"Okay, so I wore glasses," he says, "but then I became the quarterback and the captain of the football team, and I started wearing contacts. Did I mention I played in college for a year? Before dropping out to go to culinary school?"

Oh, I see what he's doing. Trying to change the subject to something cool—football, culinary school. Nice try. Not going to happen.

"You know, Aubrey," I say, dismissing Ollie's previous words, "I have an interesting tidbit for you, in the efforts of getting to know one another of course. Ollie used to be a dancer."

His teal eyes practically turn red with the heat of his glare.

Aubrey grins, slapping his arm. "You didn't tell me that."

"It’s nothing really," he murmurs, and then says louder, "Who's up? Patrick?"

But Patrick shrugs. "I can wait, I want to hear this. Skylar?"

I pause, letting the suspense build, looking around, taking in the moment—more especially, taking in the subtle shake of Ollie's head, the silent plea to stop. Yeah. Right. "Well, I don't know if you know this, but Ollie and his family are 100 percent Irish and very proud of it, so when they were little, Ollie and his sister learned Riverdance. They used to perform in all of our school talent shows, up until what, Ollie? Eighth grade? Oh, I mean when I was in eighth grade, so that was actually eleventh grade for you, right?"

He peers at me suspiciously, because of course, that's not really the embarrassing part. We used to love it. He and Bridge are actually really talented dancers. No…I haven't gotten to the embarrassing part yet.

"Wow, that's amazing," Aubrey says, and I can see the admiration mounting in her eyes. I wonder if all of these stories are just making her like him more. Eh, doesn't matter. The expression on his face is worth it.

"Actually, Skye," he says, still unsure of where I'm headed, "it's not called Riverdance, that was just a famous show. It’s just called Irish Step Dance."

"Right, sorry," I apologize, and then press forward. "But my favorite part is that Bridge said Ollie wasn't flexible enough and used to get really mad at him for not being able to do the high kicks—"

"Skye…" he interrupts, tone drenched with warning.

But I'm not afraid of him. What's that saying? Payback's a… Well, you get the idea. "So Bridge and his mom forced him to go to ballet class with us when we were little. You should have seen him in his black spandex tights!"

Silence.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

There we go—the image of Ollie in glasses and tights has fully sunk in. The chicken legs. The thick rims. The awkwardly long limbs. Let's take this a little further and picture him working the ballet bar, glaring at his younger sister as he dips into a graceless plié, maybe bringing his free arm over his head, channeling the beautiful swan he was supposed to become. You know, the good old days, when Ollie was just Ollie. Just Bridge's brother. Just my friend. Back before he turned into the disarmingly handsome high school guy I couldn't get my mind off of. Or, well, the annoyingly handsome man I—on second thought, let's not go there.

I spare a glance at him now, noting the dark gleam to his normally bright turquoise eyes, and can't help but smile a bit smugly. Finally, after so many of my attempts, I think he might understand what it means to be on the short end of the stick—at least, if his sour expression is anything to go by.

Shaking his head with a happy sigh, Patrick stands to take his turn bowling. A spare. Not equal to Ollie's strike, but that doesn’t matter anymore. For some reason, the competitive knot has left my gut, replaced only by mischievous anticipation.

Aubrey bowls a nine.

And then I'm up again. But this time, my nerves are gone. I'm barely thinking about the game as I step up to the lane, position myself, and throw the ball—actually knocking a few pins down!

My mind is somewhere else, sifting through my memories for what story to tell next. There's the time Ollie got stranded naked in a field during football hazing. Bridge and I snuck into the back of her dad's car when he went to pick him up, trying our best to keep the giggle fits quiet. Ooh, or how Ollie used to play pretend with us—his Luke Skywalker action figure always ended up married to my Little Mermaid Barbie. Oh yeah, tonight is going to be fun. Much more fun than I ever thought possible.

Have you ever found yourself playing a game you're not sure you want to win? I mean, I'm relatively competitive I guess. I like winning. But sometimes, it's like, everything's over and you're just left in this limbo—did I win? Did I lose? What was I even fighting for in the first place? I mean. Ugh, never mind. I don't know what I'm talking about…

I'm sipping on a glass of champagne, casting furtive glances around the room trying to find a familiar face in the crowd. Where'd Bridge go? And when is Patrick going to get here? And isn't Ollie coming?

Oh crap. Eye contact with a total stranger.

Whoops!

I smile meekly and flick my head in the opposite direction, sending what I hope is a clear message—don't come talk to me! Really, I'm not sure what I would even say to these people. I'm hunched in the middle of the art gallery where Bridge works, trying to enjoy the opening night celebration she's helped coordinate for the past month. The artist on display is a modernist painter—pretty much blobs on a canvas as far as I can tell, but that just proves how little I know about this stuff.

I mean, I can just picture it now. Someone steps over making polite conversation, saying, isn't this piece wonderful? I look at the splatters and the plops, a mush of colors spaced between blank spaces of white, and nod confusedly, biting my tongue as I wonder if I could have done better. Or, you know, if a fifth grader could have…

"Hey," a low whisper filters into my ear.

I spit my champagne back into the glass, choking on it just a little as I turn. The picture of grace, as always. Cringing inwardly, I smile at Ollie. "Hey. You surprised me."

And then I wait for the snappy retort. He isn't one to ever let me get away with anything. Spitting up in public? Perfect fodder. But to my surprise, the joke never comes.

"So what do you think?" he asks instead. And I can't help but notice that his body is turned mostly away from me, hands in his pockets, as though he's uncomfortable. But aren't I supposed to be the one who's uncomfortable around him?

I furrow my brows. Something is definitely wrong here. "Um," I say and shrug, following his lead as I turn toward the painting on the opposite wall. It's an almost but not quite symmetrical circle of blue on a white backdrop. Mind-blowing… "It's nice."

He cracks a little, lifting the corner of his lip. And I wait for it, for the teasing. But his mouth evens back out and he nods seriously, still keeping his eyes locked on the painting. "Yeah."

And then silence descends. But not like a nice silence between friends. It's the sort of silence that expands with each passing second, that ginormous elephant in the room kind. I lick my lips, heartbeat surging a little faster as my anxiety starts to seep in. What's going on? Where is this coming from? I haven't seen Ollie since our double date, since the quick goodbye outside the bowling alley as Patrick and I went our way, and he and Aubrey went theirs. Overall, I thought the whole night went pretty well. I never learned to bowl any better, but you know, I wasn't expecting a miracle.