24| I Hated Myself Too.

I know what I am. I don't need anyone sugarcoating it for me.

Calling me an arsehole would be an understatement of the century.

I know Oliver likes Isla. He's painfully obvious about it—the way he panics when she doesn't reply to his texts, the way he uses his burner accounts to defend her in every Bruin Buzz post, the way her name is always on his lips, every minute, every bloody second of the day.

He was the one who made that comment with my Instagram on Bruin Buzz. He was the one who brokered that little deal to get the post taken down. I was just dragged along.

Oliver is my best mate, but he's really starting to get on my nerves. Inviting her to the meet to watch him swim? Even I haven't done that.

And that day, for some reason, she was in his car too, and he was grinning like a bloody idiot while I was having a thoroughly fucked-up day thanks to Red.

Why did it bother me so much? This closeness between them?

Maybe because I'd never seen Oliver like this over a girl before. The guy's had exactly one girlfriend in his entire life, and that's the only person he's ever shagged. He swore off relationships after she cheated on him with some drug-pushing lowlife. After that, his life was just pulling me back from the edge and swimming.

Maybe that's why I couldn't wrap my head around it.

The reason I let him drive Isla home that night was because I trusted him with my life, and I figured I had nothing to worry about.

Not that I was worried now.

Just... annoyed.

I texted her that night because I needed someone. And for some reason, her presence calms me. Like wind chimes on a quiet morning. With her, my nerves settle, my problems turn to pixie dust.

I remember the first time I saw her. We were sat next to each other on a flight, business class. She had her headphones on, music blasting at full volume.

Miley Cyrus.

I was trying to get some sleep before we landed, but it was impossible with her music so loud.

I shook her a little, tried to get her attention—maybe ask if she wasn't worried about going deaf—but she didn't stir. I could hear her quiet snores, proof that she was well and truly gone.

It fascinated me. How could someone sleep through all that noise?

I spent the rest of the flight watching her.

And now, she's ignoring me. My text.

I saw that she read it but didn't reply. I get it—she probably feels rejected after that night. And I wanted to do it, I really did. But something held me back. Something I couldn't explain.

Something that scared me.

Like if I crossed that line with her, there'd be no coming back.

I prefer being the arsehole. The playboy. The wanker. It's easy. No one expects anything from me, and I like it that way.

This reputation—it suits me.

Still, it bothered me that she thought I spread that rumour about her being a virgin. I wish I could tell her the truth, but I can't. I don't know how she'd react if she knew Aaliyah did it out of spite.

I just wanted to clear my name. For some reason, I didn't want to be the villain this time in her eyes.

I thought asking to be friends would fix things, bring us closer. But she keeps drawing this line between us.

I don't get it.

She ignores me, but she's happy to let Oliver drive her around. Of course, I followed him here with some lame excuse about getting coffee.

The thought of the two of them in the car together—exchanging awkward glances, hands brushing, listening to Taylor Swift—gave me a headache. So, I decided to be the chaperone.

And then she cried.

I don't know why. All I did was try to help her relax. She slept like a baby with her headphones on during that flight, so I figured music would calm her.

But it only made her cry instead.

Brilliant. I fucked it up, just like everything else in my life.

I don't know why she cried, but I wanted to fix it. Somehow. Anyhow.

So, I text her. Ask to meet.

I tell myself I'm only doing this because I feel bad. Because we said we'd be friends, and I should at least try to make it up to her.

I try to think of something that would cheer her up. And then I remember that night on the hill. Every detail is still etched into my brain.

She wanted to try ice skating.

She's probably done it already, but still—I want to be the one to take her.

I got Oliver's text while we were at the pizza place.

Oliver: Hey.

Me: Hey.

Oliver: So, I asked Isla if we could meet, and she said she wasn't feeling too strong.

I glance up at Isla. She's sat across from me, absentmindedly taking photos of the place. I've seen her Instagram posts. I know she likes documenting things like this.

Me: And?

