Ollie just shakes his head. "That's never going to happen."

"Why?" I ask, glancing up at him with pursed lips.

He meets my gaze, eyes twinkling, dimples out full force. "Because, Skye, embarrassing you is one of my favorite things to do."

I sigh, fighting the urge to shove him again. "Come on, Ollie. Patrick and I have only just started dating, and even with my broken hand, he somehow finds me attractive. Right now I think I'm in that cute place where my clumsiness is charming. I don't want the bubble to burst."

"That's insane," he mumbles.

"What is?"

"That mentality," he says, with a note of bitterness in his tone. "If you really like this guy, don't you think you should know he appreciates everything about you? Not just the parts you want him to see? You shouldn't be afraid to be yourself."

"I'm not…" Am I? I mean, I'm trying to be a little more confident and a little more suave to fit in next to Patrick, but with the accidental groping and the broken arm, I'm pretty sure the real Skye is leaking through.

I nibble my lip as we step down the entrance to the subway and swipe our cards, shuffling through the turnstile. Five minutes for the next downtown train.

"It's not that I'm afraid to be myself," I finally say, still bothered by the idea. "I just, I think it takes time for two people to get to that place where they’re close enough to be their true selves with each other. And Patrick and I are moving in that direction, but we haven't quite gotten there yet."

"Okay." Ollie shrugs, not looking at me and instead leaning over to peek down the tracks, searching for the next train.

But I'm not finished yet. For once, I want to be the one who wins the argument. "Come on, Ollie. Don't tell me it's not the same for you with girls."

"It's not," he responds, still not looking at me. "If I found someone I really liked, I'd be myself. I'm pretty charming, you know."

But I don't take the bait. I want to stay here in this more serious place. I want a real answer from him. "Have you ever really been yourself with a girl?"

And I think we're both aware that I'm included in the question.

Ollie finally turns, just as the rumble of a train shakes the ground beneath our feet, a thunderstorm barreling forward. "Once," he says, brutally honest. And I really don't know if that one time was with me. Then he mumbles something, slipping his head to the opposite direction so I can't decipher the movement of his lips.

"What?" I ask, shouting over the screech of the train brakes.

Ollie doesn't respond. He just keeps his eyes focused on the doors coming to a slow halt right before us. Silently we both board the train, shuffling forward, grabbing onto the pole in the center of the floor for balance. I don't know what to say, so I remain quiet, thinking. A few seconds later, Ollie's finger brushes mine, slipping ever so slightly down the metal, just enough that his pinky lands on my thumb.

Ignore it.

Don't look up.

Don't show him you noticed.

I hold my hand still, but every ounce of awareness in my brain is focused on the small centimeter of skin touching mine. And I can't take it. Can't take what it makes me think about. So I move, drop my hand down an inch, and suck in a deep breath, glancing out the windows and away from Ollie.

A few seconds later, I feel him again.

Pinky to thumb.

The smallest connection, but enough to make my nerves go haywire. To make even the hairs on the back of my neck stand alert, to make my mouth go dry. My stomach fills with flutters, alive, sending thrills up and down my chest. I slip my hand down, farther this time, a few inches, only able to breathe when our contact is broken.

Then I wait, wondering if it will happen again. One time is chance. Two times, an accident maybe. But three and it starts to feel like a choice, a decision he's making, a signal he's maybe trying to send.

The train stops, more people get on, and I'm pressed into Ollie's side, feeling the warmth of his body through my coat. The air fills with an awkward tension I can't ignore, and I know one of us needs to speak, to fill the silence. But I don't know what to say.

And then his finger lands on mine again.

I lick my dry lips.

Even with the crowd and the murmur of conversation and the thrum of the train, the moment feels intimate. As though we're alone. Skin to skin. Bodies pressed tight.

I give into temptation.

I look up only to find that Ollie is already watching me. His jaw is tense, tightened, as though he's clenching his teeth to keep from speaking. His normally grinning lips are drawn thin, tight. And his eyes are shaded, heavy behind slightly closed lids, below furrowed brows. But the longer our gazes hold, the more the tension eases from his expression, melting away.

The doors behind us ding, opening. It's our stop.

We hold for another moment, neither breaking. And then one side of Ollie's lips rises, smirking. And I can't read why. The grin turns mysterious, alluring, as his bright eyes shimmer with a secret he doesn't want to let me in on—not yet.

This time I look away. I break the moment. I walk off the train, leaving him behind. Because whatever that secret is, I don't want to know it. I'm tired of being confused, of being left out. I'm tired of the games.

I want easy.

I want Patrick.

And right now, I know exactly where to find him.

Ollie eventually catches up to me when we're above ground, crossing the street, but I don't bother to say anything. One block and one quick elevator ride later, and we've arrived. Patrick and Aubrey are already here, making polite conversation, and it's all I can do not to run over and throw my arms around him. I do however plant a big one on those smiling lips when I get close enough to close the distance.

Easy. Sweet. And exactly what I need.

"I reserved a lane for an hour," Patrick tells us. Before you ask, yes we're going bowling. And yes, my arm is broken and currently wrapped in a cast. And no, it wasn't my idea. Do you think I have a death wish?

The cashier gives me an incredibly dubious look as Patrick helps me shrug off my coat, and I walk up to the counter asking for a size eight shoe.

"I'm right handed," I mumble with a shrug, holding up my broken left hand. She doesn't say anything. She just hands me the shoes with a smirk. I snatch them and walk away, following Patrick to our lane and leaving Aubrey and Ollie to follow behind.

"One hour, huh?" I ask Patrick as we sit down.

He smirks. "I figured we might sneak away after and grab some dinner on our own."

"Sounds perfect to me." And really, I couldn't appreciate him more in that moment. One hour. I can make it through one measly hour. No big deal.

"So, who wants to go first?" Ollie asks when he and Aubrey arrive.

Patrick is already working the monitor, setting up our names. "I thought you might," he says, overly generous. And I look up to see the order is Ollie, Patrick, Aubrey, and then me—last, just like I asked. I mean, really it's just prolonging the inevitable. But still…

Oh, did I not tell you I can't bowl?

Well, we'll get to that.

Ollie walks up, grabs the heaviest ball on the rack, and steps forward smoothly, releasing. Strike. Aubrey lifts her hand for a high five and the two of them smile at each other.

My stomach recoils.

"Nice shot," Patrick murmurs, standing.

Ollie raises his eyebrows, gesturing to the lane. "All you."

I'll admit, a tingle of nerves pricks my heart as Patrick steps up and a strange sense of competitiveness tightens my chest. I want to win. I want to beat Ollie. I want Patrick to be better.