"Mom!" I exclaim, falling into her arms and wrapping mine tightly around her. She visited Bridge and me back in early August and we talk at least once a week, but still, it feels like I haven't seen her in forever.

"I missed you," she whispers into my ear.

"I missed you too," I say back, squeezing a little tighter for emphasis.

Behind me, Bridge yells, "Mrs. C!"

I break away, letting her take a turn hugging my mom. The C stands for Cooper. She switched back to her maiden name after the divorce. Joanna Cooper—I've always preferred the change. It sounds more like her anyway.

"Hi, Mrs. McDonough," I murmur as Bridge's mom, Claire, pulls me in for a tight embrace.

"We've missed seeing you around here," she says. And I guess it's true. Ever since Bridge and I went to college, I haven't been coming around as much. Just a few times a year instead of an almost weekly basis. But, you know, the whole avoiding Ollie like he was the plague for four years sort of does that.

"The house smells amazing," I say as we all step inside. The scent of turkey, gravy, and stuffing immediately fills my nose, warming my heart. That. That is what I think of when I think of home.

"Seems like you outdid yourself this year, Mom," Bridge comments, moving swiftly to the kitchen.

"Hey, I helped, young lady!" her father, Sean, calls after her. But he's a little busy bringing our bags in through the front door. Which, well, whoops! I guess old habits die hard. As soon as I come home, even though I'm a fully functioning—well, mostly functioning—adult, I resume the role of dependent child when I cross state lines into Pennsylvania.

All five of us wander into the kitchen, taking our usual places around the snacks set up on the table, munching but trying not to get too full. Bridge's mom stands at attention over the burners and the oven, circling the kitchen like a hawk, keeping an eye on all the dishes still being prepared. And I can't help but be reminded of Ollie, who looks so much like his mother. Same dark brown hair. Same bright turquoise eyes. Same love of the kitchen. And then there's Bridge and her dad, the two redheads reaching for the same snacks at the same time. Well, and then you have my mom and me. We used to be completely different—she was loud where I was quiet, confident where I was shy, popular where I was nerdy. But after the divorce, something shifted, and now she's more like me, sitting in her chair, happy to listen while everyone else speaks.

"So, how's living with your brother going? I'm amazed you haven’t killed each other yet," Mr. McDonough asks between crackers.

Bridge just rolls her eyes, following his hand to the cheese plate and letting him cut her a slice. "God, he's so overprotective. I feel like I haven’t had a date in months."

"Good," her father murmurs. "That's exactly how he should be."

"Dad," Bridge whines, lifting her brows at him while she bites into her cracker. And then mutters, "Yeah, well, say that to Skye's boyfriend cause Ollie almost got in a fight with him."

Bridge!

I widen my eyes, glaring at her. But it's too late. The damage is done.

"You have a boyfriend?" my mom says, shocked.

"Ollie almost hit him?" Mrs. McDonough calls from the other side of kitchen.

"Sorry," Bridge mouths in my direction, cringing. It’s not really her fault. I forgot to tell her my mom doesn’t know that much about Patrick. Stupid, stupid mistake.

"Um," I say, and then swallow, hoping everyone else didn’t hear that resounding gulp. "Well, Mom, I've mentioned Patrick to you before, I told you we went on a few dates."

"You didn’t tell me he was your boyfriend." And yes, there is an undercurrent of accusation in her tone. Not that I blame her—I always tell her everything. Well, almost always…

"Haven't you been reading Skye's—" I kick Bridge under the table, cutting her off. And she coughs, face burning red, glaring at me this time.

Oh, right, I probably should've mentioned that I never told my mother about the style section or the, uh, sex column. She may think that I got hired full-time for the book review section, but, well, can you really blame me? Who wants their mother to read all about their dating life every week? Especially mine, which is half-fabricated with frisky details that are utterly false. I mean, do you really think my mom would believe me if I told her those more suggestive elements of my column are complete fiction? That Bridge helps me write them? Uh, yeah, she'd just think I was trying to pull a fast one. Heck, I'm pretty sure I've convinced most of New York that I have a raging sex life, why wouldn’t my mom think the same?

Yeah… don't want to go there…

"Skye's what?" my mom asks, eyes narrowing.

"My blog," I interject before Bridge has to say anything else. She looks relieved. "I was, um, writing a blog about life in New York, but then work got a little too hectic and I decided to delete it. No big deal."

"Well, I wish you'd told me. I love to read your writing…" She trails off, a little dejected.

Crap.

Now I feel guilty.

"I'm sorry, Mom, really. I would have told you, but it didn’t really seem like something worth telling. Anyway, yes, Patrick is officially my boyfriend, so now you know that. And it only happened yesterday, so it's not like I was keeping a secret from you." A little white lie never hurt anybody, right?

"When did Oliver try to hit him?" Mrs. McDonough asks, and something about the way she says Oliver makes me a little nervous. It's that whole full name thing. Parents only say full names when you’re about to get in trouble. It's like an unwritten rule.

"Bridge is just exaggerating," I say, keeping my voice light. "You know how she loves to dramatize a boring story."

"Hey," she calls, defending her honor.

But the protest is sort of undermined when her mom chimes in with, "Oh, yes, well that's our Bridget. But I'll give Oliver a good talking to if you need me to."

"No, really, nothing happened."

She goes back to mashing the potatoes. Thank god.

Phew. That was close. Subject change needed immediately. "Hey, Bridge, why don't you tell everyone about the gallery opening."

"Ooh!" She sits up, spitting some cracker crumble out. "It was so cool."

"Swallow, kid," her dad teases, receiving another exasperated eye roll from his daughter.

I sit back, off the hot seat for a moment, breathing a sigh of relief. But the longer I tune out the conversation, the more I notice the tingle of anxiety still funneling through my veins, the slight discomfort, as though something just isn't right.

My mom must notice, because she leans over and nudges me with her shoulder. "Come on, I have something for you in the car."

We excuse ourselves and I follow her outside, hugging my arms around my midsection to fight the cool air. "What's going on, Mom?"

"Nothing, sweetie," she says, and I can't help but notice that like her daughter often does, my mother didn’t really think this plan through. We're standing in the cold, teeth chattering just a little. Not exactly the ideal place to have a heart to heart. She nudges her head in the direction of her SUV. "Come on, get in for a minute."

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"So, where's this mysterious thing you have for me in the car." I raise one eyebrow in her direction.

"You know, you're a terrible liar for a reason. Me." But then she grows quiet, and I know exactly why. I must get my terrible lying ability from her, because we both know my father was a pro. Then again, the whole virgin sex columnist thing is pretty under-wraps. So, maybe I'm more like my dad than I care to realize…