant.

I'm a fish on land, floundering.

"Huh?" I gasp.

Ollie storms out of the kitchen, fuming. "You can't be serious."

A wicked gleam brightens Bridge's emerald eyes. "Oh, I'm dead serious. You say he's a changed man? You want me to accept him? Prove it. Let's go on a double date. Let me see just how different John really is."

"I don't know..." I trail off, turning to Ollie for help.

But he's sick of both of us, gaping at us with disgust as the scene unfolds before him.

"Text him," Bridge says, tossing the words out like a dare she knows I won't be able to act on. And I don't. I'm stuck. "Come on, text him."

And because I'm flustered and confused and totally overwhelmed, I refuse to take ownership over the next words that come out of my mouth. "Fine, I will."

No!

Retreat!

Take it back!

Take it back!

And I try, sucking in air, as though somehow I can rewind time and lure the words in. But it's too late.

Bridge cocks her hips, raising her brows. "Well, let's see. Go ahead and text him, now, while I'm watching, before you can change your mind."

I'm in too deep.

There's no going back now. I have to charge forward or drown, there are no other options left. So I sputter, "Oh, I'll text him."

I reach into my pocket, pulling out my phone, but my fingers won't move. Won't type. They're protesting, and I don't blame them because I just know John will take this situation to his full advantage. Hand holding will most definitely be involved. And that's it, if he doesn't want to lose the ability to have children in the future. I'm not above throwing a knee or an elbow when Bridge's back is turned.

"I don't see you typing..." Bridge singsongs across the living room.

I frown and take a deep breath. "Here I go," I mumble, opening a new text, showing her before I close my eyes and press Send. "I asked him. Are you happy?"

The ring of the doorbell announcing the arrival of our dinner keeps Bridge from answering. But she doesn't have to. The devilish grin across her lips is all I need to see. Bridge is satisfied-satisfied everything will work out her way in the end.

But it won't.

Because if making her believe I love John is the only way to get the time I need with Ollie, I'll do it. I'd do anything to make it work between us. So this is going to be the best freaking date of my life even if I have to kill myself in the process!

I spent the whole night waiting for Ollie to come to my room so I could explain. He never did. Eventually, I fell asleep with my ear pressed to the wall dividing our rooms, waiting for footsteps, not at all surprised when all I heard, even in my dreams, was silence.

You know your life is falling apart at the seams when your worst enemy becomes the only person you can approach with your problems.

Not even two weeks ago, I was waking up in Oliver McDonough's arms, thinking all my fantasies had finally come true. Yet somehow, here I am in the fashion closet with Blythe and the other two assistants, Rebecca and Isabel, longing to unload some of my heartache on their unsuspecting ears.

Please, don't judge me.

I'm desperate.

"Do you see the Jimmy Choos from last season?" Blythe calls from the back of the room where she's buried in couture dresses.

"Um," I murmur, eyes roaming the table of shoes spread out before me. The better question is, do I see any Jimmy Choos at all...and the answer is no. All I see are various forms of torture that make me want to immediately avert my eyes lest my feet begin screaming in protest.

"Got them," Rebecca cheers, stretching over me to grab a pair of strappy high heels in the center of the table. I glance at her thankfully, but she just smiles and hands the shoes to Isabel who runs over to give them to Blythe.

The four of us have been chosen to put together outfit choices for Victoria to look over before fashion week. Tons of designers have sent in dresses for her to wear, hoping to get their clothes on someone who sits in the front seat at all the shows-and more importantly, on someone who is later in charge of publishing opinions on all the clothes for the whole world to read.

"Okay," Blythe says, stepping back and observing the four outfits hanging on the rack. "We've got one that leans a little more punk, one that reads a little whimsical, one that's uber modern, and another that trends more traditional. What do you guys think?"

Isabel puts her hands on her hips, taking in every sequin and every button, looking for any single accent that doesn't work. Rebecca brings her hand up to clasp her chin, eyes sharp through the lens of her thick-rim glasses, pursing her lips as she thinks. And me? I stare blankly ahead, observing them more than anything else.

"That necklace is too chunky."

"The shoes should be nude."

"That dress is boring."

"How about a skirt instead?"

"What about a pantsuit?"

And it goes on and on and on until the entire rack is practically empty all over again. I grunt, itching to get back to my desk. We'll be here all day at this rate.

"Let's try that new designer from India," Rebecca says, wandering to the garment bags on the left side of the room.

"Victoria loves color," Isabel adds, nodding.

"But also strong neutrals," Blythe chimes in, hands running over a wall of tan and white fabrics. "They make her face the focus."