"What did your parents say about me?" I whisper instead. And I don't know where the words come from, but they sound right rolling over my lips.

"My parents?" he says, dumbfounded. "What does this have to do with my parents?"

I finally turn around, hugging the covers around myself, and fold my knees into my chest. I find his eyes, dark and tumultuous, no longer filled with sweet honey.

"Can you just answer?"

"Fine." He shrugs, exhaling an especially weighty breath before fixing his eyes up, resting on his pillow. "My dad thought you were very sweet with a good head on your shoulders."

"And your mom?" I bite my bottom lip, waiting for the inevitable.

Patrick flicks his gaze down from the ceiling. "Blythe was talking to her about your column."

I nod. I expected as much. "She doesn't approve?"

He doesn't say anything. He just lets his head fall first to one side, then the other, slowly.

"Did you tell her it's not true? That everything I write is an exaggeration?" And even though it would mean Blythe learned the truth, part of me wants him to say yes, part of me wants to hear that he fought for me, for us, that he tried to change her mind.

"No," he whispers. "I figured you had your reasons, it wasn't really my place to out you."

I lick my lips. He was respecting me. And I should be glad about that, but for some reason it just confirms a little feeling I had shoved deep down, one that's rapidly rising back to the surface.

He's prince charming.

I'm Cinderella.

And in the fairy tale, that's great. But in real life, we're from different worlds—ones that don't fit. I don't belong with his parents. I don't see myself ever calling their mansion on the Upper East Side home. Blythe will never feel like a sister to me. And as much as I like Patrick, it's not enough. Maybe if I loved him, maybe then things would be different. But I don't. And I never will.

With perfect clarity, I realize why I'm not ready. Why I said no. And maybe it has something to do with Ollie, but it's about so much more than him. It's about me. It always has been.

"I don't care what my parents think," Patrick says, sitting up, sensing the changing tide.

"I do," I murmur, and then I focus my eyes, finding his alert stare, "and you do too. It's only natural."

"So what are you saying?"

I've never done this before. My tongue feels heavy, my lips fat. I don't want to hurt him, but I can't pretend anymore. "I'm saying I don't see a future between us. And I wish I did, and I tried, but it just isn't there, and that's why I'm not ready. Why I'll never be ready." I pause, taking a deep breath. "I'm saying we're over."

I wait for his protest.

I wait for him to say something mean, to get back at me.

I wait for any sort of reaction.

But his silence speaks louder than any words could. It tells me that he's always known there was no future between us, that he's always seen the expiration date, that we were always just a temporary distraction to him.

The realization hurts more than I thought it would.

"I should go," I whisper. And then I ease off the bed, backtracking, picking up my discarded garments and tugging them back on as I follow the trail back to the door. I shrug into my coat, and then let my hand hover over the doorknob.

But I can't open it.

And I realize I'm waiting.

He needs to say something. Anything.

"Skylar?" Patrick calls and I drop my arm back down, chest constricting and opening at the same time.

I turn.

He leans against the wall, chest bare, elastic shorts hugging his hips, hands settled into his pockets. And part of me wants to take it all back, because he looks good and for a while he was mine. But there's no going back. And a bigger part of me needs to move forward.

I wonder what he'll say. Goodbye? It was fun while it lasted? Or maybe he'll curse at me, spill my secrets to the world, seek revenge. I'm used to messy endings. John and I broke up in a screaming battle—me blinking through tears as I shouted at him to get out, to go to his other girls, to leave me alone. And Ollie broke me in another way, not loud, but through an earth-shattering silence.

Yet Patrick's eyes are soft when he opens his mouth to speak. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

My lips shift into a small smile. "I hope you do too."

And it's enough.

It’s the ending I was waiting for, the one I needed.

With Patrick still watching, I slip out the door and shut it behind me. The tears don't come until I make my way outside and realize how far away from home I am on the busiest night of the year. There are no cabs and the thought of the subway just makes me nauseous. So I hug my coat close and walk, unaware as snow starts to fall around me, white flakes speckling my clothes, my hair.

Maybe this was how my year was supposed to begin.

Alone.

The fresh start I've been seeking.

But the idea just makes me colder. My tears freeze against my cheeks.

By the time I get home, I'm numb. Unaware of the world. So far within my own mind that reality seems like a distant memory. Which is why part of me thinks I might be hallucinating when I open my apartment door.

I blink, closing my eyes tight, opening. But the mirage is still there.

Rose petals decorate the floor.

Candles flicker warm and bright.

But I'm stuck on the other side by an invisible barrier, unable to step forward, because I can't tell if I'm walking into my dreams or into my nightmare.

Want to know the real reason I'm a virgin? Because I want to be. Maybe it's idealistic, but I've been waiting to be in love with someone who truly loves me back. So maybe my first confession shouldn't have been that I'm a twenty-two year old virgin. I mean, who cares? The real confession is that I'm a twenty-two year old who's never been in love. And to be honest, that's much more depressing to me.

"Hello?" I call through the door. My voice can pass the barrier but for some reason I can't. The roses. The candles. The romance. It just doesn’t seem possible that it could be for me. I'm an intruder in someone else's happy ending.

"Bridge? Did you and your date come home?" I ask, raising my voice just slightly. But there's no response. Maybe they've already moved in to her room? Though I remember her telling me she likely wouldn’t be coming home tonight.

I bite my lip.

My eyes shift to the left and then to the right, and I have this out-of-body moment where I wonder how strange I would look to my neighbors, standing outside my door with tear stains down my cheeks, too afraid to step into my own apartment.

And really, right now, all I want is my bed.

I take a deep breath.

Here goes nothing.

I cross the threshold, heart rapid in my veins, but nothing happens. A few petals crush beneath my feet, but aside from the subtle crunch, all I hear is silence. Shutting the door behind me, I peer into the kitchen.

"Hello?"

Still nothing.

Taking a deep breath, I walk a little farther, hesitant, and enter the living room. My eyes find him immediately. Ollie. Asleep on the couch. And even though I want nothing more than to zap him from my brain, I can't stop how my heart swells watching him there with his feet resting on the arms of the sofa and his hand flung thoughtlessly over his head. The look on his face is completely peaceful, totally at ease, already soft features made more serene by the candlelight. But the longer I look at him, the more an irrational rage builds beneath my skin.