I send it, already annoyed. The urge to tell him she's with me right now is strong.

Oliver: I was thinking of putting together a care package and dropping it off, but... might be a bit too much, yeah?

Oliver: You know what, never mind. It's a stupid idea.

Oliver: She already said she didn't need anything.

Oliver: I'll just come off as some weird stalker.

I know it's wrong. I know I'm an arsehole.

But I send it anyway.

Me: You should do it. Girls love things like that.

Oliver: Really?

Me: Yeah. You should head over now.

Me: Small tip—don't call first, she'll decline. Just show up and call her when you're outside.

Oliver: You think that's a good idea?

Forgive me, Oliver.

Me: Yes.

Oliver: Thanks, mate. I owe you one.

I drop my phone, feeling like an even bigger bastard than I was five minutes ago.

Oliver is my best mate. But still—he should know better than to try and flirt with Isla.

This irritation has been simmering for weeks. Ever since he asked if I had a thing for her and I laughed it off.

He should've known better.

Known not to touch what was mine.

So now, as we walk to his car and I see his shoulders tense, I know I should feel bad.

But I don't.

This was necessary.

Besides, this is Oliver. He'd never give up on me.

A few days of sulking, and he'd be back at my side, pulling me back from the ledge.

We reach the car when Oliver suddenly stops.

And I, like a guilty child who knows he's done something wrong, stand a few feet away, staring at the ground.

"Oliver..."

I start to speak, but before I can get a word out, Oliver blindsides me with a punch straight to the face. The force of it sends me staggering back a few steps.

"Asshat," he spits, fury radiating off him in waves.

I press a hand to my jaw, wincing at the sharp sting. The tang of blood fills my mouth, and I gather it before spitting onto the pavement. I could hit him back, but I don't. I let him take his anger out on me.

"You done?" I ask, wiping my mouth. "I don't mind taking a few more swings if it helps."

His hands are on me before I can react, fists gripping my shirt as he yanks me forward. The fabric stretches tight against my chest, and I brace for the next hit, squeezing my eyes shut.

I count the seconds. Ten... nine...

My body starts shaking. A memory I've buried deep threatens to claw its way back up. I wish Oliver would just get it over with.

He must sense it—because instead of another punch, he suddenly shoves me away. He lets go of my shirt, eyes scanning my face as if searching for something. Do I need him to stop? Do I need him to stay?

He shouldn't be worried about me. He should be furious, livid. But this is Oliver. This is why it was so easy to do what I did.

"Was that really necessary?" he exhales, still heaving from anger.

"Probably not," I admit. "But this is just who I am."

He mutters a curse under his breath, hands raking through his hair before he throws them up in frustration.

"You're impossible. I don't even know why I bother with you."

"Yeah, I don't know why either," I sigh, exhausted.

He shakes his head, eyes sharp. "If you like her, just say it, Reid."

I scoff. He still doesn't get it. He thinks this is about liking Isla or not.

"And if I did?" I ask, voice dropping. "That would stop you?"

Oliver stares at me, silent.

Knew it.

A weight settles in my chest, dark and suffocating. There's this itch, something clawing at the inside of me that I can't reach.

"I can't do this tonight," he mutters, shaking his head. "Find your own way home. I'm not your bloody chauffeur."

I don't argue. I just stand there, watching as he gets into his car and starts the engine.

I start counting in my head. Seven, six, five, four, three...

Right on cue, the engine slows. Headlights swing back in my direction.

See? He was a lost cause—just like me.

"Get in, you arsehole," he grumbles.

A slow smile tugs at my lips as I walk over and pull open the door.

I knew he'd never leave me. He knew I couldn't drive. He knew why. And he knew that getting into a taxi alone, with a stranger behind the wheel, made my skin crawl.

The thought alone sends a shiver down my spine.

"I hate you," he mutters as I climb in.

I laugh.

At least we have that in common.

I hated myself too.

Authors note:

A little insight into Reid's head. What do we think? 🫣